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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 5: First Steps 1-5
"It was only a matter of time," Rickard muttered as he looked down at the slip of parchment, reading the message but it had some difficulty sinking in. A shipment of goods had been attacked on the way to Whiteharbor. Despite the value of the shipment, Rickard had decided to use a light guard to avoid suspicion and now wondered if that was a mistake. The guards, all slaughtered to a man. The goods were gone like smoke in the wind. The perpetrators? Unknown.
However, Rickard felt the carrion feeders circling. First with the Crown starting to take notice of the trade goods coming out of the North as well as the Bravosi ships that were sailing to Whiteharbor. It was something of a concern, but not a real issue. Taxes would be paid in full, and the Targaryen's could not decree who the Great Houses could trade with.
At most, he would receive more veil threats from King Aerys, but no more than that. It simply wasn't worth the effort - not just to chastise House Stark, but it would show that the crown is taking an interest in the financial matters of its vassals. Of which, he suspected that there were a great many much closer Houses that had far more reason to fear scrutiny from the Crown.
They would have far more reason and a much easier time convincing the King that it wasn't worth it.
He set the letter down on his desk, a hand going for what was now his favorite drinking glass. He brushed a thumb over the direwolf etched into the cup before dragging a hand down his face, considering the loss. The loss of a single shipment posed some problems for him - the loss of gold was troublesome. It would complicate things with Bravos, people who were expecting their orders. But, the merchant city would understand that sometimes ships go missing at sea. Sudden storms, pirates, sheer bad luck… a letter would smooth over any ruffled feathers and a token discount for the wait would go a long way.
That wasn't his issue, even if the loss of what could have been three thousand dragons stung more than he thought it might. His issue was how the caravan was attacked and how the goods went missing.
"This was an attack," Rickard muttered to himself, taking a long swig from his cup before setting it down on his desk. He didn't know by who, but he did know how and why. Someone had been keeping an eye on Whiteharbor. Someone had noticed the trade caravan coming and going between Winterfell and Whiteharbor. They decided to attack it, and a light guard or not, a trade caravan still could boast a guard of fifty men. The fact that they were slaughtered told Rickard that this was no mere bandit group.
There were always bandits on the road after a winter. The smallfolk who had a lean winter always faced a harsh spring, so they took from those that had more. It wasn't right. It wasn't fair. It wasn't just. It was, however, the way of things. When the first harvests were reaped, things would settle once more. A trade caravan would be a tempting prize, and Rickard could see a band of particularly desperate villagers working together to attack. But the men were slaughtered.
That spoke of training.
The attack wasn't committed by half starved smallfolk wielding scythes and pitchforks. Trained Men-At-Arms carried out the attack. It was only a question of whose Men-At-Arms.
As for why? That entirely depended on who did it. It could be a house that was desperate for riches. Northerners were a hardy folk, but not immune to finery. In that case, he would need to keep a close eye on his vassals and any with glass cups or fine tapestries were his culprit.
If it wasn't riches that they sought, then they attacked for a simple reason.
They wanted to hurt House Stark. And that… That was a troubling thought.
Rickard left his solar, his thoughts heavy as he walked the castle grounds with no true destination in mind. In moments like these, he liked to move. His vassals were largely loyal. Naturally, there were a handful that had some degree of ire for him because he denied them this or that. A ruling their way or a privilege or a marriage. But no immediate suspects came to mind that would do something like this because this…
This was an attack on their liege lord. It was sedition of the highest order. If Rickard discovered the culprit, and he would, then the least they could hope to lose was their heads.
Rickard found himself walking on the ramparts, offering a single nod to the guards on duty before his gaze drifted to the courtyard below. Despite his concerns, a smile threatened to tug at his lips as he saw Brandon sparring with Benjen. The younger of the two wore an expression of immense concentration while the elder wore a cocky grin. Benjen lunged with a dull blade, only for it to be smacked away. Brandon thrusted lightly, only for it to be a feint, and when Benjen went to block, Brandon instead went low.
A chuckle escaped Rickard when instead of retreating, Benjen swung wide, forcing Brandon to take a step back and abandon the attack. His heir looked as pleased as Rickard felt. It was a relief that his youngest had a talent for the blade. Brandon would inherit the North, and if all went well, Ned would become Lord of the Neck. Benjen, a third son, had fewer prospects. Rickard hoped he may one day become a castellan. Or House Starks Master of Arms. Failing that, he could join the Night's Watch, but only as a last resort.
That chuckle turned into a sigh as the starting continued. Because he knew the truth of the matter.
It would be an exceptionally foolish thing to do - attacking their liege lord. Attacking House Stark. The only possible reason Rickard could see that would explain such foolishness was that the culprit believed that the attack could not be traced back to him… and that Rickard would be in no position to do anything about it.
He rested a hand on the ancient granite walls of Winterfell, watching his family. Including Lyanna, who was less than subtly mimicking what she saw Brandon do with a training sword of her own in the stables. They were the ones that he had to protect.
"We almost managed to last a year," Rickard muttered under his breath, knowing what the attack meant. Possibly, it was someone working with the Crown. Possibly, it was a vassal that felt alighted. Perhaps it was a Bravosi merchant and this was simply greed. But none of it changed what he knew deep in his gut.
Whoever attacked him knew about the deal with Paul Atreides… and if he wasn't careful, that deal would be the knife that was driven into his heart.
…
Everything moved slowly in the North. In a way, it was the North's greatest strength. The sheer vastness of the kingdom made it difficult for the southern plotting to take root, but the North had its own share of plotting. Like the thaw, it happened slowly, incrementally, and almost impossible to measure when you were actively paying attention to it. Yet, Rickard felt a slow change in the months after the caravan attack.
It was entirely possible that it was nothing more than his imagination. The shift in tone of letters. The length that it took to respond. The resistance he encountered when investigating the missing contents of the caravan, which had yet to be found. His position as Warden of the North was secure enough that few would dare to openly challenge him, but Rickard felt the wind turn against him. A silent opposition.
It came to a tipping point when he caught word of a deserter.
"Brandon, fetch your brother. It's time that he witnesses Justice in the North," Rickard instructed, making his eldest pause his practice against a straw dummy. Working through his anger, more like it, Rickard corrected himself.
Brandon lowered his training sword, "There's been a deserter?" He questioned and Rickard grunted an answer while servants went to fetch their horses. The deserter had been captured days ago and he was being brought to the ancestral execution grounds outside of Winterfell. If the place had any significant beyond where members of the Night's Watch were executed for thousands of years, the reason had been lost to time.
For that matter, deserters were even forbidden from gracing Winterfell's dungeons for holding. It was an odd tradition, but one Rickard would follow and instruct his sons to follow even if he didn't understand why.
"Do you think he's ready? He's never seen a man die before," Brandon said, planting the tip of his training blade in the dirt. "Or seen you kill," he added.
A fair question and concern. "He's eleven," Rickard replied. Still a boy.
