Chapter 2 – Paper
The Ink of the South
The library of Winterfell was vast — much larger than most in the realm would ever guess. It sat beneath the Maester's tower, carved partly into the ancient stone and partly into newer foundations. Rows of shelves stretched in long, silent corridors, filled with thick bound volumes, loose scrolls, old rune carvings, and even the odd raven-feather quill stuck in a forgotten book.
But few ever came here.
It was quiet. Always quiet. The kind of quiet that felt like dust itself had memory.
Cregan Stark, now three weeks recovered from his fall, had made the library his second home.
Day after day, he sat hunched at the long table near the hearth, surrounded by the smell of parchment and tallow wax, a cup of cooled broth forgotten by his elbow.
Today, his eyes darted between two books.
One was a northern folio, aged but rich — written in rough Common Tongue mixed with old runic glyphs. It detailed the river clans near the White Knife, pre-Conquest lumber trade, snow preservation tunnels, and elder hill-fort tactics.
The other was a polished southern history by Maester Colwyn, dated 121 A.C. — printed in clean lines and full of judgment:
> "The North remains a land of grim superstition. Innovation is rare. Their gods are strange and wordless. Their lords are of old blood but stale customs."
Cregan frowned.
He closed the book with a soft thud, rose, and tucked both volumes under his arm.
He had questions.
---
Rickon Stark's solar was quiet but warm. A large hearth kept the chill at bay. Maps, swords, and hunting spears hung on the walls. Tapestries told the tale of the old kings of winter — long before the dragons came.
Lord Rickon sat at his desk, reviewing trade tallies on rough parchment. He looked up as Cregan entered.
"You again," he said. "You've been haunting that library like a crow."
"I like the quiet," Cregan replied. "But I don't like what I'm reading."
Rickon gestured for him to sit. "Go on."
Cregan placed both books on the desk, side by side.
"We have a large library," he said slowly. "Older than many southern keeps. Older than Oldtown, in parts. But… most of it isn't read by anyone. Not even the Maester."
Rickon raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
Cregan continued, his voice growing firmer.
"The North is the oldest kingdom in Westeros. We ruled ourselves for thousands of years before Aegon. We survived the Long Night. We remember the Children of the Forest, the giants, the old bloodlines. Yet when I read the books written after the Conquest… we're reduced to a frozen footnote."
He pointed to the Maester's book.
"This one says we have no innovation. That we're barely civilized. That we're stubborn, superstitious. But then I read this one—" he tapped the old folio— "written by a Northern scribe, and it shows trade routes, storage methods, strategy, mountain cultivation, even early salt-preservation techniques."
Rickon leaned back, studying his son.
Cregan's voice dropped.
"Why don't the Maesters talk about this? Why do we read only their books — men who weren't born here, who don't worship our gods, who don't even walk our woods without fear?"
Rickon exhaled slowly. "That's a heavy accusation."
"It's not an accusation," Cregan said. "It's a pattern. A blind spot. How can someone write truthfully about the North when they don't understand it? Or worse — when they don't respect it?"
He leaned forward now, hands on the table.
"If we have such a rich library, why don't we teach from it? Why aren't the heirs of the North — the children of House Glover, Manderly, Karstark — learning here, in Winterfell? Why must they rely only on what the South sends us?"
Rickon was silent.
Then, after a moment, he said, "Because that's the way things have been."
Cregan didn't flinch. "But should they stay that way?"
Rickon looked into the hearth, firelight dancing across his eyes.
"There are politics to consider, boy. Offending the Citadel... alienating the Crown. Even our bannermen may see it as prideful, or dangerous, to claim our knowledge is better."
Cregan nodded slowly.
"I'm not saying we burn the Maesters' books. I'm saying we remember ours. Teach ours. Let both be read — let the truth speak from both sides."
Rickon looked at the old northern folio again. Its pages were yellowed, the ink faded — but the words still stood proud.
"You're not wrong," Rickon said quietly. "Too much has been lost. Too much ignored."
He leaned forward.
"So what do you want to do?"
Cregan's voice was calm, but firm.
"I want to gather northern scribes. Quietly. Copy and restore every piece of pre-Conquest knowledge we have. Start teaching it to our people — the stewards, the young lords, the scribes. I want to bring back a northern way of learning."
