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A Golden Path by Ideas-Guy

Dune & A Song of Ice and Fire Xover Rated: M, English, Adventure & Drama, Paul A., Eddard S./Ned, Words: 172k+, Favs: 2k+, Follows: 2k+, Published: Jun 17, 2024 Updated: Aug 24

882Chapter 3: First Steps 1-3

Jaehaerys Targaryen, for all of his considerable faults, did know how to bind the Seven Kingdoms together. Aegon the Conqueror knew how to take them, but Jaehaerys united them. Such as in the case of the North, where he stole the New Gift and made them more reliant on southern grain. However, not all of it had been the stick. Jaehaerys had also gifted fine maps to all of the Lords Paramount and Wardens, showing all of Westeros as a single unified whole. Which had also been a declaration of intent because Dorne was included in the Seven Kingdoms.

The Conciliator was not remembered fondly by the North, but Northerners used what they had.

"Elissa Farman sailed through the Sunset Sea and Corlys Velaryon once wrote in his journals that he suspected he found her ship, the Sun Chaser in Asshai. We know they found islands based on Ser Eustace Hightower when he came limping back," Brandon said, leaning forward to point toward the Sunset Sea. There was also Brandon the Shipwright, who had attempted to sail west of Westeros, only he had never returned. His son, Brandon the Shipburner, destroyed what was left of the North's fleet in a fit of rage.

As harshly as they may judge the South, Rickard could admit that the Starks had their fair share of fools with crowns.

Rickard, however, pointed to the Lands of Always Winter. "Beyond the Wall has never been explored in any length. The land is too harsh and unforgiving. But, with these suits, traversing them could be possible with enough food and time. On the other side of those desolate lands could be this Padishah Empire." The thought made his skin itch.

Part of him wished to muster the men and reinforce the Wall until all nineteen castles were fully manned. It would be a vast overreaction, Rickard knew. For eight thousand years, the Kings of Winter had never suspected that there could be anything beyond the Lands of Always Winter. There had been no invasion, beyond the wildlings. Still, he didn't at all care for the idea of having a neighbor to the north.

Brandon nodded, "After his family was attacked, kin and vassals fled through the winter lands and found themselves amongst the wildlings. The one I spoke to made it sound like Paul was raised amongst them, but he was raised as a noble." He voiced, and that was something of a relief to hear. Rickard's own measuring of the boy was that he was high nobility and now Paul claimed to be of a House that was older than even House Stark.

With that, even with the revelation that there was possibly an ancient empire they had never heard of to the north of them, the world made sense once more. The idea that wildlings could create such things had been almost too much to swallow. But an exiled noble hiding in such savage lands with his retinue? That made a great deal more sense.

"These strange goods are likely from his homeland. Perhaps his family brought skilled craftsmen with them when they fled," Brandon continued, gesturing to where the Padishah Empire could be. "We could venture the same way once we gain the suits. Send an expedition," he ventured but Rickard was shaking his head, misliking the idea immensely.

"We can control one exiled noble," Rickard decided, "We cannot control a foreign empire. I don't know if they are as ignorant of us as we were of them, but it is too great of a risk to inform them if they aren't." His lips thinned and his brow furrowed, "Bringing him into the North allows us to develop our own industries, so we gain more with less risk." Though, he was admittedly curious what else the empire could create.

Corlys Velaryon, before the Dance of the Dragons, had enriched his house to the point of rivaling the Targaryens within his own lifetime with his nine great voyages. House Stark could possibly gain as much in the same manner. Perhaps more so because the North would become a center of trade with this empire. However, that thought was a grasping one, and needlessly reckless.

"The lords would accept exiled nobility more than they would a clever wildling," Brandon said, accepting his reasoning. "But I don't know about control. Dealing with him felt like sticking my hand in the mouth of a wolf - there was always this danger that he would decide to bite. He just didn't because it wasn't in his interest."

Rickard nodded slowly, deciding he would trust his son's measure of the man. Paul was certainly bold, if nothing else. "We have time to get his measure. A year, if he is to be believed." If it was true, then his ability to produce glass outstripped Myr's, and by a significant margin. "A masterly house, perhaps." It couldn't be under the Umbers, Karstarks, or Glovers. House Bolton was too dangerous. House Dustin or House Ryswell less so, but still a risk. House Manderly was a possibility, especially given that they were already a center of trade of the North, but while Wyman Manderly was as loyal of a vassal as he could wish for, that was a great deal of power and faith to put into his descendants.

"I think the challenge may be convincing him to bend the knee. After we met, I swung by Shadowtower to see if his words were true. They told me that there was a war on the Frozen Shore- a war, they called it. The Watchmen all gave the same tale - Paul's Fremen swept through the area and crushed any resistance," Brandon said, circling a stretch of land beyond the wall. Walrus tribes, Rickard knew. They frequently raided Bear Island. "He took dozens of their children, to hold as hostage, I think."

Rickard saw the point that his son was getting at, "You think he truly does intend to become a King-Beyond-the-Wall?"

"I don't know. He could. Or he could be paving the way for an invasion. Why risk the men marching through the winter lands when you have tens of thousands of wildlings to march for you?" Brandon said, shaking his head. "I just don't trust him."

"Good," Rickard nodded, "You'd be a fool to. As a lord, there are precious few people that you can afford to hold any faith in, my son. Family, but not always, and never with everything." He informed grimly. "We don't trust him. We never trust him. But, we find what motivates him. His family was slaughtered? Then we know that vengeance is a lever to move him. And, for the next year, I want you to find what else moves him."

It was evident enough that Brandon wasn't entirely comfortable with it. It wasn't in his nature, Rickard knew. Scheming would never come easy to him. It was a strength and a weakness in equal measure. But, even if Brandon didn't scheme or plot, he would need to learn how his vassals might plot against him and his children.

Rickard had no intentions of dying anytime soon, but he one day would, and he was loath to leave behind an unprepared heir.

Brandon offered a nod, and Rickard accepted the answer for what it was. He would need to shadow his son in the endeavor, but it would hardly be Brandon's task if Rickard did everything for him. "Good. Now, in the coming weeks, we'll have the Spring Festival. That will be our opportunity to establish the framework of the deception. Have you given it any thought?"

"Aye - I want to bring in the Mountain Clans and the Manderlys," Brandon said, and that caught Rickard's attention. "The Manderlys would be there mostly to explain how we have what we get. Something like we're getting shipments from Myr. I'm still workshopping that bit," he admitted easily. "But, the Mountain Clans are perfect. They know the terrain better than anyone, and they're connected to the coast. The Fremen sail down from beyond the Wall, sailing past the Blacksails, and land on the coast. The Mountain Clans are isolated, they lead the Fremen through the mountains, through the wolfswood, and directly to our door."

It wasn't a bad plan. Rickard dared to say it was a good one.

"And when someone eventually sees the Mountain Clansmen?" Rickard prodded, just to see if his son had an answer.

"Well, we need to mine more to pay for all of this. The Westerlands are mountains, and they have heaps of ore. We have mountains, so there is probably ore in them too," Brandon reasoned. He likely wasn't wrong, but it was less ironclad than Rickard had wanted.

Still, it was a workable plan. Three points of failure, including the Night's Watch. It was no small fit of irony that the Night's Watch was the most reliable cornerstone of the deception. Murderers, rapists, thieves, and smugglers - yet their part was small, and they were isolated. Even when his lords suspected the fine goods and glass did not come from where Rickard claimed, it would be a leap in logic to assume that they came from wildlings of all people.