"You forbade me from joining you until I was thirteen. You only made an exception for Ned just before he left to be fostered," Brandon pointed out, sounding concerned. It would follow that his son only used his wits when it was inconvenient for his father. "What's wrong?"
Considering for a moment how to answer, he decided on honesty. "I'm uncertain," he admitted. "But to be safe, Benjen will join us. If there are trying times to come… he will need to be prepared for them." With that, Brandon accepted his answer with a curt nod before he left to find his brother.
Rickard was already on his horses but the time his sons joined him. Benjen looked like he was riding to his execution based on how pale he was. He was a kind hearted boy, Rickard reminded himself as Benjen got on his horse and gripped the reins with white knuckles. He urged his horse closer and placed a reassuring hand on his youngest shoulder. "Breathe, Ben. Your horse can sense your fear," he urged.
"Twilight," Benjen corrected before flushing when Rickard raised an eyebrow. "His name is Twilight. Lyanna named him," he elaborated and despite it all, Rickard found himself chuckling.
"I'm fairly certain his name was Frost, but Twilight is as fine of a name as any. So long as you don't confuse him," he said and Benjen relaxed some at the idle chatter. He would grow out of his shyness, Rickard hoped. He was a quick witted child that laughed easily when he felt comfortable, but Rickard found that he frequently felt uncomfortable and turtled up.
This would help change that, Rickard thought as he led his sons forward. Lyanna was watching from a balcony, waving goodbye. They were joined by fifty guards - more than his usual retinue, but it felt like a necessary precaution. They rode in the center of the formation, with Bradon at his right while Benjen was to his left. It was after they left Winterfell behind them and they were well on their way to the execution site that Brandon spoke up in a low voice.
"Should we be concerned about this deserter?" Brandon questioned and Rickard fought off a frown. That was a very prudent question.
"I mislike the timing," Rickard admitted easily. Deserters weren't particularly common, but that was in large part because of the difficulties of deserting. The North was the largest kingdom by far and all knew what it meant to be dressed in black. To escape one's oaths, one must travel the length of the kingdom unseen with whatever food that could be foraged while being hunted by the Night's Watch.
It was a hopeless endeavor for most. Some had managed to escape justice over the thousands of years, but not many. It didn't stop some from trying, of course, but most didn't bother because it was a foregone conclusion.
Making a deserter, now, after a deal had been made with the Wildlings and Paul in particular… Rickard had his suspicions the moment that he heard of this deserter.
"I think it's time we had a talk with Paul. That we get ahead of this before we find it beyond our control," Brandon urged and Rickard found himself agreeing.
"Before we react, we must know what we're reacting to… But, yes, I think it's time we had a conversation with Paul directly. Have you had any developments on your end?" Rickard questioned, expecting nothing but hoping to be surprised.
Brandon's scowl was answer enough. "We've narrowed it down a bit, we think. Usually by wildling scouting parties that don't return from a location in particular," He answered and Rickard grunted. Paul Atreides was good at what he did, Rickard would give him that much. He wanted some kind of leverage when it came to negotiations, or at the very least, an alternative strategy.
However, at the rate things were going… when it came to talks of bringing Paul into the kingdom, the boy would possess all of the cards. He would be negotiating from a position of strength and Rickard didn't like the thought of it, especially if Paul was aware how close they were to a disaster.
"We're running out of time. After this, do what you must to find him, but we must know where his tribe is," Rickard urged, earning a nod from his eldest. Benjen listened in, saying nothing. He was like Ned in that regard, more so than Brandon - he knew when to close his mouth and open his ears.
Not long after, they arrived at the execution spot. It was an old grove out in the open, located in the depths of a valley between rolling hills. It was sparse, only truly marked by an ancient petrified log that deserters had been beheaded at for thousands of years. The deserter in question was a ratish looking man - a pinched face, narrowed jaw, with large eyes that were filled with fear. A scruffy graying beard covered up some pox scars that ran up one of his cheeks.
The man was bound and gagged, two men belonging to a mountain clan stood vigil over him. Based on their scowls and glares, and the few injuries the deserter had, his capture had not been kind. Rickard drank it all in, taking only a moment to do so as he dismounted his horse and lifted the sword of House Stark from where it rested.
Ice was an executioner blade, but it was near weightless. A typical executioner blade would weigh around five pounds, the blade thicker than normal to give it extra weight to help make a clean cut. Ice, a blade of valyrian steel, weighed closer to a pound, that of a longsword. There were a few Starks that had chosen to wield the greatsword as a weapon in battle, but Rickard found the odd combination of its length and weight too off putting.
Presenting the blade to Brandon, he grabbed hold of its sheath and allowed Rickard to smoothly pull the blade free. The smoky rippled surface marked the blade what it was and the deserter flinched at the sight, struggling as he was carried to the executioner block. Coming to a stop over him, Rickard rested the tip of the blade into the ground and rested his hands on the pommel. "Ungag him," he instructed and a foul rag was freed from the man's mouth, leaving him free to dry heave but his stomach was empty.
"In violation of your oaths, I, Rickard Stark of House Stark, Warden of the North, sentence you to die. If you have any final words, now is the time," he said, and he could feel Benjen's eyes on him while his brother whispered to him lowly. Instructing him not to look away. Just as he did for Ned when it was time for him to see justice being done.
The man licked his lips and Rickard had him pegged as a coward. So, it was an unpleasant surprise when the man spat in his direction, "Liar! You have the others convinced, but I see through you! You're working with the Wildlings. You're making a King Beyond the Wall!" He accused and that was exactly what Rickard feared.
The secret wasn't a secret anymore. He was right in thinking that the Night's Watch would be the weak link in the conspiracy. If they were good and honorable men, then odds were they wouldn't be at the Wall in the first place.
"Speak plainly and explain your accusation. It won't save you from my blade, but I would hear your reasons in full," Rickard said, fishing for information. How many others felt this way at the Wall? How many people had he spoken to? Who did he share these suspicions and accusations with?
Not all of his vassals kept such a close eye on the Wall, but his northernmost vassals had every reason to. The Night's Watch couldn't exist as a completely independent structure, not here, nor in the North. So his vassals sent men to keep an eye on their interests, usually making sure that no wildlings came their way. Or they paid men for information.
"I know. I know," the man insisted, but Rickard got the impression he was half mad. Hysterical. "I know all about your secret deals with the King Beyond the Wall. You've turned the Night's Watch against its sworn enemy! You're building an army of wildlings, using my brothers to smuggle them here!"
Hm. "I'm smuggling wildlings. Into my kingdom. To build an army to use on… whom, exactly? Myself?" Rickard questioned, and he heard the men laugh at the thought. With that, the man had been discredited. Those that overheard his ramblings would dismiss them as the last words of a coward and a mad man.
He was right enough to give Rickard concern, but wrong enough that he was convinced that the man didn't have the whole conspiracy. If he did, he would have lashed out at Brandon.