Rickon looked at his son — this boy who spoke like a man, who had the eyes of someone with a map already drawn inside his skull.
Then he nodded once.
"Do it."
Cregan sat back, a slow breath escaping him.
Rickon added, "Start slow. Quiet. Use the old library hall behind the crypt stairs. No one checks it but Wyllan. If anyone asks, say you're helping the Maester restore forgotten texts."
Cregan smiled faintly. "You'll cover for me?"
Rickon gave a rare, quiet grin. "You've earned that much."
...
The Weight of Paper
The air in the library was still and dry. The torches hissed softly in the brackets, and the smell of wax, parchment, and dust curled gently in the quiet.
Cregan Stark entered with purpose this time — not searching for stories or legends, but with a sharp, logistical thought scratching at the back of his mind.
He approached Maester Wyllan, who sat at a table near the hearth, transcribing raven messages with meticulous care.
"Maester," Cregan said, polite but direct.
Wyllan looked up, adjusting the reading lens at the edge of his chain. "Lord Cregan. Back again. What curiosity chases you today?"
Cregan sat across from him, placing both elbows on the table.
"I want to know about paper."
Wyllan blinked. "Paper?"
"Yes. Where it comes from. Who makes it. What it costs."
Wyllan smiled faintly. "Not many boys your age ask that."
Cregan didn't return the smile. "That doesn't make it less important."
Wyllan leaned back a bit, rubbing his temples. "Most of our paper comes from the South. Some from the Reach, some from Oldtown's mill shops. Thinner stock from Volantis. The finest parchment, of course, is vellum — treated calfskin."
"How expensive?" Cregan asked.
"Very. A full vellum sheet might cost a silver stag or more, depending on thickness and treatment. Even common paper is valuable. That's why we reuse scrolls. We scrape ink from older parchment when we can. Or cut sheets into smaller slates."
Cregan nodded slowly.
"So only lords and merchants can afford to write often."
"Usually," Wyllan said. "Scholars too, though most are bound to noble houses."
Cregan was silent for a moment, thinking.
"Knowledge," he said, "shouldn't depend on coin."
Wyllan tilted his head. "That's a noble idea. But the world isn't built on ideas alone."
Cregan gave a small smile. "No. It's built on process. And I think we're doing it wrong."
---
Later that afternoon, in the old scribe's chamber behind the library…
Cregan rolled out a sheet of cloth, sat at the stone table, and began sketching with a coal stick.
Wood pulp.
Boil. Mash. Layer. Press. Dry.
He remembered the method — not in perfect clarity, but well enough.
Back in his old life, paper wasn't made from calfskin or linen cloth. It was made from trees. From waste. From fiber broken down and reformed.
He stared at the diagram on the slate board.
The North has forests. Pine. Spruce. Birch. We export timber south… but never keep enough for ourselves. Never think what else it could give us.
He made a small note:
> "If I can create a cheaper way to make paper… I can give writing to the people."
Then another thought struck him:
> "Teach scribes. Hire orphan boys, steward girls. Let them write. Copy. Learn."
He looked down at the blackened fingers gripping the chalk.
Not just a scribe's tool. Not just a lord's ledger.
Paper could become a weapon.
A quiet weapon.
One that no southern Maester would ever see coming.
...
The Quiet Revolution
The saws whined and sang, and the sharp, bitter scent of pine sap filled the cold air.
Snow dusted the roof of Winterfell's wood mill, where thick logs were dragged in from the Wolfswood and sliced into beams and firewood for the keep. The clatter of axes and the low groan of saws echoed between stone walls, joined by the smell of damp bark and sweat.
Cregan Stark, bundled in furs too large for his thin frame, stood quietly near the back, watching everything — calculating.
Beside him stood Eddric, the head miller, a barrel-chested man with a scar down his temple and permanently sap-stained hands.
"You sure you want to be here, my lord?" Eddric asked. "Not much for princes to do in the sawdust."
Cregan shook his head. "I'm not here to watch. I'm here to work."
Eddric chuckled. "Well then. Let's see what Lord Wolfcub has in mind."
---
Over the next five days…
The old shed near the mill was cleared and turned into a workshop.