No. The cornerstone that would falter, he suspected, would be the Manderlys. Not necessarily through intention, but sooner or later, someone would notice that a ship from Essos didn't arrive when the goods were delivered. That interested lords and merchants could not find this trader who brought such goods. That would give way to doubt. Which would give way to suspicion. Suspicion would turn to action and, inevitably, the lie would be revealed even if it wasn't revealed exactly how Rickard had lied.

And, eventually, the South would learn of what they had. Either through the talk of trader's or spies. News moved slowly in the North, but once it reached the South, tales would spread like a pox. Sooner or later, the Crown would wonder why King's Landing was passed over from these supposed ships from Essos. When that happened, Rickard expected demands from the mad king, and he needed to have answers ready.

"Well done. One final question, my son - how are you going to convince them to go along with this?"

Brandon worked his jaw for a moment, seemingly annoyed with the question because as much as he expected it, he didn't have an answer. "No idea. I don't know what to give the Mountain Clans to make them stomach the idea of helping wildlings."

To that, Rickard simply chuckled. "I do."

…

"Fuck. Fucking… fuck arse-" Brandon muttered under his breath, rolling his shoulders as he tried to break whatever wires seemed to be woven in his clothing. He knew it wasn't proper and lordly to wear riding leather and travel clothes, but why in the ever-loving fuck did feasting clothes have to feel like his clothing was trying to assassinate him?

"If you pop a thread, Wila is going to blacken your eye," Lyanna teased him with a cheeky smile, greeting him as he made his way into the hall. It was something of a comfort to see that she hated her dress every bit as much as he hated his restrictive clothing. Then that comfort quickly turned into annoyance when he realized he was comparing himself to a twelve year old girl.

He reached out to tussle her hair, making her squawk indignantly. "It'd be worth it," Brandon sighed. "Come on, let's hurry it up before we catch an earful from father." He said, leading Lyanna forward while she straightened her hair.

"Do you think we can go to Wintertown?" Lyanna asked, sounding hopeful. Fat chance, unfortunately. He'd rather spend the Spring Festival in the small village outside of Winterfell, competing in the games, feasting with people he liked, and whoring until he was spent. "I want to join the horse races. I'm old enough to race now!" She added, like he was the one she had to convince.

Brandon caught a glimpse out at the courtyard, seeing the pomp and pageantry on display. Lords from all over the North were coming to scratch each other's backs, kiss arse, and get into pissing contests. "Maybe after the feast," Brandon said, holding out hope for himself as much as Lyanna. And it was in moments like these that his heart ached for Ned.

Ned was the good child. And Father was always less wroth when he saw one of his kids had listened to him.

Lyanna smiled widely, taking that as good as a confirmation. Seems like that was going to be another negotiation with their father. Feeling a surge of brotherly affection, he went to tussle her hair again, only for his hand to be smacked away before she poked him in the ribs. "If you mess up my hair, I'll blacken your eye."

That got a laugh out of him, "Going to stand on Benjen's shoulders?" He asked, laughing harder at the thought of it. She poked him again in the ribs, pouting. The laughter promptly died when he saw the final set of doors that shielded him from an absolutely miserable afternoon. He tried to find the silver lining to the whole affair, and hoped that, maybe, Barbrey would be in attendance. Father wouldn't begrudge him a few dances with her.

A sigh escaped him as he reached the doors - his marriage to the Trout hung over his head like a blade. It was his duty, he knew. And he would do it for the sake of the north, but he prayed to the Old Gods and the New Gods, and even that Essosian god R'hllor that Catelyn Tully had some fire in her. If he had to spend the next twenty, thirty, or forty years of his life tiptoeing through a tepid marriage with some southern flower that was perpetually offended by his very nature, but too much of a coward to call him on it, he was going to go mad.

"Ready little sister?" Brandon asked, offering his favorite sister a lopsided smile. Well, she was his only sister. But, if he happened to have another, Brandon was pretty sure she would still be his favorite because her scowl matched how he felt in that moment.

"I guess…" She said, nodding her head ever so slightly, careful to not disturb the blue rose that was woven into her hair. And, to Brandon's immense relief, her hair was still tied up. The day she attended one of these feasts with it down, meaning that she was on the marriage market… was probably the day that he killed one of his bannermen, if Brandon was being perfectly honest.

They shared a smile and mutual misery before Brandon opened the door, revealing the feasting hall. First, his attention went to the high table where his father sat. It was the same every spring, though Brandon still hadn't gotten used to not seeing his mother seated beside him. The nobles, as they entered the hall, first paid homage to his father as Lord of the North. They exchanged a few pleasantries, sometimes bearing gifts to show what they were up to during the winter, then they stepped to the side.

That's when the mingling started. And the arse kissing.

Things had yet to start, telling Brandon he had arrived just on time. He tossed a wink over at Benjen, who already looked bored despite his best efforts to seem otherwise. That got a small smile out of him, the eleven year old boy perking up ever so slightly. As annoying as it could be, it was an older brother's duty to shield his siblings from the tediousness of dealing with feasts. He'd run interference so they could slip away at some point and actually have some fun.

Taking his place by his father, who gestured for the door to the hall to be opened, Brandon watched as the first of the nobility was brought into the hall, walking by long tables that were richly decorated with platters awaiting food. By tapestries that depicted eight thousand years of uninterrupted rulership of the North. And up to his father, who was cold as winter itself at times, it felt like.

They were greeted by high nobility first - the Flints, Dustins, Ryswells, Tallhart, Glover, Hornwood, Karstarks, Umbers, Manderlys, and the Boltons. The high lords went in whatever order they came, then their vassals came after the high nobility in whatever order they arrived in. But, given that most came in groups, it was frequent that you'd deal with the vassals of a lord in groups.

The first of what was going to be a long night was Greatjon Umber. Greatjon was a large man, easily standing head and shoulders above Brandon himself. Thick black hair, a long beard, dressed in an orangish brown tunic with a bear pelt hanging off his shoulders. It barely touched the floor as he walked.

"Lord Stark! Another winter come and gone, and we're still here!" He greeted them with a broad smile and a boisterous laugh.

His father offered a thin one in response, "Aye. Here we are. The snows were harsh this year, my lord. I hope your family fared well," he offered, the first of many pleasantries of the evening. Brandon settled in, but paid attention. He did like Greatjon, after all.

The lumbering man nodded, "We did. Was a longer winter than we were hoping for, but a shorter one than we prepared for." To that, Brandon nodded. His house words were always true, in the end. Winter is Coming. "We had some luck on a hunt - a bear woke up early and hungry. My nephew, Jon, led the hunt to kill it before it could break into any homes of our smallfolk. It's pelt, I present to you, as a gift!" He offered, his attendant stepping forward and Greatjon unfurled the snow white pelt.

It was the size of a man grown. Brandon knew exactly what the gift was and he struggled to swallow a sour expression.

Espousing the merits of his kin to his lord in front of his unwed daughter. There was very little doubt what Greatjon intended.

"You have done your people, and us, a service. We take this gift and thank you for it, Greatjon Umber," his father intoned, not so much as twitching. Greatjon nodded, passing the pelt to one of the servants, where it would be the first in a pile. As he stepped to the side, Brandon stole a glance at his sister to see that she too seemed aware of what the pelt meant. Reaching out, he patted his hand on hers and she breathed a little easier.