No. What he knew was that the blacksails were allowing Paul's ship through. But not much else in all likelihood. That, however, was still entirely too much for comfort. Especially when he felt so strongly about it that he decided to leave. Rickard could only imagine that this same resentment was building up at the Wall - half muttered whispers in the dark, seeing glimpses of a conspiracy but not enough to understand, yet enough to make assumptions. The Lord Commander hadn't informed him of this development, covering his own ends rather than warning him of incoming problems.
The deserter glared up at him, his lips pressed into a thin line. He knew he was right, and he hated that he was being made a fool. "I'll die here, at your hand. But don't you lie to yourself that this is justice. You're murdering me. You're murdering me to keep your secrets. My only regret is that I didn't get to see you strung up by your treasonous neck like you deserve." The laughter abruptly stopped, shifting into a cold anger. The deserter paid it no mind in favored of laying his head down on the block.
It was a poor development. Rickard wished to learn more about his motivations and the general sentiment at the Wall. Did he have like minded fellows? How exactly did he learn about the shipments? It was prudent information, but he couldn't extract it from the man without giving his words validity.
Making his final words more right than he realized.
So, with little other choice, Rickard raised Ice up and in a single smooth action, he beheaded the deserter. His head rolled away, blood spurting from the stump of the neck. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Benjen flinch, a sharp breath the only sound in the grove. He didn't look away from the corpse, much to Rickard's approval. Handing Ice to one of his guards, who wiped the blade clean, he approached Benjen.
"You did well, my son," he said, cupping his cheek so the boy would look away from the corpse and to him. "I shall tell you the same words that my father told me. And his father told him. It is an easy thing to order men to die. As lords, a handful of words could seal the fate of someone half a kingdom away. The weight of the decision completely removed because you don't see it. It is why we don't employ a headsmen. If you can't look a man in the eye as you sentence him to death… then perhaps he doesn't deserve to die."
Benjen looked at the corpse once more, "Did he deserve to die?" He questioned without any innocence. A boy he was, but he was no fool.
"He did. He broke his oaths to the Night's Watch, no matter his intentions," Rickard told him in a low voice. "His fate was sealed the moment he abandoned his post. But… more than that, he was acting against our family. He didn't understand anything and in his own mind, he was doing what he believed to be right. In doing so, he would have invited disaster for us - for me, your brothers and sister. For yourself as well. What have I always told you?"
Benjen seemed uncertain, jolted by the sudden question before speaking, "The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives?"
"Good. Remember that, my son. Always. There is no right and wrong when it comes to protecting your family." Rickard said, and in that moment, he saw Benjen understand the truth.
The deserter was right.
He had been murdered before half a hundred witnesses and it was called justice.
For justice was always on the side of the powerful.
…
It was days later that another development occurred. Slowly, Rickard could feel the noose of his intrigue closing in around him and he searched and plotted away out of it. Time was slipping away like grains in an hour glass, and very soon, unless something changed, time would run out.
That change wasn't one of his own design. In truth, it was just shy of the worst case scenario.
"My lord, the delivery is here… as is Paul Atreides," Maester Wyllas informed and Rickard went still. The timing was awful. Truly dreadful. He was growing desperate and he had yet to gain any meaningful leverage over the exiled noble.
Yet, he could hardly turn him away. "Did he give a reason why?" Paul didn't accompany the trade ship often. Only once before where he fine tuned the deal.
"The last panes of glass for the glass garden have been completed, my lord." Maester Wyllas informed and that should be excellent news. When it came to convincing his vassals the worth of Paul, it would go a long way. It would be a large boon to Brandon's reputation - the Stark that brought glass to the North.
The timing of it was the issue. "Ahead of schedule," Rickard growled from behind his desk, clenching his jaw. He could see the confusion on Maester Wyllas' face. He didn't understand. A deadline was just moved up without any notice and he was caught off guard.
Because, as per the agreement made, upon the completion of the glass garden, their deal would be open for renegotiation.
And Rickard had nothing to negotiate with. Worse, as the North was steadily putting the pieces together, he was in a position where he had to bring Paul into the fold.
"I shall meet him in the crypts, send him there once he arrives," Rickard decided, standing up and walking by the Maester as he bowed to him he thought furiously as he made his way through the castle, a heavy frown on his face that had the servants scurrying away. Yet, by the time he cut across the courtyard and pushed open the ancient heavy door that led into the Stark family crypt, he was grasping at smoke in the wind.
Desperation wasn't something that Rickard often felt. He only felt it a handful of times in his life - first, when his father died. Then his mother. And, lastly, his wife. For all of his power and influence in the North, he could do nothing to bring back the dead. It was his wife's tomb that he stopped before, the dark shadows of the crypt chased away by torch in his hand. Her statue couldn't do her justice, he thought, and not for the first time.
He had loved Lyarra in a way that he hadn't thought possible. He hadn't thought he could survive without her, but he had to for the sake of their children.
It was before her tomb that the planes of glass were piled up, separated by thin sheets of fabric. The crypts were the perfect hiding place - they were a vast complex series of tunnels that went down several floors. Even with the tunnels collapsed to the deepest and oldest parts of the crypt, it was still easily large enough to get lost in. So few would venture this far in without knowing where they were going.
He stood in silence, mulling over the issue at hand as he gazed upon the statue of his wife. He wished she had any advice to offer in a time like this. Because, for all of his southern ambitions, she was always the better player at the Game.
His time truly ran out when he heard the sound of footsteps. No hesitation in his gait. He walked the crypts like he knew them as well as he knew his own home. More anything else about the boy, that unnerved him. Rickard looked over to see Paul Atreides walk around the corner, torch in hand.
The past year had been kind to him. He was growing into himself. While he was taller, he was no longer lanky. His comely looks of a boy shifted into a handsome face of a man. Yet, his eyes were the most striking of all - they almost seemed to glow in the low light of the crypt.
"Lord Stark," Paul greeted him, bowing his head in respect but he didn't bend the knee.
In that moment, Rickard almost hated the boy. He hated how dependent he had become on him. How the future and all of his plans now hinged on convincing this boy to become his vassal. Something he had no true motivation in doing because he would gain so little by bending the knee.
"Lord Atreides," Rickard decided. "You finished ahead of schedule," he noted and Paul nodded, his expression betraying nothing. Now, when he walked, closing the distance between them, Rickard didn't hear a thing. He announced himself with his footsteps and now he was silent as a ghost.
"We have been increasing our means of production for the past year with the resources you have provided," he admitted easily, coming to a stop. "Until recently, our bottleneck was trained craftsmen to oversee the process. With them now fully trained, in theory, we could produce a full glass house in as little as six months."
Rickard closed his eyes and imagined it for a moment. Years in the future, likely when his son or grandson was the Lord of the North, where no one starved. A glass garden for every keep, every town… every village. He wanted it. He craved it. It was almost a need, he desired that future so desperately. And that was the most dangerous thing of all.