Cregan hauled bark, split logs, boiled mash. His hands blistered, and his arms ached from stirring pots of steaming slurry. Eddric gave him space — curious but respectful.
They crushed wood into pulp using smooth stones. They boiled bark and pine needles. They spread pulp thinly across linen cloths, pressed between flat stones.
The first attempts were failures — clumps, rips, soggy, useless mush.
The second attempts were better — uneven sheets that dried slowly, curled at the edges, but held shape.
By the fifth day, they had three distinct kinds of usable paper:
Rough brown stock, thick and fibrous — good for bulk writing
Light grey weave, made with crushed grass and bark mixture — flexible, for field notes or letters
Thin white press, more delicate, polished with a smooth stone — almost as fine as southern vellum
Cregan held a finished sheet to the morning light. The sun filtered through like stained glass.
He smiled.
---
That evening – In Rickon Stark's solar
The fire was crackling in the hearth. The smell of burnt wood and warm leather filled the room.
Cregan entered quietly, holding a small wooden tray covered in cloth.
Rickon looked up from his table. "Back from the sawdust wars?"
Cregan nodded, setting the tray down.
"Open it," he said.
Rickon pulled back the cloth. His brow furrowed.
Three pieces of parchment lay side by side — uneven in shape, but clean, dry, and perfectly usable.
Rickon picked one up, rubbed it between his fingers.
"This isn't calfskin. Nor linen."
"No," Cregan said. "It's wood pulp."
Rickon blinked. "What?"
"We used pine scrap. Bark, grass fiber. Boiled, mashed, pressed, dried."
Cregan picked up a thin grey sheet. "It's rough now — but with the right method, we could make hundreds in a week. Thousands, with time."
Rickon looked at his son, surprised. "Why?"
Cregan met his eyes.
"Because paper is power."
Rickon said nothing.
Cregan continued, calm but firm. "Right now, only the rich learn to read. Only lords write ledgers. Only southern merchants print books. Why? Because paper is rare. Too expensive. But what if we made it cheap?"
He paced slowly near the fire.
"What if we taught scribes? Peasants? Steward children? What if the North became the center of writing, trade, and knowledge — not just swords and cold?"
He turned back to Rickon.
"This… is our secret weapon. Not just for education. For influence. For coin. And for truth."
Rickon stared at the page again. "You want Winterfell to become a press house?"
"I want the North to stop being silent."
---
Rickon sat back, folding his arms.
"You've changed," he said softly. "Since the fall."
Cregan's voice didn't waver. "No. I've remembered."
Rickon looked at the paper again. Then he nodded once.
"I'll send word to Manderly. Quietly. If he sees this, and thinks of trade routes… he'll see what you're building."
Cregan smiled faintly. "Thank you."
Rickon added, "Keep the workshop hidden. Tell the Maester nothing."
Cregan bowed his head.
Then he added, softly:
"We call swords our strength. But what if, someday, weapons made of bark and ink change more than steel ever could?"
---
Machines of the Mind
The sharp scent of pine filled the air once more as Cregan Stark stepped into the Winterfell wood mill for the second time in a week. This time, he wasn't there to experiment with mash or bark.
He had designs. He had ideas. He needed hands to shape them.
A dusting of snow rested on his fur cloak. His gloves were stained with charcoal and coal — signs of early sketches drawn in haste the night before.
Inside the mill, workers looked up as he entered. Tools paused. Sawdust floated in the lamplight.
"Where's Carver Rannyl?" Cregan asked.
A young apprentice pointed him toward the back.
Rannyl, the chief carpenter, was a grizzled man with arms like tree limbs and a wooden peg where his left thumb used to be. He was carving sled runners with practiced rhythm when Cregan approached.
"My lord," he said, nodding. "Did the last batch of chairs fall apart already?"
Cregan grinned faintly. "Not yet. But I need something else. Something new."
Rannyl raised an eyebrow. "Go on."
---
An hour later...
Three carpenters, including Rannyl, gathered around a stone table as Cregan spread out a charcoal-drawn design across thick linen cloth.
"These aren't chairs," Rannyl muttered. "This is… what is this?"
Cregan tapped each part with a stick:
"This frame — holds a tight mesh sheet. We pour mashed wood pulp onto it, let water drain through. It keeps the fiber flat."