The rest of the greetings went as they normally did. Sometimes Brandon spoke up, greeting the lords he was most familiar with, such as the Ryswells, and he kindled hope that he might see Barbrey. His father, however, handled the bulk of it as the hours went by before the proper celebration could begin. Brandon only truly paid attention to a few of them.

Wyman Manderly was a man in his forties with a round belly that strained against the fabrics of his richly decorated and embroidered clothing. The man was the richest lord in the North, second only to the Starks, because he possessed it's only port. It was something that Brandon was hoping to eventually fix when it was his time to rule. Still, that was not for some time, he hoped.

Wyman presented a carved narwhal horn that was inlaid with gold and silver, and Brandon could see that the other lords looked on with jealousy as he presented the gift. Both that House Stark was receiving it, and that the Manderlys could offer such a gift.

It made him a rather difficult nut to crack, Brandon had to admit. Different from the Mountain Clans, who were fiercely independent. There were precious few things that Brandon could offer that were actually within his ability to offer.

When the whole procession was done, his father raised up a tankard. "My lords!" he called out, and the loud hall, which had slowly filled up as time went one, quite down. "In the end, my House words always come true - Winter is Coming. And it always shall be. But, the folk of the North are a hardy sort!" There were some cheers and toasts before his father continued. "With loyal service and hard work, while winter will always come, so shall it always recede to welcome spring. And so shall we remain, waiting for those brighter days. To the North!"

The cheer was met with thunderous cheer and Brandon felt a knot of tension ease out of him when the celebration began in earnest. Platters of food were brought out, sweet wines, mead, and ales and the lords rejoiced. Then his father sat down, and whispered lowly, "Find a moment alone with him. Phrase the offer as a reward, and the conditions as a necessary stipulation. For a year."

Brandon fought the urge to roll his eyes and instead nodded dutifully. He loved his father, he truly did, but he wouldn't be happy unless he held his hand through the entire process. Brandon needed to stand on his own two feet, and preferably without someone looking over his shoulder. "I'll get right on it," he said, stepping down from the high table and descending to the lords below. There, he was accosted by the nobles that had been waiting to pounce.

It wasn't that Brandon didn't like most of them. He did. There was always that gulf in their positions that made calling most of them friends difficult, but for the most part, he rather liked all of his future bannermen, frustrations included. It was just annoying to deal with them when he was trying to take care of something.

The only one Brandon would say he took exception to was Roose Bolton. Brandon felt his presence like a cold spot in a room, as if he simply absorbed all the joy around him, and left in its place a disquieted dread. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the new flayed lord speaking to Wyman. It would be best for that conversation to end before he broached the topic. The Boltons had been loyal for a thousand years, but it was hard to trust a family that wore a flayed man on their banner.

Wyman seemed uncomfortable speaking to the man, and just when Brandon was going to step forward to rescue him from it, Brandon felt a hand brush against his. Looking over-

His throat felt uncomfortably tight when saw Barbrey, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips and desire smoldering in her eyes. She was beautiful. The most beautiful woman in the world, he felt in that moment, clad in a form fitting dress of wool. She stood the same height as he did, and unlike most girls he met, she was utterly unashamed how she towered over most lords. Dark eyes and rich brown hair. She was a vision and, more than anything in the world, he wanted her.

"A dance, my lord?" She asked and Brandon found himself smiling despite himself. That's why he loved her - she knew what she wanted and she took it.

"Just the one?" Brandon said, a smile in his voice even as he felt his father's eyes boring a hole in the side of his head.

"That depends on how well you dance, I would think," Barbrey replied smoothly and, gently, he led her to the dance floor where a handful of couples were already swaying to the music. He took her hand in his, going through the steps. But, even as he danced, he kept an eye out. Wyman had escaped the conversation with the Bolton. And his father, from the high table, was so distracted by Brandon that he failed to notice that both Lyanna and Benjen had slipped away.

Not how he had planned that going, but whatever worked.

"You seem distracted, Brandon," Barbrey muttered under her breath, her tone soft and sweet. His attention was dragged back to her, and he offered a half smile. "Have you… spoken to your father?" She asked, and dread gripped Brandon's heart.

He closed his eyes briefly, fighting off a grimace. "I have. Throughout the winter," he uttered bitterly. "I have… something in the works, I think, but his gaze is looking to the South for my match." The admission tasted bitter, but it was a harsh truth. He hated the brief flicker of disappointment that passed over her face. "There's still time to change his mind, but…"

The odds that they would be wed were abysmally small.

"There's a chance," Barbrey replied, and Brandon felt like a man out at sea, searching and grasping for a lifeline.

"There is a chance," Brandon agreed.

"What can I do?" Barbrey questioned, and he could have kissed her at that moment. Her gaze was focused and intense, knowing that their time together was slipping through their fingers.

He offered a small smile as the dance came to an end, "I could use some help speaking to Lord Wyman. Privately." With a small curt nod, Barbrey stepped back, curtsied, and went off to help arrange the meeting. His gaze lingered on her and he had to swallow the lump in his throat. Taking a steadying breath, Brandon continued on with the night.

The feast went on, and the games began - the south had their tourneys, but the North had its games. Contests of strength, speed, agility, and wit. Wrestling, stone lifting, log throwing, riddles, foot races, and horse races. It was the latter that Brandon was concerned about when he headed into the stables, and he was greeted with low whispers.

"Wearing a helmet won't do anything. They'll still know it's you," Benjen pointed out. "It's got the face open anyway."

"I'll be riding. No one will be looking at my face…" Lyanna replied, distracted.

"Asking for forgiveness instead of permission, eh?" Brandon greeted his siblings, sniffling a laugh when they both nearly jumped out of their skins. Lyanna had traded out her fine dress for riding clothes, an odd match for her done up hair with the winter rose. "I like it. Father won't, though."

Lyanna seemed pensive, "Do you think he'd be really mad? I tried to ask him!" She protested ever so weakly, her lips thinning.

Brandon just chuckled, "A lesson, little sister. You too, Benjen," he added, dropping down to a knee to look his siblings in the eyes. "You've only done something wrong if you lose. If you win? Then you've honored the house, and father can't be mad at you, even if he might want to be."

That was an ironclad truth of the world. Winners don't get punished. Losers did.

He inclined his head to Lyanna, "Think you'd lose?" He asked her, knowing exactly what she was going to compete in.

Lyanna scoffed, "I'd win. I'd win blindfolded and backwards." Brandon believed her. Lyanna rode like she was half horse herself, and she had even beaten him in a few races, and Brandon didn't often lose in a horse race.

"So don't bother hiding who you are. Just get out there and win. Or prepare yourself to get chewed out if you lose," Brandon said, glancing at Benjen to see if he was planning to get up to some trouble himself. No such luck there. Benjen was cut of the same cloth that Ned was - they both carried themselves with a quiet stillness, even when they were angry. Benjen was easier to make laugh, though. A pair to him and Lyanna, Brandon thought.

The advice didn't have the intended effect because Lyanna scowled, "They'd let me win." She protested, thoroughly annoyed with the idea. She was right on the mark too. It was half the reason why Brandon stopped competing in the races himself.

"I think they'd still figure it out when you're the only one wearing a helmet," Brandon pointed out, making her sulk. "Well, if you decide to compete or not, I'll be at the finish line. Good luck, little sister. And I'll cover for you both if Father starts asking."

Lyanna favored him with a smile, "Thanks Brandon."