He was desperate. Paul could ask nearly anything of him, and Rickard knew that he would agree simply because it would be worth it. And, for that, Rickard hated him.
"Then you desire this partnership to continue," Rickard said, opening his eyes to the reality before him. Paul hadn't said it in so many words, but the fact he was increasing his means of production meant that he intended this partnership to last more than a year since the very start. That, at least, was something. It meant he was gaining something tangible from their dealings.
Paul nodded easily, "I do, Lord Stark. But, as I understand it, that could prove… difficult for you." He said and Rickard swallowed a scowl.
He knew about the leaks in the Night's Watch. He knew that the North would soon put together enough parts of the conspiracy to come to a conclusion. That meant Paul knew he had all of the leverage.
Did he admit it? Lie? Obscure? Deflect? "The lie was never going to last forever," Rickard admitted, "it would have been better if it lasted a while longer, but the situation is in hand." To that end, he couldn't let Paul control the conversation. "As things are, the reveal my family has been working with wildlings is not worth the political headache your goods provide." He said, and he wasn't sure the words were true.
There was another option, loathe as he was to use it. He could taint his own reputation - accept the blame for working with wildlings, sparing Brandon the damage, while his family reaped the reward of a second glass garden. If Paul was brought into the fold on his watch, then Brandon would benefit from his presence without suffering the loss of reputation for allowing a 'wildling' to become a vassal.
"I understand, Lord Stark. To that, I believe I may have a solution," Paul offered and Rickard wasn't surprised. The boy was clever. He wouldn't have gotten this far if he couldn't seize an opportunity like this. "As it stands, to my knowledge, Paul Atreides and Maud'Dib are completely separate people to all but a select few. Maud'Dib is a wildling beyond the Wall while Paul can be anyone. A wandering merchant. Or, perhaps, a noble in exile in search of a new home with the retinue that escaped with him."
As he spoke, his gaze was unflinching, burning a hole into Rickard as he heard everything that wasn't said.
It was perfect. Almost too perfect. They could present a story that would connect the pieces of the truth floating amongst his vassals, leading them to a conclusion that served their agenda.
However, there was one issue. "My vassals are not fools. One way or another, even if I were to claim that all the goods came from you, they would know that the wildlings were involved in this deal."
Paul offered a humorless smile, "Let them be involved, Lord Stark. I say we give your vassals a version of the truth. I am a noble of a far off land that was caught North of the Wall. My origins matter little if you wish to hide the existence of the Padishah Empire. Claim that I am from Essos. Or beyond it."
Rickard started to put the pieces together, "You made contact with Brandon during his inspection of the Wall," he ventured. It would be best to hide the existence of another ancient empire. It would only complicate things and the story that he wished to tell. The Padishah empire could be a silent concern, but given that their existence had been unknown for thousands of years, he didn't expect that to change in his lifetime
Paul inclined his head, "From there, I made a deal with him for my eventual immigration south of the Wall. In exchange for knowledge of certain crafts, my nobility would be acknowledged by his father, the Lord of the North."
Rickard swallowed his surprise at that. Paul wanted to come south. That made things vastly easier, and that was the leverage he had been looking for. It was a gift horse, he decided, so he was wary of checking its teeth but he couldn't help but to wonder why exactly Paul wanted to come south. What did he gain from it?
"Naturally," Rickard replied drily. "But I requested proof, which you gave in the form of a glass garden. The deliveries were made through the Night's Watch, who dealt not with a wildling but a noble beyond the Wall. For such a gift, I wonder what lands I would bequeath onto such an ancient house?" Rickard questioned, curious what Paul would ask for. Because he would accept it.
They needed this. Paul was giving him everything he wanted on a silver platter and the cost would be well worth the gain.
He was prepared to give him the Stony Shore. He was prepared to give him lands that had belonged to the Starks for thousands of years.
Yet, Paul's answer surprised him.
"Lands in Skagos, in particular, taken from House Crowl." Paul decided and that was… strangely perfect. Skagos was barely under the authority of the North. The nobility naturally wouldn't like it if he were to repossess lands to bequeath to a newer house, but they would care a great deal less that he did it to the nobility if Skagos than they would if he did it to the Karstarks or Boltons.
The reason why those lands were chosen was evident enough. "You wish to continue to harvest the land beyond the Wall."
"During my time beyond the Wall, I encountered a wildling of the name Maud'Dib. We established a relationship of mutual benefit. He aids in procuring resources for me, and the knowledge I possess helped solidify his tribe in the Frostfangs." Paul finished, and that, Rickard thought, was very dangerous.
The words of the deserter rang out in his ears. That Rickard was working with a King Beyond the Wall. The lands beyond the Wall were vast, untamed, and untapped. Each time a King Beyond the Wall marched South, he did so with an army of tens of thousands at his back.
He could very well be opening the door to let one inside, Rickard thought as he offered a hand to Paul.
Yet, as Paul clasped his hand and the deal was struck… Rickard accepted a cold truth.
Desperation made fools of everyone.
...
This was the chapter that helped inspire the entire story. It's why Paul is so scary as a character - If you manage to figure out his goals, it means that you've already lost and you lost before the game even started.
Advanced chapters are currently available on my Pat re on and Subscribe Star!
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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 6: First Steps 1-6
Eddard Stark looked down at the letter brought by raven from his home, Winterfell. The letter was penned by his father, Ned recognizing his handwriting easily enough, even if his father's letters were few and far between. His eyes followed the looping letters, digesting the letter's contents a short moment before Robert, his friend, peered over his shoulder. "Anything interesting?"
"Not as interesting as our studies," Ned replied dryly, folding the letter in half while he swallowed some annoyance. Robert's growth from boy to man was kinder than his own. Robert barked a laugh, his cheeks covered in the short beginnings of a beard, his black hair swept back. He was tall, seemingly growing a foot overnight, with broad shoulders and thick arms. He barely had to try to look over Ned's shoulders these days.
"I doubt that. It could be about watching grass grow and it'd be more interesting than whatever in the seven hells Archmaester Dannek is prattling on about." Robert said, taking a seat in a nook of the castle library, holding up their assigned reading. Ned was inclined to agree, but Lord Jon was already pulling his hair out because of Robert's antics as it was.
"It's a book on treaties between the Kingdoms before they were unified," Ned replied. Not exactly the most interesting of texts, made all the worse by very dry prose. "As for the letter… I'm to return home for the first year festival," he informed, rolling the parchment between his fingers.
Instantly, Robert scowled, "You're leaving? For how long?" He questioned, already misliking the thought of his departure. "When?"
"If I'm to arrive in time for the festival, I'll need to leave in a few days," Ned admitted, finding the sudden invitation odd. He visited home once a year, excluding the years that it was Winter. It was mostly a way for his father to check up on his education. And each year, Ned expected that he would be told to stay and that his fostering in the Eyrie was over. Something he anticipated and dreaded in equal measure.