"This lever press — we use it to squeeze out moisture without crushing the sheet. Like pressing cider."
"These racks — for drying paper slowly near fire, but not over flame."
"And this stone — a round, polished smoother. For flattening dried sheets."
Rannyl blinked. "And you dreamed all this up after boiling pine bark?"
Cregan didn't smile. "I've… seen things like this before."
"Where?"
Cregan paused. Then answered truthfully:
"Somewhere else."
---
Over the next few days…
The back shed became a workshop of noise and vision. The carpenters worked with quiet curiosity, slowly warming to the odd but determined boy who could read measurements by instinct and explain pressure with words they barely grasped.
He simplified everything:
Described leverage using wagon wheels
Explained pulp consistency by comparing it to oat porridge
Used gravity-fed drying racks inspired by clotheslines
They built:
A wooden deckle frame for shaping sheets
A pulp vat carved from old barrels
A primitive but functional screw press made from reused cider press beams
Drying lines held near charcoal pots to reduce dampness
The first full batch of paper was completed in three days. More uniform. Thinner. Smoother. Dozens of sheets.
A
---
On the fourth night…
Cregan sat alone by the fire near the drying shed. His fingers were black with soot and resin. His shoulders ached, and blisters lined the base of his thumbs. He stared at a clean stack of fresh, Northern-made paper.
No sigil. No Maester's stamp. No southern merchant's seal.
Just simple sheets — born of forest and fire and sweat.
In my old world, he thought, this would be called an invention. Here… it's a whisper no one will hear. Not yet.
He ran his hand over the top page.
But they will. Someday. This will change everything.
---
The Quiet Bargain
The sun dipped behind Winterfell's stone walls, casting a long shadow over the council chamber.
Inside, the hearth crackled. Logs hissed and popped, firelight licking the old grey walls and the table between two men.
Lord Rickon Stark leaned forward, elbows on the carved wolfwood. Across from him sat Lord Wyman Manderly, heavyset and broad-shouldered, his rich blue cloak trimmed in fine white fur. A silver trout brooch gleamed at his collar.
Wyman raised his goblet but didn't drink.
"This was not a summons I expected, Lord Stark," he said. "But I came fast as snow allowed. When the Wolf whispers, the Whale listens."
Rickon didn't smile. Instead, he reached down and placed a wrapped cloth parcel on the table.
"I called you," he said, "because you understand trade. And because you're not blind to opportunity when it floats before you."
Wyman unwrapped the cloth carefully.
Inside: seven smooth, clean sheets of pale paper. Each bore a small direwolf stamp in the lower corner.
Wyman picked up the top sheet.
It felt light, dry, perfectly cut — flexible, but not brittle.
"Not parchment," he murmured. "Not leather. Not linen either…"
"No," Rickon said. "It's something else. A new process. One we've developed here."
Wyman turned the sheet over, held it to the light. "Southern?"
"No. Northern-made. Right here in Winterfell."
Wyman's fingers paused. He looked up. "How?"
Rickon's face stayed still. "That's not what we're discussing today."
Wyman's brow rose. "You bring me something I've never seen, and expect me not to ask how it's made?"
Rickon answered coolly, "I expect you to see what it could be worth."
A silence passed.
Then Wyman chuckled. "Fair enough."
He smoothed the paper again. "How durable is it?"
"Enough for ledgers. Letters. Maps. Bulk scrolls. It won't replace vellum in the Citadel… yet. But it can flood the markets with something cheaper. Lighter. Faster."
Wyman whistled low. "A merchant's dream. And a Maester's nightmare."
The door opened quietly.
Cregan Stark entered, dressed in a dark wool tunic, his hands freshly scrubbed but stained faintly with resin. His hair was combed, his face calm.
Rickon gestured. "Join us."
Cregan bowed lightly to Wyman. "My lord."
Wyman raised an eyebrow. "The young wolf. I wondered if this had your scent on it."
Cregan sat without a word at first, letting the firelight speak.
Wyman held up the paper again. "Tell me, then: what is this?"
Cregan's voice was clear, even. "A product."
"Just that?"
"For now."
Wyman's eyes twinkled. "Clever boy."