Getting up, he left the stables and headed up to one of the outermost battlements to the walls of Winterfell. The race track was well known to Brandon, and he knew where it would end. A view from the battlements was much better than the view from the ground, and it was a perfect opportunity.

It didn't take Brandon that long to hear Wyman's approach. His labored breathing up the steps gave him away, and Brandon felt a twinge of regret for the mistake. It probably wouldn't help his cause if Wyman was exhausted from climbing up to reach him, as strange as it was to breathe so heavily because of some stairs. Brandon glanced over to see the large portly man when he arrived at the top of the battlement, taking some efforts to control his labored breathing.

"Lord Brandon," Wyman greeted him with a bow of his head. "Lady Ryswell alluded that you wished to speak to me of something of importance?" He asked, his tone respectful but cautious. After all, Brandon was the Heir to the North, not the Lord of it yet.

Brandon nodded, "I did, Lord Wyman. My father has placed me in charge of an endeavor and I believe that you could be of assistance." He began, and at his position, he saw that the race had begun. Brandon wasn't sure how she managed it, but some of the other boys and men were wearing helmets alongside her, helping disguise her identity.

"I live to serve, my lord," Wyman replied and Brandon nodded. Then he reached into a satchel to pull out the far-eye, handing it to the mermaid lord. He looked it over with a cynical eye before speaking. "This… is not Myrish make," he voiced.

"Try it," Brandon offered, pointing towards Lyanna as she led the pack of racers. And, to his surprise, without even turning the end, Brandon heard a sharp intake of breath. The man outright gasped when he discovered it. "In your opinion, my lord, what would such a thing be worth in your estimation?"

Wyman continued to use it, following along the racers as they made a long loop. "My lord… Myr produces the finest far-eyes, but their quality is not uniform. A lower quality far-eye could cost as little as fifty silvers, to as much as a golden dragon. Still expensive, but for captains and sailors, it's often a necessary expense. The higher quality ones could cost up to twenty gold dragons - though, some of that expense stems from decorations."

He lowered the far-eye, looking at Brandon with almost concern. "In terms of quality, this outstrips the finest Myrish makes I've encountered. For that alone, I'd expect to pay no less than thirty gold dragons for it, but to look on closer? The craftsmanship and detail?" His lips pressed together, "The benefit of a far-eye is to look upon other ships before they can look upon you. This very well may be the finest far-eye in Westeros. Perhaps in Essos as well. Factoring that… It's worth fifty gold dragons, but if I could get the cost down to forty, I'd call it a bargain."

Fifty gold dragons. Maybe more.

There was no other good in the North that could be sold for such an amount. Fifty gold dragons was a stunning sum. Fifty gold dragons could feed a village through a two year winter without needing to ration. That was bushels of grain and hundreds of people fed for a bauble.

"And if you were selling it?" Brandon questioned, making Wyman's eyebrows rise.

"If I sold it to a Braavosi captain from a rich family? I'd like to think I could get seventy-five dragons for it," he answered and Brandon nodded slowly, looking out at the race that was making the loop towards them. Lyanna was in the lead and it wasn't even close. "My lord, may I ask where you got such a quality far-eye?"

This was where the negotiating happened, Brandon reasoned. "As far as anyone is going to know? We got it from Essos," Brandon said, looking at Wyman, who had an understanding expression. "And every once and a while, the Essosian traders visit Whiteharbor, carrying goods, which are then carried up to Winterfell."

"I understand, my lord," Wyman said so earnestly and without question that it genuinely caught Brandon off guard. It must have shown, because Wyman offered him a smile, "You're a good man that's acting with the approval of your lord father - I might not need to know what in the seven hells is going on, even if I might want to."

His father underestimated his loyalty. He didn't even have to bargain.

That was surprisingly honest and Brandon found himself laughing. "I can tell you this, Lord Wyman - my father and I are working to have such things, and others, be produced in the North. What we need is time to make it happen." There was a glimmer of greed in Wyman's dark blue eyes, but Brandon found that more trustworthy than not. If the North started exporting such goods then House Manderly would be greatly enriched by virtue of being the North's only port.

"I see. I can doctor the books and arrange for some of my men to spread tales. I could also send for a Braavosi ship to help sell the misdirection. Or send one of my ships if we are to sell them to Essos," Wyman offered. To that, Brandon nodded in agreement. That's what they would need when people started to ask questions. Then Wyman smiled, "I must confess, Lord Brandon, you did not strike me as someone interested in commerce."

To that, Brandon chuckled. Then smiled broadly when he saw that Lyanna won the race, even as she was quick to vanish to avoid their Father's watchful eye. "I don't have an easy time with it, but it's something that the North needs." That was an understatement on both counts. He'd rather pull teeth than do his sums, but the North needed commerce.

They were the largest kingdom six times over. Yet, they were the poorest. Brandon wasn't entirely sure why that was, but he did know that a portion of it was the fact that the North struggled with trade. Money was the cause of a great many woes.

"We spend too much on Reach grain. Our incomes are much lower than our rival families. I barely know the first thing about trade, but I know it makes money and money is what we need," Brandon continued. The restoration of Moat Cailin was the start.

The dragons were dead. If Moat Cailin was restored then the North only had one weakness - its shores. The Ironborn raided up and down their western coast, wearing the thinnest veneer of disguise, and they raided with impunity. On their east coast, a trade fleet. To Essos. To the South. To the Padishah Empire, perhaps.

Under his rule, the North would be impenetrable once again. While he would never wear the Crown of Winter, Brandon suspected that one day, his descendants might. But, for that day to come, the North needed to be strong. Stronger than it had been in three hundred years.

"I see. In that case, it is my pleasure to serve, my lord," Wyman said, offering a bow and handing him back the far-eye. As soon as he did, Brandon heard a flurry of footsteps and coming up the stairs was a breathless Lyanna, who was wearing a beaming smile.

"You were right!" Lyanna cheered, throwing her arms around him in a joyful hug. Brandon patted her back, glancing up with some embarrassment to Wyman, but the older man was just smiling happily. He was a good man, Brandon decided. It was a good choice to approach him with this.

"I saw. You rode like a centaur," Brandon praised, making Lyanna take a step back and she was all smiles-

It was as Brandon looked up from her that he noticed someone else was making their way up the steps, and his heart went still in his chest. The man's attire was too distinct for him to be anything other than a Fremen. His beard was cut short, as was his hair, both were black while he had startling blue eyes.

He reached the top of the stairs before offering a bow of his head, "Lord Brandon. Lady Lyanna. Muad'Dib offers gifts to welcome the spring." The man said, presenting them with two boxes. Brandon's throat felt dry, but Lyanna was completely unaware of his sudden tension. Wyman seemed to detect it, though, subtly shifting to put himself between them. The Fremen noticed, but didn't respond.

Lyanna eagerly took the gift. It was a small chest, he thought at first. A richly engraved one with running direwolves through a forest, but when she undid the golden latch, Brandon saw a woman in a blue dress with a crown of blue flowers in the heart of the box. Lyanna gasped at the sight. It gave Brandon time to look at the other offered box, his… gift.

A puzzle box, Brandon recognized. He had seen them before, though none quite like this. The wood tiles were painted, and more than that, the entire box felt like it was made of moving parts. He couldn't quite tell what the picture would be once everything would be in place, but it looked like a painting of some mountains and a heart tree under a night sky. It'd probably take him months to figure the thing out-

A soft tune began to play from Lyanna's box after she twisted a key on it's side. It was music without lyrics, the pling and plongs of an instrument, but Brandon didn't know how what sounded like a harp could fit in such a small box. Lyanna was absolutely enraptured by it, "It's beautiful."