A demand for his presence during a festival was a first. Especially with such late notice. A journey to Winterfell from the Eyrie took a month on foot. He could shave a week off if he traveled to Gulltown and chartered a ship up to Whiteharbor, but it was still a considerable distance that would take time to travel.
Robert sensed it too, "Did the letter say anything about something going wrong?" He asked, and Ned passed it to him to read. Robert's brow furrowed, "If something happened, he'd say something. Wouldn't he?"
A pool of unease settled in Ned's stomach. "Not if it's bad enough," Ned answered, knowing the truth of it. His father was a man who kept his secrets close to his chest and rarely gave earnest answers. If it was something terrible- like Lyanna or one of his brothers dying… his father wouldn't put it to parchment out of suspicion someone would read it before it got to him.
"Right. Well, pox to that," Robert decided, setting the book on the table with a thump of finality. "I'll saddle my horse," he said, making Ned raise an eyebrow at his easy decision to come with him.
"I'd welcome your company for the journey, but are you sure you'll be allowed to?" Ned ventured and, at Robert's indifferent shrug, he continued with, "The heir to the Stormlands is a greater guest than a second son." Second and third sons, as far as Ned had seen, could move around with more freedom than heirs apparent. Even as the second son to a great house, he could come and go with far fewer eyes upon him than Robert could. "Not to mention, you usually return home this time of year."
"Not much of a point in going home when Father is still off frolicking in Essos," Robert said, shrugging his shoulders as they made to leave the library. Though, not before Ned returned the book they had been reading to its rightful place on the shelf. "It'd just be my brothers there and I'd rather pull teeth than deal with Stannis on a holiday."
As a second son, he had been able to freely visit the Stormlands on the occasion when Robert went to visit home. So he had met Stannis and young Renly, though the latter only once and he had been just a baby. Stannis was everything Robert wasn't, with the two mixing like oil and water. Ned himself didn't mislike Stannis. He was a dutiful child that was growing into a dutiful man by all accounts. That being said, being Robert's friend seemed to be a large black mark against Ned's character in Stannis' eyes and Stannis always made his displeasures known.
Then Robert paused, "Unless you don't want me to come?" he asked suddenly, like the thought just now occurred to him that he may be imposing. He even seemed worried, so Ned settled him with a smile.
"I already said I'd welcome your company on the journey. I just don't want you to get in trouble on my account," Ned explained and Robert flashed him a roguish smile that was all teeth.
"Bah! As if. And it'd only be repaying the favor, because I've dragged you into plenty of trouble on my behalf," he admitted with a laugh as they continued down the halls of the castle. It was different from Winterfell. The air was dryer, the stone walls less warm. It had taken him years to stop feeling like a stranger in someone else's home.
"I'm aware," Ned replied dryly, earning another laugh from Robert, unashamed of how many times they had been sentenced to mucking out stables or polishing boots as punishment. Even if Father left nothing for him, Ned reckoned he had a future as a cobbler given he must have repaired and polished every boot in the kingdom by now.
It was a reassurance that Robert would be joining him, soothing the pit of unease the strange summons had opened up in his stomach. If nothing else, Robert was sure to distract him from his concerns in the weeks it'd take to reach home to finally learn what was going on. To that end, the two of them set off to find the Lord of the Eyrie.
They found him in the castle courtyard, and Ned noticed that the servants were already moving to prepare for a departure. The Lord of the Eyrie and Warden of the East was an older man in his sixties, a tall hawkish man with a short beard and hair, both colored a darkish gray. He was dressed in his house colors, a dark blue with white accents, speaking to one of his household knights before he took notice of them.
Glancing their way, he hurriedly ushered the knight onward before turning to them. "Ned, Robert," he greeted them kindly, already suspicious of their reason for seeking him out.
"I suspect that I am not the only one who recieved a letter from my father?" Ned ventured, earning a thin smile from Lord Jon. All but confirming it. "I don't suppose your letter was in possession of any more detail?"
"I'm afraid not, my boy," Lord Jon admitted easily. "Only that it is imperative that you return home for the festival. I don't suspect anything untoward has happened. If anything, I suspect it's for something good."
If it was, then surely his father would have mentioned as much.
"I've already begun preparations for your departure. In Whiteharbor, you'll likely hear the full story behind your summons, if it's any consolation." Lord Jon continued, his gaze flickering over to Robert before arching an eyebrow.
Robert met it with a grin, "That ship to Whiteharbor have enough room for one more?" He asked, his tone so smooth butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.
Ned prepared himself to make an argument. What he didn't prepare himself for was a calculating glint to enter Lord Jon's dark blue eyes. Lord Jon was a man of politics. It was a unique ability that Ned almost wished he possessed because he had watched Lord Jon hold court and settle disputes between hated enemies over a thousand petty slights and end the dispute so thoroughly that the men walked out as friends. For that reason, Ned could only guess at what the Arryn Lord was thinking.
"I believe it has enough room for two extra passengers," Lord Jon declared, his tone decidedly even. Robert perked up at the easy agreement but Ned swallowed a frown. Two. Who else would be joining them on the journey?
The answer was readily apparent.
Elbert Arryn, Lord Jon's nephew and heir, approached with an easy smile. He was an older man in his mid twenties, sandy blonde hair, and bright blue eyes while his cheeks were covered in a neatly groomed beard. He approached openly, then warily when Lord Jon looked at him with a pensive expression. "I may regret asking, but what did I just walk into?"
Robert laughed, "Looks like the lot of us are going to the North!" He announced, correctly surmising what Lord Jon implied. Elbert's gaze flickered to Jon, who offered a small but sharp nod.
Elbert's lips thinned ever so slightly, "Very well then. It would be fun to stretch my legs a little. When do we leave?"
"Ideally, on the morrow," Lord Jon replied and Ned allowed himself a quiet moment to question why exactly Lord Jon was so keen on sending Elbert with them. The answer was obvious enough, he knew in the back of his mind even if the mere thought made his lips peel back in disgust.
Elbert was unmarried. As was Robert.
As was his sister.
"I-" Elbert started before he cut himself off, visibly swallowing his initial response. "-shall begin preparations then." He said instead, bowing his head to Lord Jon.
"Do so," Lord Jon commanded easily. "I suspect the Eyrie will be much quieter without the three of you," he added in a softer, fonder, tone as he glanced between the three of them. Robert grinned at that, excited for the trip.
Ned, however, found a knot of worry forming in his gut.
Preparations were simple for the most part. Everything Ned owned, save his sword, fit neatly in a single travel trunk. He had a stipend granted by his father, and given to him by Lord Jon, but Ned found that he only spent it on gifts for his family when he returned home, and on ale when Robert managed to drag him to a tavern.
Robert and Elbert, on the other hand, seemed determined to bring everything they had ever owned with them on the chance they might have need of it. What Robert expected to need his armor for was beyond Ned, but he insisted that it was necessary.
Between the two of them, the wagon was stuffed by the time they were ready to depart. Though, not without a few farewells.