Rickon poured a small glass of mulled wine but didn't drink.
"We brought you here," he said, "because if anyone can understand its potential, it's you. You control the only true port in the North. You have ships. Contacts. Access to southern scribes, merchant houses, and coin-counting snakes in the Reach."
Wyman smiled. "You make them sound so lovely."
Cregan leaned forward slightly.
"We can produce this faster than anyone else can imagine. Not just a few sheets. Bundles. Reams. Every week."
"But we need quiet routes. Discreet partners. Trade paths that don't attract too many curious ravens."
Wyman tapped the paper once more. "And you want coin?"
"We want market access," Cregan replied. "Coin will follow."
Wyman turned to Rickon. "And you're not telling me how it's made?"
"No."
"Not even a hint?"
Rickon's voice was cold as the snow outside. "It stays here. The process is ours. The paper can go south. The secret stays in the North."
Wyman studied them both. Then slowly leaned back.
"I've dealt with Braavosi smugglers. Ironborn reavers. Pentoshi goldlenders. But I've never bargained with a boy who stares like a merchant-prince."
He smiled. "I like it."
Rickon remained silent.
Wyman raised the goblet finally and drank. "How soon can I have two hundred sheets?"
Cregan didn't miss a beat. "Ten days. Maybe eight, if weather holds."
"And after that?"
"We talk about ships."
...
Plans Beneath the Snow
The door shut softly behind Lord Wyman Manderly.
The council chamber fell quiet again, save for the pop of the hearth and the low rustle of old banners above.
Rickon Stark remained seated, his gaze fixed on the last thin sheet of paper left on the table.
He didn't speak.
Cregan stood across from him — quiet, composed, but there was something beneath the stillness… a spark, steady as flame under ice.
Rickon finally looked up. "He took the bait."
Cregan nodded. "He won't speak of it. Not yet. But soon… he'll talk to merchants. Whisper in ports. Then come back with offers."
Rickon reached for his goblet, but didn't drink.
"What are you really building, son?"
Cregan didn't answer right away.
Instead, he reached into his side pouch, pulled out a thick folded parchment, and gently spread it across the table.
Lines. Arrows. Angled shapes. Levers. Gears. Wide flat trays. Notations in tight northern script, marked with strange units — inches, pulldraw, soak time, sun hours.
Rickon leaned forward, slowly.
"Press frames… gravity racks… stone polishers?" he read aloud.
Cregan tapped the left side of the sketch. "This is what we've made by hand in Winterfell. But it's slow. Fire-dried sheets. Small presses."
Then he pointed to a different section — wider, more structured.
"This… is the next step. A mill. With water-powered rollers. Timber-fed pulping vats. Multi-rack drying halls. We could make fifty sheets a day now. A hundred with two teams. But with this—"
His eyes narrowed, calculating.
"—we could make a thousand. In secret. On northern land. With northern hands."
Rickon's eyes lifted slowly from the paper.
"Where?"
"Near the Green Knife River. We already cut timber from that side. The flow is steady, even in winter. And… it's remote. Few visit. Fewer question."
Rickon frowned. "How many would need to know?"
Cregan answered instantly. "Six. Maybe eight. Loyal men. Woodsmen, carpenters, two scribes. They don't need to know what they're building. Just how to follow drawings."
Rickon studied his son's face.
"You don't trust even the other lords?"
Cregan's voice was quiet.
"I trust them to act in their own interest."
A long silence passed between them.
Then Cregan added, his voice tightening:
"Once the South learns someone is making cheap paper in the North… they'll want it. If they can't copy it, they'll try to buy it. If they can't buy it—"
Rickon finished, "…they'll try to steal it."
Cregan nodded.
"That's why it must be ours alone."
He stepped back from the table.
"This is no longer just about scrolls and scribes. This is industry, father. Trade. Power. A way to make the North richer, smarter, independent."
Rickon looked down again at the drawings. Then up at the young boy who no longer looked like just a son — but a future lord.
"Start gathering your six men," Rickon said. "Use my seal for timber requests. Quiet ones."
Cregan bowed slightly.
"Thank you, father."
Rickon stared into the fire. The heat did little to warm him.
A child who thinks like this, he thought, is not born. He is returned.
---