There was breathless wonder in her voice and Brandon found himself agreeing, even if the music sounded sinister to his own ears, his gaze meeting the man who delivered the gifts. It was as if the song was whispering to him a message…

'You do not need to invite me into your home. I've already found a way inside.'

...

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A Golden Path by Ideas-Guy

Dune & A Song of Ice and Fire Xover Rated: M, English, Adventure & Drama, Paul A., Eddard S./Ned, Words: 172k+, Favs: 2k+, Follows: 2k+, Published: Jun 17, 2024 Updated: Aug 24

882Chapter 4: First Steps 1-4

Things were progressing well, Rickard thought as he sat behind his desk, sorting through small piles of parchment ranging from letters to long lists. His overtures to the Mountain Clans progressed well. It had taken a month for his surveyors to report back on the stones, indicating what minerals and metals he could expect to find in the untapped mountain range.

The reports were promising - primarily iron, copper, and unripened silver in terms of metals. Minerals were far more abundant - dragonglass, graphite, gemstones such as sapphires, rubies, and amethyst, though the gemstones were far fewer in quantity. There was a great deal of granite and limestone to be found as well. It had taken another month for the various mines to get up and running, delivering their toils to Winterfell.

The North welcomed the uptick in mining wealth with smallfolk families sending their extra sons to them. And, for their part, they were ignorant of what the materials were being used for.

Every month, a ship sailed down from the Wall, landing in Mountain Clan territory. On the very first trip, Paul had sailed with the ship and it was then that he slew a rather large bear, earning him the respect of the Mountain Clans. Any issues that Rickard anticipated were side stepped before they could trouble him. That month, Paul came with more than just the 'stillsuits' as he called them.

Rickard's gaze went down to an engraved drinking glass - one that he purchased outright. It was an even white with a gray direwolf. The sigil of his house. The direwolf stood out against the many intricate engravings. Ridges and looping designs that were painstakingly carved into the glass, making it one of the finest things that Rickard had ever seen.

There were twelve more of them in the shipment, each one colored a rich hue - blue, red, green, violet, orange, yellow, silver, and gold. They lacked heraldry, but Rickard could foresee the desire to have one made custom for one's house. That month brought puzzle boxes, wool tapestries as large as Greatjon equal in finery to anything he had seen from Essos, along with a foodstuff called syrup that acted as a potent sweetener.

Those goods were purchased for ores and minerals. Some of which were added to the list when Paul saw value in sulphur, ollvine, and feldspar. The goods were then sent to Whiteharbor, on board a ship captained by one of Wyman's most trusted men, and then sent to Bravoss for sale. From Whiteharbor to Bravoss was a month and a half of sailing, and another month and a half to get back. Rickard gave two weeks to find buyers for the goods, so every three and a half months, Rickard saw a return on his investment.

There was a period of time that the goods would be languishing in a vault in Whiteharbor, and the initial plan called for them to be sold in Whiteharbor, to help establish the story that the goods were sourced in Essos. The excess would then be sold to Bravos.

At least, that was the initial plan.

"Two thousand, six hundred and thirty three golden dragons," Rickard mused out loud, reading out the total sum of the first return trip. It was only then that the others in the room began to stir. Brandon leaned in, his expression serious while the merchant, a man sworn to Lord Wyman named Arick, occupied one of his chairs. Standing to the right of Rickard was Maester Wyllas - an unfortunate risk, but his golden link for sums and commerce was too valuable to ignore.

"The Bravvosi took well to the goods, my lord, especially when they learned they did not come from the Daughters. They hate slavery even more than we do, and they paid a premium not only to be the first to own such things, but because they now see us an alternative to a necessary evil in their eyes." Arick said, making Rickard nod slowly. "To that end, demand has sharply increased. The next shipment shall be worth even more, and perhaps the next one after that. But, I would expect the price to normalize some time after that."

Two thousand, six hundred and thirty three dragons. A truly astounding sum. "Merchants always struck me as ignoble. What kind of man profits off the work of others on lands he cannot call his own? Now I understand, it is a rich man indeed," Rickard admitted to a few dry chuckles. The loudest of them from Arick. A small jab to test his character- he was a point of failure in this venture, and he wanted to make sure that Lord Wyman was correct in choosing him.

"Is it that substantial?" Brandon asked, and Rickard was not surprised by his confusion.

"In a year, after taxes are paid to the crown, the North sees a profit between a hundred and fifty thousand to two hundred thousand gold dragons." Which made them the poorest kingdom by half. It was a lack luster number in comparison to the Westerlands, which could boast a surplus of two million gold dragons because of Lannister gold, or the Reach, which could see over a million due to being the Seven Kingdom's breadbasket. "However, on average, every fall sees fifty thousand to a hundred thousand gold dragons going to the Reach for grain."

A long summer saw the price decrease dramatically. Not even the worst of the Reach could justify charging ten times the price when everyone else's larders were full already. The North purchased grain on principle, even with full larders. However, a short summer could see the price increase exponentially when the North had to compete with other lords of the South.

Rickard held up the parchment that was given to him, "On the assumption that we don't suffer a loss of a ship, and each ship returns with a total of two thousand and five hundred dragons… in a year, the North will see an additional ten thousand gold dragons in revenue. Or, if Arick speaks true, closer to fifteen thousand gold dragons."

It was then that Maester Wyllas spoke up, "Some of the high lords would struggle to pay such a sum. The only one that comes to mind is Lord Manderly himself." They were the richest Stark vassal and for good reason.

Ideally, he could see an additional fifteen thousand dragons a year on the assumption that they continued to sell to Essos. During a three year summer, that was forty-five thousand dragons. It might not sound like a great deal in comparison to the other kingdoms, but as far as his finances were concerned, he gained another vassal. He was barely paying for the goods themselves, because any costs incurred during the mining would make up for themselves in taxes.

Rickard looked to Arick, "You have my thanks for the journey here. We possess more of the goods that you've sold. Rest for a few days before departing back to Whiteharbor with the shipment. From here on out, you can expect them to be in Whiteharbor upon your return from Bravoss. You shall be quite busy for at least a year."

Arick understood the dismissal for what it was, standing and bowing his head. "I'll never complain about being busy, Lord Stark! Lord Brandon," he added, bowing to his son before leaving the room.

A few seconds after the door closed, Rickard glanced at Maester Wyllas. "Have him approached while he's here - guardsman, out of uniform. Prob at what he's doing here and try to get him drunk." Drunk men spoke from their hearts, especially when they suffered an insult. Expecting him to be perfect was foolhardy, but Rickard would be damned before he let this opportunity slip from his fingers because of a drunk with a loose tongue.

As Maester Wyllas nodded, Brandon spoke, "We could restore Moat Cailin." He was right. It would take a few years to pay off, but they could start reconstruction. They were already quarrying granite in the mountains - it would be more of a trek, but it would be well worth it. The lands there had been neglected too long.

However, it was Maester Wyllas who spoke up, "I fear what message that might send to the crown, my lord. King Areys might question why you feel the need to secure your southernmost border." To that, Rickard grimaced, knowing that he was right. The reason Moat Cailin was a ruin was because there hadn't been a need to man it for three hundred years. Even in times of war, no one tried to invade the North.

No, it wouldn't do to tip the king off. Still, the money was a windfall and it sat ill with Rickard to let it gather dust. Especially after a lifetime of being a lord, having ideas that could never materialize simply because they were too costly.