"Your papa is going to miss you," Robert said, holding aloft his bastard daughter, Mya Stone. Love shined in his eyes as the dark haired and blue eyed girl giggled, her mother watching on with a nervous expression that she tried to hide. Which then cracked when Robert tossed the girl up into the air, earning a squeal of laughter, Robert effortlessly caught her in his hands once she fell. "I don't know what they have in Winterfell, but I'll bury you in gifts once I get back. Would you like that?"
Ned smiled softly as he mounted his horse. It hadn't really been a surprise when Robert ended up with a bastard. He was… personable. Gregarious. In particular with the womenfolk. Lord Jon had insisted upon giving the girl moon tea upon finding out that she was carrying Robert's child, and that was one of the few times Ned had seen his friend wroth with their foster father.
The matter was quickly dropped and much like the storms of his homeland, Robert's rage had vanished to be replaced with clear skies once more. The babe was born, the very spitting image of Robert himself, and since then she had been his pride and joy.
There were whispers, of course. But Robert closed his ears to them, treating his daughter as a trueborn.
Enough so that Robert giving his daughter back to her mother, along with a few quiet words that Ned wasn't able to catch, was nothing less than a feat equal to anything found in the Age of Heroes. The girl waved goodbye as Robert saddled up next to him, grinning at the road ahead. With a small wave back to his daughter, he urged the horse forward. "Come on then, let's hit the road!"
Chuckling, Ned urged his horse forward, following his friend as they started the long journey back home.
It took a week to reach the lands of House Royce – the terrain of the Eyrie was nothing but mountains and treacherous winding paths. They seemed to travel fifteen miles a day, but with the sheer volume of hills and valleys that they had to navigate, it was likely closer to five miles of actual progress. Robert was sorely disappointed that the guard that marched with them scared off the Mountain Clans, so there was no ambush waiting for them.
After spending a night at House Royce, they were sent on a chartered ship to Whiteharbor. The trip at sea was thankfully short, as Ned found he had no taste for the sailors' life. He at least did better than Robert, who spent the entire trip puking and cursing the sea. It was only a few days before their destination revealed itself, a lighthouse cutting through the fog of the early morning.
Whiteharbor was busy, Ned immediately noticed as their ship sailed into the harbor, and he spied a welcoming party waiting at one dock in particular. It had to have been reserved, because it was the only dock open… no, not only that, Ned spied an entire additional dock that looked to have been recently built to help handle the flux of traffic.
The ship slowed and the sailors threw down a plank for them to walk down. Ned was first, seeing Lord Manderly wearing a wide but practiced smile. He bowed his head, along with his household guards and servants that he brought with him, "Lord Eddard, it's good to see you in Whiteharbor once more. I hope your travels were without difficulty?"
Ned inclined his head, accepting the man's deference, "The winds were kind, my lord. And I see that the times have been kind to Whiteharbor," he noted and, at that, Wyman Manderly smiled openly. There was a story there, but it could wait. "Allow me to introduce Ser Elbert Arryn, heir to the Eyrie, and Robert Baratheon, heir to the Stormlands."
"I'm never setting foot on another blasted ship for as long as I live," Robert swore as Elbert was patting him on the back, both glad to be back on solid land once more.
Lord Manderly chuckled warmly, "I believe I've sworn much the same in my youth," he admitted. "I do wish there was a trick to dealing with it, but the only way to gain your sea legs is to be out at sea. In any case, it is an honor to greet you, my lords."
Lord Manderly then gestured to the road behind him, "Quarters have been prepared for you. It is my regret to inform you that you won't have the chance to fully experience Whiteharbor as we must set out in the morning if we have any hope of making it to the Summer Festival. My own son and heir has already been sent ahead."
Ned nodded, "We understand, Lord Manderly. Time is of the essence."
"If time is short, then let's make the most of it!" Robert decided, his legs still wobbling from being out at sea but he managed to walk under his own power. "Seems like a lively place!" Robert quickly added as they began to make their way to the keep. Once they left the dock, and the scent of fish, Ned quickly caught the strange scents of unfamiliar spices. Dark skinned men that he recognized as people from Essos stood out, hawking their own wares while trying to purchase others.
"Your words honor me, Lord Baratheon," Lord Manderly replied, pleased with the praise but decidedly formal. Robert was right – Whiteharbor was the North's only true port, yet Ned would never exactly call it busy. Not like this, at least. It wasn't uncommon for ships from Essos to venture to Whiteharbor, seeking goods that were not so easily found in their own homeland, but never in such volume.
If Lord Manderly hadn't been there to greet them, Ned might have even suspected that he was in the wrong city.
"What exactly changed since Winter ended, if you do not mind my asking," Ned ventured, looking to Lord Manderly, who moved with labored steps, leading them through the city.
The Mermaid Lord winced ever so slightly, a warning if there ever was one. "That, my lord, is part of a larger tale," he hedged, glancing at both Robert and Elbert. He wasn't surprised to see them, meaning that Lord Jon had penned a letter to both his father and Lord Manderly, informing them of their future guests.
"I would hear this tale, Lord Manderly. Especially if it ties into the reason for my sudden summoning," Ned requested, his tone even. If Lord Manderly resisted, then the reason was as grave as he had dreaded in the days of travel. However, to Ned's relief, the Mermaid Lord was only pensive.
"It is no secret – well, not anymore, at least," Lord Manderly started. "Your brother, Lord Brandon, upon performing an inspection of the Wall, stumbled across a noble in exile from Yi Ti – it would seem that his ship was blown dreadfully off course to their destination of the Seven Kingdoms. They landed beyond the Wall." Lord Manderly began, and Ned felt his eyebrows rising at the tale.
Robert was enraptured, "In exile?"
"Indeed, my lord. It would seem that his noble family suffered a terrible betrayal – a surprise attack in the dead of night by their long standing rivals, aided by the Yi Ti Emperor himself because of his house's popularity. In the end, the great house was brought low with only a single ship carrying the heir of House Atreides managing to escape." Lord Manderly continued, making Ned's lips thin.
That was indeed quite the tale. Yet… "I fail to see the connection, my lord," He said, gesturing to around them. Whiteharbor was prospering in a way Ned had never seen before.
"This part currently still remains a secret, but it shall be revealed by your lord Father during the festival. Paul Atreides, the noble scion your brother found, had several fine craftsmen in his retinue when his family was forced into exile. For the past year, to test his quality and worth, it was decided that he would produce such goods for the North. In exchange, upon completion of the contract… he would be granted a lordship within the North."
That got Ned to suck in a sharp breath, surprised. If what he saw was any indication… "A lordship? Of what lands?" He questioned sharply. Robert was distracted by the comings and goings of the people but Elbert listened with a quiet intensity. Ned understood the reluctance Lord Manderly showed in talking about such things here and now. But, as inconvenient as it might be, Ned was remiss to keep such secrets from his companions.
