The Winter Town was usually a place of silence in the summer, a collection of empty stone houses waiting for the snows to drive the smallfolk in from their farms. But today, the market square was packed.
Ned Stark stood on a raised wooden platform, normally used for announcements or executions. Today, it was a classroom.
Hundreds of farmers from the surrounding holdfasts had gathered. They were men of the earth—weather-beaten, calloused, and deeply skeptical of anything that hadn't been done by their grandfathers.
Beside Ned stood Maester Luwin, holding a large slate with diagrams drawn in chalk.
"My good people," Ned his voice carrying over the murmuring crowd. "I have called you here not to take your harvest, but to double it."
A ripple of laughter went through the crowd. Doubling the harvest was a tale for children or a lie from a desperate lord.
"The soil is tired," Ned said, pointing to the ground. "You plant wheat until the earth gives up, then you let it rest. You lose a year of food waiting for the land to heal. It is the old way. It is the way of starvation."
He gestured to Luwin, who turned the slate around. It showed a circle divided into four parts.
"The Four-Field System," Ned announced.
"Wheat," Ned pointed to the first quadrant. "The bread of life."
"Turnips," he pointed to the second. "Or barley."
"Clover," he pointed to the third. "Or grass for grazing."
"And the fourth..." Ned paused for effect. "Beans. Or peas."
An old farmer at the front, leaning on a hoe, spat on the ground. "Beans, Lord Stark? We can't live on beans. And clover is for sheep."
"Exactly," Ned said. "The clover feeds the sheep. The sheep manure the field. The beans... the beans put strength back into the soil. They catch the air and bury it in the dirt."
Wiki: Nitrogen fixation. Legumes restore soil fertility. Livestock integration provides fertilizer.
Ned looked at the sea of doubtful faces. He knew he sounded like a madman.
"I am not asking you to believe me," Ned said. "I am asking you to try it. I have set aside ten acres of the castle lands. I will plant them my way. But I need you to do the same."
"It is not just the seed, m'lord," the old farmer challenged, his voice raspy. "It is the dirt itself. The soil here... it is heavy. Wet. Clay and ice. Our plows... they scratch the surface. To plant deep like you say... to turn the earth over... we'd break our oxen before we broke the ground."
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd. The North's soil was notorious—tough, dense, and unforgiving.
"I know," Ned said. "The old scratch plows aren't enough."
He signaled to Mikken, who was waiting by a covered cart near the platform. The smith pulled back a canvas tarp.
Revealed underneath was a strange, heavy-looking implement. It was made of iron, not wood. It had a sharp vertical cutter at the front, but behind it was a curved, twisted plate of metal—a moldboard.
"This is the Iron Plow," Ned announced. "Designed to cut the heavy clay and turn it over, burying the weeds and exposing the fresh soil."
The farmers looked at it. It looked heavy. Impossible to pull.
"It will sink," the old farmer scoffed. "And no ox can pull that through wet clay."
"Let's see," Ned said.
He stepped down from the platform. He walked to the edge of the market square where a patch of raw, unbroken ground lay—hard-packed earth mixed with stones.
He didn't call for an ox. He grabbed the handles of the plow himself.
"Mikken, guide the front," Ned ordered.
The smith grabbed the harness ropes.
The crowd watched, confused. The Lord of Winterfell was going to plow?
Ned gripped the iron handles. He took a breath.
Force Strength: Engage.
He didn't need to be flashy. He just needed to be unstoppable. He channeled the energy into his legs, his back, his shoulders.
"Pull!" Ned shouted.
Mikken pulled. Ned drove the plow forward.
The vertical coulter sliced into the hard earth with a crunch. The share cut the sod. And then, the curved moldboard caught the slice of earth and flipped it.
It didn't scratch. It churned.
Ned walked forward, pushing with a strength that would have stalled a draft horse. The iron plow tore through the rocky soil, leaving a deep, clean, perfectly turned furrow in its wake. The heavy clay that would have stopped a wooden plow simply curled away from the iron curve.
He plowed a twenty-foot line in seconds, his boots digging into the dirt, his breath steady.
He stopped. He pulled the plow from the earth and stood up, not even winded.
He looked at the farmers. They were staring at the deep, dark furrow. They had never seen soil turned so completely, so easily.
"It works," Ned said, his voice ringing in the silence. "The curve does the work. It turns the soil for you."
The old farmer walked up. He knelt and touched the overturned earth. It was loose, aerated, ready for seed. He looked at the heavy iron plow, then at Ned.
"Iron," the farmer whispered. "It doesn't break."
"It doesn't break," Ned agreed. "And if you use it, neither will you."
He looked back at the crowd.
"I have ten of these ready. Mikken is making more. Who wants to be the first to break the real ground?"
"And if the crops fail?" the old farmer asked, standing up, but his tone had changed. It wasn't mockery anymore; it was negotiation. "If the winter comes early?"
"I pledge the honor of House Stark," Ned declared. "Any man who adopts this rotation... if his yield is less than his average, I will make up the difference from the Winterfell granaries. I will pay you for the crop you didn't grow."
He leaned forward.
"But if it works... if you grow more food than you ever have... you keep the surplus. No extra tax on the increase for five years."
The farmers exchanged glances. Insurance against failure, tax-free profit on success, and a tool that could defeat the Northern earth? That was a language they understood.
"I'll try it," the old farmer said, spitting into his hand and holding it out. "Give me the iron, Lord Stark. I'll turn the earth."
Ned took the hand. "It's yours."
---
The next day, the ground shook.