"Before we get too excited over what we can do with the money, we should focus on the source of it," Brandon spoke up rather wisely, before his greed could get the better of him. "Are we any closer to locating his lands?"

"The Frostfangs don't really narrow it down much," Brandon replied. "I'm tapping into the Night Watch's contacts with the wildlings, but if anyone knows where exactly they are, then they aren't telling them. But, something to note is that the Fremen are hated and feared among the wildlings. Not Ice River Clans kind of hated, but not that far off. Paul isn't popular because of his habit of taking hostages." It was good information, Rickard decided, even if it wasn't what he wanted to know. "I'm testing the waters paying the wildlings to track them, but I have no idea if it'll work."

His son was working too close with the wildlings. Even with degrees of separation, the stink might wash off. "Be subtle about it. When people learn of this, we need the story to be that you got the information from the Night's Watch." To that, Brandon waved him off and Rickard fought a scowl. "This is for the sake of your reputation, Brandon. It's a great deal easier washing off a stain when you have a good reputation than washing out a stain when you have none to speak of."

"I'll be careful," Brandon replied placatingly, properly chastised.

Rickard grunted, his gaze turning to the glass on his desk. "Keep working at it. As it is, Paul has too much leverage. I want alternatives if we cannot convince him to come to us."

To that, Brandon leaned forward. "He's nobility. I'm not sure if I believe his house is really ten thousand years old, but I'd sooner believe that he's nobility than some wildling. Give him some land. It's not like we're lacking that in the North."

The idea had merit. "It puts us on more equal footing. If he becomes a vassal of House Stark, then the wealth that his lands generate would be his own. We would collect some of it in taxes, but nothing like we are seeing now." The deal that they had now was exceptionally in their favor and Rickard would prefer to keep it that way, even if it wasn't entirely feasible. "I would ask for the secret of making glass as part of his vassalage, but Paul would be a fool to accept that much to become a minor noble in small lands when he currently has the whole of beyond the Wall."

In short, Paul has little to gain by becoming a vassal, as strange as it was to think. He currently enjoyed all the benefits of being a lord without any of the negatives such as taxes or answering to a liege lord. And, even if he did become a vassal, it would leave Rickard and then Brandon and his grandchildren with a powerful and wealthy vassal. A possible boon. A possible danger.

The North was slow to accept change. When it was a strength, it was their greatest. Yet, when it was a weakness, it was also their greatest.

"It'd be best if we could force his hand," Brandon said, showing that he had given it some thought. "Incite the wildlings at him, and make him come to us." That would be ideal. Rickard wanted to be in a position of strength when it came time to negotiate with Paul settling south of the Wall. He wanted to be able to dictate terms - favorable terms but not so much that it drove Paul further south.

"Do that through the Night's Watch. It won't be a breach of their neutrality- well, no more than they've already compromised it," Rickard amended. "If the wildlings start hunting for the Fremen on their own will, it should be easier to learn his location." It did risk the disruption of the shipments, but it was a calculated risk with a bigger reward at the end of the line.

Brandon nodded before standing up, "I'll get right on it then." With that, he dismissed himself, and Maester Wyllas followed him out to complete the order that Rickard had given. Once he was alone in his office once more, Rickard took the glass cup and rolled it in his hands so the direwolf stared back at him.

So many plans were in motion. So many carefully considered risks. If he won his gambles then the North would be stronger than it had ever been, even before the conquest. But the higher one reached, the further they had to fall.

And Rickard could not afford to fall.

…

As Arick predicted, the second delivery to Braavos was worth a great deal more. Three months was enough time for word to spread through the city, and Arick struck while the iron was hot. He emptied the cargo hold of the Lady Windchaser, and when he returned he came with three thousand eight hundred and fifty-six gold dragons. Near twice the first shipment's value. He also came with offers wishing for commissioned glasses, vases, and tapestries.

It was enough to convince him to alter the plan, ever so slightly. His original intention was to test the waters in Bravos, ascertaining a favorable price, before he started to sell the goods to the South. However, the Bravosi were rich in a way that was difficult to fathom, so he continued to sell to Essos. At least, for a time.

Soon the Bravosi would learn where the goods came from, and they would be the ones to set sail to the North. The prices would be lower, but it would be a more consistent stream of revenue rather than the harsh spikes every three months.

General buyers were paying a premium, but commissioned goods were ludicrously expensive. Enough so that Rickard felt… jealous that some merchant lord across the Narrow Sea could afford trinkets that would see the North beggared in a generation. But he swallowed it down, happy to accept the foreign gold and silver, and passed the requests along to the Fremen.

He expected it to take some time, but Rickard had apparently grossly underestimated the speed of their craftsmen. A month after he delivered the commissions, they arrived on the next shipment from beyond the Wall.

Nine months after the trade deals began, the third return of the Lady Windchaser saw an additional six thousand, three hundred and seventy-one gold dragons worth of gold and silver.

In less than a year, Rickard had gained twelve thousand eight hundred and sixty gold dragons. A near tenth of the North's yearly revenue.

It was becoming increasingly clear how he underestimated the power of trade. And his desire to bring Paul and his craftsmen down south grew with every delivery. Especially when each time they arrived, they brought pieces of what would become a glass garden - large panes of glass that were three feet tall, half that wide, and half a finger thick. The glass itself was clear as water, narry an imperfection to be found.

However, even before the tenth month mark arrived, Rickard sensed that trouble was on the horizon. First, it came in the form of news that the wildlings attacked the Fremen in a coalition, only to be soundly defeated without so much as a disruption in trade. They were no closer to discovering their secrets than they were at the start of the venture.

But Rickard knew time was running out. In more ways than one.

…

Rhaegar knew he was dreaming, even if it felt every bit as real as the world. He trudged through waist high snow, feeling a bitter chill cutting him to the bone as the wind howled around him. Snow furries made it nearly impossible to see, but the little that he did was unmistakable. Even without ever laying eyes on it before, he knew exactly what he was walking to.

Eight hundred feet tall that stretched across the horizon for three hundred miles.

The Wall.

Rhaegar let out a shuddering breath, pulling his cloak over his shoulders tighter as he took another step, only for his foot to pass through the snow with finding purchase. He found himself falling forward, trying to correct his balance, but it was already too late. He fell face first into the snow and found himself in free fall hundreds of feet above the Wall itself.

No- he wasn't falling. He was gliding.

He flew beyond the Wall, towards the jagged caps of a mountain range. He flew over a vast untamed forest, before reaching the mountains. There, he saw little that he could make sense of. A mountain that acted as an ant hill, teaming with life.

He saw groves of weirwood trees that were screaming in agony - their branches bound and shaped, their life's blood drained from them by a spout into glass jars filled with crimson. Each tree lined up in neat rows, starving even as men were dragged to them, sacrificed with their bodies desecrated to feed them.

Black clouds began to swirl above him. Or below. It was impossible to tell as he flew endlessly. The scent of rain and lightning overpowered the scent of blood that permeated the air. As the cloud formed, his gaze turned to who the vision wanted him to see. A boy. A man.

Impossibly blue eyes, armor made of black ice - he marched south upon a sea of corpses, each step making the ground shudder as he carried the storm with him.

Rhaegar wasn't sure when it happened, but he found himself standing before the man who didn't even see him. Fear raced down his spine, pooling in his guts and he found himself reaching for a sword that wasn't there. "Who are you?" Rhaegar questioned, and it was only then that the impossible blue eyes turned to him.