To that, Lord Manderky openly frowned. "He has chosen lands in Skagos, my lord." He said, his gaze lingering on Ned.
Ned nearly tripped. Skagos?
Robert snorted, proving that he had been listening. "The man escapes from the ass end of the world and decides to settle in the ass crack of the Seven Kingdoms?" It was rudely put, but Robert wasn't wrong. Skagos was… it was a part of the North in name only. The lords there paid lip service to the Starks, they paid whatever meager taxes that they owed, but the Starks of old knew better than to make demands of Skagos. Simply because they knew that they would not be heeded, which would require an answer and action from the Starks.
Lord Manderly visibly swallowed a response to that, which lead to Ned prompting him, "If you have an opinion on this Paul Atreides, I would hear it, my lord. The North is slow to change, especially in regards to its vassals." The Manderlys were the last vassals risen up in the North and that had been a thousand years ago.
Lord Manderly inclined his head to him and spoke honestly, "It shames me to speak poorly of a fellow vassal, and I don't wish to taint your opinion of him with my own… but I… I struggle to trust him, Lord Eddard. He's entirely too clever." His lips thinned further, his gaze briefly flickering to Robert and Elbert before continuing. "He could have been granted lands in Stony Shore. Or he could have become a Masterly House under the Karstarks, Boltons, or even myself. But, instead, he asked for lands in Skagos, lands belonging to House Crowl."
That wasn't something lightly done, but even as Ned had his thoughts, Lord Manderly spoke them out loud. "If he asked for such a thing from anywhere else in the North, there would be outrage. Forgive me, but even your lord Father would lose the respect of many of the houses in the North. Yet, at the festival, the lords of the North shall soon learn that very thing will happen. Only it's happening to the Lords of Skagos, whom none harbor any particular fondness for."
Skagos was out of sight and out of mind. To many of the lords of the North, they were little more than wildlings wearing a thin disguise of nobility. To that end, Ned understood perfectly what Lord Manderly was saying. The Lords of Skagos were a perfect target. Any outrage the lords felt would quickly be quelled, and this Paul Atreides would be allowed significant freedoms given the nature of the relationship between the North and Skagos.
"One would think you would speak better of him," Elbert remarked lightly. Not quite a rebuke, but close to one. "For it seems that he has enriched your house."
"He has," Lord Manderky admitted freely. "But it is his cleverness that I mislike. For Paul had foreseen exactly this in what had to be months in advance. A year, even. For the past year, my ships have traded his goods to Bravos while… obscuring their source. Yet, when the ships began to arrive in Whiteharbor, searching for his goods at a reduced price… there was always enough to meet demand. Always. Even now, my lord, with the latest shipment of goods, all these merchants will find enough. Perhaps not as much as they would wish, which keeps the price high, but they will find enough."
On the surface, it sounded as if Lord Manderly was merely complaining about the success of a merchant. And, if he was to be believed, a merchant who was being raised to nobility. Ned thought he would have understood if that was what Lord Manderly was irritated over. Ned didn't care one way or the other in regard to those who made their fortune through trade, but he understood he was the minority in that case. But that wasn't the issue.
His complaints centered around the fact that Paul was unusually successful. That he was too smart.
"Do you fear that he is manipulating my family? My father?" Ned questioned outright, making Lord Manderly's lips thin tellingly.
"I fear that he is too good to be true, Lord Eddard. In my experience… anything that appears too good to be true very often is."
…
They stayed in Whiteharbor for the day, their arrival marked with a feast. Robert drank entirely too much, leaving him in a state that he could only communicate through grunts upon the morning. But the road to Winterfell was a long one, even with them riding well ahead of the baggage wagon. It was a full two weeks of travel later before Robert and Elbert started to truly understand how vast the North was.
Hamlets and villages were sprinkled about by the path they tread, but the vast majority of the North was untamed wilderness. Neither of them were prepared for the chill in the air that still lingered, even now that it was summer in earnest.
But, as the days went by, they increasingly became used to it and before long Ned caught his first glimpse of home in three years.
"That's Winterfell, aye?" Robert remarked, looking out at his family's castle. The dark gray double walls, the keep and spires that peeked out over the edge of the walls. The very first thing that Ned noticed was that the broken tower had been restored, making it no different than any of the others.
He also noticed the sheer number of people that were overflowing from Wintertown outside of the castles front gate. It wasn't a surprise, not when Lord Manderly had already warned him, but seeing so many people at Winterfell was still unusual to him. Every lord in the North had been invited for the festival, and like Ned had, they wondered about the reason for the invitation.
"That's Winterfell," Ned agreed, urging his horse forward. It was just the three of them, and a few guards. Lord Manderly couldn't ride very well because of his weight, but he didn't begrudge them their haste. "It looks like it's already begun in earnest. Hopefully the games will still be on," Ned ventured.
"Race you there!" Robert decided, breaking out into a gallop. Ned was right behind him with Elbert close at third. As they closed in, their arrival largely went unnoticed while Ned saw many sigils belonging to the vassals of House Stark – house guards and servants, all taking the chance to enjoy themselves.
They were slowed when they approached the gate and a slow smile spread across Ned's face when he saw who was waiting for them. "Martyn. It's good to see you once more!" He called out, allowing Robert to come in first.
"Lord Ned – you're just in time! Your father feared you wouldn't make it," Martyn greeted him warmly.
"It seems Lord Manderly may not. He's still on the road," Ned informed, but Martyn waved off that concern.
"His son can inform him. Not that there's nothing that Mermaid doesn't already know," Martyn remarked before they were ushered into the courtyard of Winterfell. Ned wished he could linger, or better yet change from his riding clothes, but Martyn hadn't been exaggerating when he said that they'd arrived just in time.
By the time Robert and Elbert had partaken bread and salt on Ned's behalf, by the time they entered the great hall, his father had already taken his place before the lords and was addressing them. Their eyes met as they snuck in, and the very first thing that Ned noticed was that his father was older.
Wrinkles had gathered around his eyes and his dark hair had started to gray. His dark gray eyes were the same, and the slight curl of his lips told Ned that his father was pleased that he made it in time. But, he didn't allow their arrival to interrupt him.
Especially when it seemed to be the climax.
"Through the efforts of my son and heir, Brandon Stark, the North has achieved a long harbored dream. One that was always out of reach due to the cost," his father, Rickard Stark, spoke out to the assembled Lords before the high table. There was something next to him covered in a velvet sheet that his father grabbed hold of. Then, with a dramatic pull, he revealed it. There was an immediate sharp gasp coming from nearby every assembled lord.
Ned had been forewarned of it my Lord Manderly, but he still nearly joined them.
"The North now has the ability to produce glass," he father announced, revealing a stack of large panes of glass that were nearly as tall as he was. They were clear, perfectly clear in a way that Ned hadn't thought possible. All of them uniformly shaped. "Before you is enough glass to create a single glass garden. However, my lords, it will merely be the first of many."