Then he was flying again, Rhaegar thought at first. But, as he spun in the air, he saw his headless corpse beneath him. Rhaegar half expected to wake then, but he didn't. His head flopped into the snow, air refusing to enter lungs that were no longer there, forced to watch as the man pressed onward without pause. The Wall. He was carrying the storm to the Wall-

A bird landed on Rhaegar's severed head, a raven with three eyes bending down to look at him. His lips moved but words wouldn't form, so it was the raven that spoke.

"Wake up."

Rhaegar jolted in his bed, feeling like he had fallen from a great height. His breathing was harsh and he could feel damp sweat on the silk sheets of his feathered bed. His heart pounded in his chest and he found himself swinging his legs out from under the covers, feeling an urgency to just move. Only for that feeling to abruptly leave him the moment that his feet touched the stone floor of his quarters.

Dragging a hand down his face, he turned to the window that the first rays of the dun were starting to peer through. A moment later, there was a knock at the door. "Prince Rhaegar?" Ser Arthur Dayne's came through the heavy oak door and Rhaegar was tempted to wave him off.

Instead he took a steadying breath, "Enter." He commanded, pushing his pale silver hair out of his face. Arthur was a handsome man with violet eyes and black hair. He was dressed in the stark white armor of the kingsguard with his family sword, Dawn, sheathed over his shoulder.

His friend gave him a concerned look, "You were moaning in your sleep. How bad was it?" There was no mistaking what he was asking.

"The worst so far," Rhaegar admitted. There were precious few people in this world that Rhaegar could trust without reservation, and Arthur was one of them. "I was beyond the Wall, flying through the air where… I saw a grove of weirwood trees, like they were an orchard. There was a man there, or a boy on the cusp of manhood, and he was torturing them. Then he killed me," He half babbled, a hand reaching up to his neck where he felt a phantom pain that yet lingered. "It was the most vivid dream I've had so far."

Dragon dreams. It wasn't what they were called. At least, it wasn't before the true term for the prophetic dreams that those with the blood of Valyria sometimes had was lost, like so much else. His dynasty had been founded by Daenys the Dreamer, so they had always paid close attention to their dreams. Only, usually, it was impossible to tell what was simply a dream from what was a glimpse of the future.

"Someone beyond the Wall is torturing the Old Gods? Heresy, maybe?" Arthur prompted, knowing his role well on nights such as these. The unfortunate truth of prophecy was that they were very difficult to interpret. He had only managed to decrypt one in his lifetime, and with no small amount of help from his dreams.

"Do the Old Gods even have the concept of heresy?" Rhaegar sighed, his lips thinning before he reached for his dream journal. Opening it, he saw short hand and scrambled notes - if anyone saw the journal, they'd think it belonged to a mad man, Rhaegar thought. And not for the first time. "He carried a storm with him. Darkness. Armor made of black ice… or was it ice? Shadows?" he muttered, making quick notes before the memories of the dream slipped through his fingers.

"The Wall is rather distinctive, I imagine. If nothing else makes sense, then we know something is happening at the Wall or beyond it." Arthur offered and Rhaegar nodded to himself, feeling a dagger of fear stab him in the heart.

The Others.

"I'll send a letter to Maester Aemon to see if there is anything unusual happening," he decided, even though he ached to jump on a horse and not stop riding until he reached the Wall. Impossible. Impractical. And, worse of all, stupid- if the Long Night was coming once more, he would be of far greater use in the capital rallying the Seven Kingdoms than he would be at the edge of the world.

Closing his journal, he felt himself calming down even as he still vividly recalled the unnatural blue eyes that had peered right through him. His unease must have shown because Arthur spoke up, "Perhaps a spar would help the prince wake up?"

"Perhaps it would," Rhaegar agreed. He started late in his training. Almost too late. If it wasn't for the teachings from Arthur, Ser Barristen, and Ser Oswald, Rhaegar would be woefully unprepared for the battles to come. But, even with their tutelage, he had to put in twice the effort as anyone else to make up for the lost time.

It was after he washed his face and he dressed himself that Rhaegar found himself in the training yard with Arthur across from him, both wielding dulled blades. For Arthur's sake rather than Rhaegar's - it wouldn't do to give his father any reason to target Arthur, and using live steel would. At the break of dawn, the training yard was thankfully empty as the two of them began.

Fortune would have it that Rhaegar did possess some talent with a blade and lance. Though, it was quite miniscule in comparison to the talent possessed by the Kingsguard. In the years since he first picked up the blade, the gap between him and Arthur was slowly diminishing.

The singing of steel echoed out in the courtyard as Rhaegar followed the steps that he was taught. Step - strike - step back - block - reposest - it was easier to think of fighting like a game of cyvasse. To every move, there was a proper response. Do the right response enough times in a row, and you would win any fight.

It was just an issue of learning the proper responses, and not falling for any traps that your opponent might lay. Something far easier said than done, Rhaegar found when his thrust was not diverted but dodged and he felt a light tap on his neck. His throat had been slit.

Unlike cyvasse, one move chosen bad enough to lead to an instant defeat.

"You're still distracted, my prince," Arthur noted, withdrawing the blade and settling into a prepared stance.

Rhaegar worked his jaw for but a moment, mirroring the stance. "Rather than heresy… someone is abusing the faith of the Old Gods for their own ends?" He put forth, considering the possibility. His friend kept it off of his face, but Rhaegar knew Arthur was disappointed that he wasn't focused on the spar.

Dreams had to be interpreted. The grove, out of everything, even his own death, stood out to Rhaegar the most. The weirwood trees were being harvested. Fed, but controlled and starved. The orchard represented something. Cultivation? Abuse? Or were the weirwood trees merely a stand in for the faithful? Could he expect religious turmoil in the North?

Without warning, Arthur attacked and Rhaegar just barely managed to defend himself. He blocked the blade, retreating a half step, lunging when Arthur repositioned his blade, only to be greeted by a repotest when his blade arrived. They traded a score of attacks as Arthur forced him to focus on the spar and it was a welcome distraction. He felt a familiar burning in his arms and back, sweat upon his brow, and the vibrations running up his arm with every attack, parry, and block.

However, the distraction was all too short lived.

"My prince," greeted a voice belonging to Jon Connington, another one of the few friends that he could afford to have. Fiery red hair and a well groomed short beard, he stood in the colors of his house's heraldry - red and white. His expression, to Rhaegar's concern, spoke of ill tidings. "We have received word from Lord Baratheon."

The words made Rhaegar's heart go still in his chest, "Has he found me a wife?" He asked, not certain he wanted to know the answer. A valyrian bride was his father's desire. It would have been a smart match if his family still possessed dragons, but keeping the bloodline pure meant little without them. As he had no sisters to marry, it would be best to marry within the Seven Kingdoms.

Jon's expression soured and Rhaegar feared the worst - that Lord Steffon had found him an Essosian bride. "I am unaware. I merely happened to overhear that one of his ships made landing at the docks." Meaning that he likely found a possible bride. Rhaegar kept a grimace off of his face, nodding his gratitude to his friend.

"Then I would hear what this messenger has to say," Rhaegar decided. Setting his training sword down, he retreated to his quarters to wipe himself of sweat before dressing in proper clothes. By that time, the messenger that Lord Steffon sent made his way to the Red Keep, and Rhaegar was already walking towards the Small Council chambers.