It was then that Brandon stepped forward and much like father, his brother had changed in the years he was away. Three years was both no time at all and a complete eternity, it felt like. His brother was taller. Shoulders broader. He had fully grown into himself, it seemed, but he still wore the same confident smile that Ned would never fail to recognize. "Starting this year, we shall dedicate ourselves to ensuring that there is a glass garden in every single keep in the North. Today is the day that we take the first step to ensuring that no Northerner ever goes hungry, even in the longest of Winters."
The lords began to clamor eagerly, such was their excitement. Yet, when Brandon raised a hand, they quieted down. Exactly as they did when their father spoke. "However, my lords, I must confess – I wasn't the one who discovered how to create the finest glass on this side of the Narrow Sea. Please, restrain your disbelief," Brandon said, earning easy laughter. "I will claim credit for discovering the one who discovered the secret, however. It was as I inspected the Wall a year ago, I came into contact with someone rather unexpected beyond the Wall. Not a wildling, but someone no less trapped behind eight hundred feet of ice."
What Lord Manderly had neglected to mention was that Paul Atreides was of age with himself. The entire speech was planned out well in advance, and from the crowd Paul emerged. He was around Ned's age, fifteen or sixteen, dark wavy hair that was cut short, pale skin and unusually bright blue eyes. He wore black and red, with over one shoulder a half cape marked with a red hawk on a black background.
Paul took his place before the assembled lords while Brandon quickly explained the same tale that Lord Manderly gave Ned. This time, he focused more on the crowd that received the tale rather than the tale itself. He watched their faces and he saw awe. And disbelief. Both in the sense that it was an outlandish tale, and that there were those that outright didn't believe it.
But he watched those same lords swallow their disbelief down, not willing to challenge their liege lord. Especially not so openly.
His father continued when Brandon was done delivering the story. "In acknowledgment of his noble blood and his part in strengthening the North, I have seen fit to grant Paul Atreides a fief." There were a few quick muttering at that, but no outrage. Not yet, at least. "However, due to the unique specifications needed to produce glass in any meaningful quantity, there are few lands that can be claimed. It is for this reason a parcel of land shall be taken from House Crowl and granted to the new House Atreides on the island of Skagos."
There was the outrage, Ned thought, and he could sense Robert and Elbert's naked disbelief at what they were hearing. Taking land from a noble House, however minor, was very rarely done. The only true exceptions were those that had thoroughly disgraced themselves or betrayed their liege lord in some manner.
The nobles protested, some getting up and shouting, but Ned quickly noticed that there were no house colors representing House Crowl present. Ned wondered if they were even aware of what had been decided. However, for all of the outrage, it was quickly suppressed with a raising of his father's hand. And Ned saw that Lord Manderly had the right of it.
If his father had tried to do the very same thing to the Karstarks or Boltons or Ryswells… there would be no reasoning with them. But, because it was happening to a house that the lords of the North barely interacted with or acknowledged? His father might as well be claiming land from a neighboring kingdom rather than a fellow vassal.
"It is not a decision I made lightly, my lords," his father said, "but it was a decision that had to be made. Starting now is a long arduous project to see that every keep receives a glass garden for a mere fraction of the price that the slavers of Essos would charge us. It is the start of never needing to look to the South for grain again. For three hundred years, the North has been nothing more than an afterthought to the Lords of the South. Barbarians, they call us. Paupers in comparison to their perfumed southern knights."
The anger started to shift its target, Ned saw. The angered lords nodded their heads, clapping their tankards against the table in agreement. Ned found himself… jealous, in a way. That wasn't a skill he possessed, nor was it one he needed to possess. He was the second son. His lot in life was to serve his brother, perhaps as a Master-of-Arms or a steward. But, that didn't make it any less incredible to witness his father divert the ire of dozens of stubborn lords and make it look effortless.
"This is how the North becomes of consequence in the Seven Kingdoms. This is how we make the south remember the promises it made to us when my forefather bent the knee," he said and, before anyone could recover, he gestured to Paul. "Kneel, Paul Atreides, and state your oath."
Paul did so, dropping to a knee for his father and bowing his head. It was the first time in an age that the North gained a new vassal, a lord in truth rather than a Masterly House. The oath was given, Paul's voice carrying out over the quiet lords.
"I swear homage to House Stark, Wardens of the North, as the legal authority of the North. My house shall remain loyal in perpetuity - your enemies are my enemies, and my bannermen are yours to summon. I shall fight for your rights, and the rights of your legitimate heirs, on my word, as Paul Atreides of House Atreides. For we are House Atreides - there is no call that we do not answer, and there is no faith that we betray."
It was as fine an oath as any, Ned decided and, despite the anger and outrage that had been shown before, there was a round of celebration that echoed out as his father confirmed the oath, and Paul Atreides stood up, now a noble lord of the North. With that, any ceremony went out the door as Paul was immediately besieged, as was Brandon as he was commended for his find at the Wall.
Ned watched it all before he stole away, moving on the outskirts of the crowd and his father met him halfway.
Immediately, his father reached out, settling a hand on his shoulder, "You've grown, my boy," he father acknowledged and Ned stood a little straighter. "I'm glad you managed to make it on time, and I apologize for the late notice. This was… a situation in development until the last minute," he confessed and Ned fought off a frown.
"Think nothing of it, father. I am yours to command," Ned replied and his father gave him a small approving squeeze on the shoulder.
"You know your duty well, Ned." His father said and Ned felt a little… something release in his chest. A tension that he had unknowingly carried with him. He spent so many years in the Eyrie. Even past the initial agreement of how long he would be fostered.
There had always been a small quiet part of him that wondered if that was a deliberate choice on his father's part. That he was keeping him out of the North for an offense that Ned couldn't remember making.
"I have need of you," his father stated and Ned took in a bracing breath before his father looked to the crowding of lords that surrounded Paul on all sides. Yet, despite the rough lords pestering him to get his measure, Paul seemed perfectly at ease with the situation. "House Crowl has been informed that a portion of their lands has been reclaimed and bequeathed to House Atreides. They have refused to reply or acknowledge the command."
That bordered on treason, Ned immediately thought. As disconnected as they were, the Lords of Skagos were still of the North. They swore fealty and oaths just like the ones that Paul uttered moments before.
"What would you have me do, father?" Ned questioned, prepared to do whatever was asked of him.
His father smiled. It was a rare one, much like a scimitar of Essos – curved and sharp enough to cut. "I want you to sail with Lord Atreides to mediate this conflict and observe him in settling his lands." That was… his face must have betrayed him because his father offered a small nod, "You are likely to fail in the first task. One can't live on a desolate island like Skagos without being a stubborn bastard."
"What would you have us do then?" Ned asked, though he already suspected the answer by how his father's eyes hardened.
"Crush them," he answered, his voice as unyielding as Valyrian steel. "Remind the lords of the North why the Starks have been the Kings of Winter for nigh eight thousand years."
There was only one thing he could say to that.
"As you wish, father."
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