Servants passed him by, bowing their heads as they performed their chores. They dusted and polished the stone floors, cleaning candle sticks and decorations. A pity they could do nothing about the smell coming from King's Landing - the smell of refuse was always at its worst when summer arrived in earnest. The waste that had been frozen over joined the waste that was freshly added, creating a noxious air that was difficult to escape without dousing oneself in perfumes.

Outside of the chambers was Ser Harlan Grandison - or, as he was better known as Ser Harlan the Old. Despite being of age to be Rhaegar's grandfather, he stood proudly outside of the door. He was an unwelcome sight. Not because Rhaegar particularly disliked him, though he wasn't fond of him either, but his presence meant that his father had decided to attend the Small Council meeting.

"Prince Rhaegar. Ser Arthur," Ser Harlan greeted them, stepping out of Rhaegar's way.

Rhaegar nodded his greeting, leaving Arthur to join his sworn brother outside of the chamber while he entered it. He was first greeted with the smell of incense to cover the smell of waste. Secondly, he was greeted by the sight of the Small Council. And his father.

If one was ignorant of who was king, it would be an easy mistake to make that Tywin Lannister was the king of the Seven Kingdoms. His head was shaven while he grew a golden beard. His clothing was a vibrant gold and red while a necklace of linked hands sat around his neck. He was everything that his father was not.

King Aerys Targaryen sat at the head of the table, appearing ill. His silver white hair was messy and unkempt, his skin had a pale waxy complexion to it while his violet eyes seemed to sink into his head. In the year since his rescue at Duskendale, he hadn't shaven or bathed or trimmed his nails, which now appeared to be yellowed talons as he gripped the arms of his chair. Even Ser Gerold Hightower, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, appeared more of a king than the decrepit creature his father had become.

"You were not invited to this meeting," his father greeted him coldly, leaning into his chair as if to get further away from him while Ser Gerold stood behind Areys.

Rhaegar lowered his head, "Father. I thought there might be news about my marriage." He said, careful to not look at Tywin as he did so. It was but a few years ago that his father had refused a marriage to his daughter, Cersei Lannister. Rhaegar couldn't say he cared much for the girl, the little he knew of her, but she had the bloodline and she would help bind the Westerlands to him when it was his time to rule.

His father made a dismissive sound before gesturing to the end of the table, granting permission to stay. No one sat near his father - there was space for at least two chairs between him and Tywin, who remained silent, simply watching them with emerald eyes flicked with gold.

The rest of the Small Council joined after that - Grand Maester Pycelle. Master of Coin, Qarlton Chelsted. Master of Laws, Symond Staunton. Master of Ships, Lucerys Velaryon. The three of them were creatures of his father, with Lucerys in particular being a loyal dog that provoked and prodded his father's paranoia for his own gain.

The only ally he had in the Small Council was Ser Gerold, whose loyalty was split between the king and the heir and Rhaegar dared not test who he would choose if his hand was forced. The Master of Whispers was an empty position, which was a great shame. The last Master of Whispers had been an ally, keeping him informed of his father's growing paranoia.

Once everyone was seated, a man was allowed into the chambers, and Rhaegar recognized him as one of Lord Steffon's bannermen. Casper Wylde, if memory serves. The man bowed to the assembled lords and king, "Lord Baratheon regrets to inform his liege that there were no women of suitable stature to marry Prince Rhaegar in Lys," Casper began and Rhaegar felt a measure of relief.

His father's lips curled, revealing teeth that were starting to blacken with rot. "None?" He hissed, shifting in his seat much like a vulture.

"My Lord sends his regrets, but there are none. Any of valyrian stock have been tainted with slave blood or lowborn. It is an unfortunate occurrence in Essos because of their views on the stations of merchants." No one gave a reaction to the news, all waiting for Aerys to react. His expression betrayed an extreme displeasure. Casper saw this, so he continued. "However, with your permission, Lord Baratheon will continue to search for a suitable bride in Myr or Tyrosh. Or perhaps Volantis, as Valyrian blood runs strong there."

It was Rhaegar that spoke, "That would delay my marriage too long." He was already nineteen. If Lord Baratheon continued his search - the three daughters or Volantis, then that could delay his marriage by another year at least. Most likely two.

"Prince Rhaegar speaks true, King Aerys," Tywin stated, his voice cold and clipped.

The Grand Maester nodded in agreement, "It would be prudent to settle the matter of marriage swiftly as Prince Rhaegar participates in tourneys. I would never dare accuse anyone of intentionally harming him but… they would not need to do so intentionally."

Aery's face twisted as if he had bitten into something sour. "Then he will not participate in any tourneys," she spat the order out, looking at Rhaegar with cloudy eyes filled with venom.

Rhaegar clenched his jaw, but gave no reaction beyond that. Thankfully, he did not need to speak as Casper stepped in.

"There was one other matter that Lord Baratheon wanted me to bring to his Grace's attention," he said, bringing the attention back to him and Rhaegar felt a rush of gratitude. With luck, his father would forget such a declaration. He often did. "It was during our stay in Lys that we overheard that some merchants are displeased with the Seven Kingdoms. While their concerns aren't worth much, why they're wroth was. According to them, the Seven Kingdoms are exporting glass and tapestries."

Attention shifted to Qarlton, who seemed uncertain. "The Seven Kingdoms has always exported some tapestries to Essos, but I have never heard of any house exporting glass. If they were, we wouldn't be paying such prices from Myr."

"How wroth are these merchants?" Rhaegar questioned and Casper inclined his head to them.

"Very, I fear. I don't expect it will be long before his grace hears a petition from the slaver cities. There were talks of increased tariffs, but I cannot say that is for certain. It could merely be the guesses of angry men deep in their cups," Casper answered and Rhaegar leaned forward. The Seven Kingdoms did not really compete with the free cities of Essos when it came to trade. There was little need to.

However, from the sounds of it, the free cities believed that the Seven Kingdoms was starting to compete with them. Meaning that whatever trade goods that were coming from the Seven Kingdoms was in such volume and quantity that they felt threatened.

And no one in this room had known until now.

Aerys had the most visible reaction, gripping his chair while his pale flesh reddened with anger. "They would insult me? I'll burn their petition. I'll burn their petitioners. I am the King of the Seven Kingdoms! How dare they threaten me," he hissed, his anger growing. The tension in the Council chambers swelled to the point you could choke on it. "They would have been rewarded with the greatest house in the world, and instead they accuse me of this filth?! Damn them!"

Lucerys Velaryon saw his opportunity to curry favor like the dog he was. "They have forfeited such an honor with these insults, your grace. They have proven themselves unworthy of them."

Aerys nodded his head, "Volantis. Steffon will sail to Volantis to find my son a bride." Rhaegar didn't react but he swallowed a curse. His father was fixated on the idea, no matter how foolhardy it was.

"It would be prudent to learn why, exactly, the Three Daughters believe that the Seven Kingdoms is selling glass," Tywin ventured and Aerys sneered so hard it was more of a snarl.

To some surprise, Qarlton was in agreement. "It would be prudent, your grace. If the rumors are merely rumors, then this is nothing more than a ploy from some jumped up merchants trying to squeeze silver and gold from the Iron Throne. If there is more substance to this rumor… then it could very well mean that someone discovered the secret to Myrish glass making and they kept it a secret from us. For what reason, I cannot fathom, but I suspect to shorten the crown what it is owed in taxes."

Aerys took the prospect as a personal insult based on how he glowered, "Find them. Find whoever is stealing from me."

"Find them and burn them."

...