Greatjon Umber rode into Winterfell like a storm front. He was followed by a dozen of his household guard, massive men on massive horses, wrapped in furs and chains.
The Greatjon vaulted from his saddle in the courtyard, his boots hitting the stones with a heavy thud. He roared a greeting to Rodrik Cassel, slapped a stableboy on the back hard enough to nearly knock him over, and marched up the steps to the Great Keep.
Ned met him in the solar. He had prepared a feast—roasted boar, wheels of cheese, and, of course, a bottle of Winter's Breath.
"Ned!" the Greatjon bellowed, crushing Ned in a hug that tested the limits of the Force-enhanced durability. "You skinny wolf! You look like you haven't eaten since I left!"
"And you look like you've eaten everything in the Last Hearth," Ned wheezed, patting the giant's back.
"Muscles, lad! Pure muscle!" Greatjon laughed, releasing him. He eyed the bottle on the table. "Is that the good stuff?"
"The best," Ned said, pouring him a generous measure. "Sit, Jon. We have business."
The Greatjon sat, the chair groaning in protest. He downed the vodka in one gulp, sighed happily, and wiped his mouth.
"That hits the spot. Keeps the cold out. So, what's this about? You called me all the way down here. Are we marching again?"
"No war," Ned said. "Land."
He unrolled the map of the North. He pointed to the strip of land south of the Wall.
"The New Gift," Ned said.
The Greatjon frowned. "Night's Watch land. Useless. Overgrown. Full of wildlings."
"Not anymore," Ned said. "I made a deal with Lord Commander Qorgyle. The Watch doesn't have the men to farm it. They've agreed to return it to the jurisdiction of the North."
Greatjon's eyes widened. "You took the Gift back? The Night's Watch agreed to that?"
"He agreed to let us farm it," Ned corrected. "In exchange for the taxes. The yield goes to the Wall. But the land... the land needs lords. It needs protection. It needs men who aren't afraid of a fight."
Ned looked at the Greatjon.
"Most of the New Gift belonged to the Umbers before Queen Alysanne took it," Ned said. "It was your grandfather's land. Your heritage."
He placed his hand on the map.
"I want you to take it back, Jon. I want you to settle it. Move your smallfolk into the abandoned villages. Build holdfasts. Patrol the roads."
The Greatjon stared at the map. His face, usually quick to laugh or rage, was solemn. This was ancestral territory. Land that had been torn from his house generations ago.
"You're giving it back to me?" Greatjon whispered.
"It's yours," Ned said. "But there are conditions. You pay no tax to me. You pay no tax to the Iron Throne. Every copper, every bushel of wheat, every bale of wool from that land goes to Castle Black. You are the steward of the Watch's survival."
"I can do that," Greatjon swore. "I'll feed the Crows. I'll make them fat."
"And you'll farm it my way," Ned added.
He explained the four-field system. The beans. The clover. The moldboard plow.
The Greatjon listened, skeptical but willing. "Beans? Fine. If it grows, we eat it. If not, the sheep eat it. I'll try your magic dirt, Ned."
"Good," Ned said. "But that's just the land. I have another idea. A business."
"Business?" Greatjon snorted. "I'm a warrior, Ned. I don't count coppers."
"You like gold though, don't you?"
"Aye. Gold buys steel. And wine."
"The Last Hearth," Ned mused, tapping the map location. "It's cold. Windy. Rugged. You have hills, you have sheep. Thousands of them."
"Sheep are boring," Greatjon grumbled. "We shear them, we sell the wool to White Harbor, we eat the mutton. It's a living."
"It's a living," Ned agreed. "But it could be a fortune."
Wiki: Textile Industry. Cashmere. Merino. High-quality wool processing.
"The sheep in the Last Hearth," Ned said. "They are hardy breeds. Thick coats to survive the winters. But the wool is rough. Scratchy."
"It keeps you warm," Greatjon shrugged. "Who cares if it itches?"
"Rich people," Ned said. "Rich people in King's Landing. In Lys. In Pentos. They want warmth, but they want softness."
Ned pulled out a new drawing. It wasn't a plow or a still. It was a loom. A complex, water-powered loom.
"I want to start a textile mill at Last Hearth," Ned said. "But not just for roughspun. I want you to breed your sheep selectively. Pick the ones with the softest undercoats. The finest fibers."
"Breed for... softness?" Greatjon looked like Ned had suggested breeding direwolves for cuddling.
"Yes," Ned said. "And we process it differently. We wash the lanolin out carefully—save the grease, it's valuable for salves—and we card it with fine iron combs. Then we weave it."
He reached into a drawer and pulled out a swatch of fabric he had commissioned from a weaver in the winter town, using the specific processing technique he described.
He tossed it to Umber.
The Greatjon caught it. He rubbed it between his massive thumb and forefinger. His eyes widened.
"It's soft," he admitted. "Like... like a woman's hair. But thick."
"It's warm as fur, but soft as silk," Ned said. "We call it Ghost Wool. Or Giant's Fleece. We brand it. We sell it to the South as a luxury item. Cloaks that don't itch. Blankets that feel like clouds."
"And the mill?"
"Water power," Ned pointed to the Last River on the map. "You have the fast water. You build the mill. I'll send Mikken to help with the gears. You process the wool there, instead of selling raw bales to Manderly for pennies. You sell the finished cloth for dragons."
The Greatjon looked at the swatch of fabric. He looked at the map of his reclaimed lands.
"You've thought this through," he rumbled.
"I have," Ned said. "The North has been sleeping, Jon. We have resources we've ignored because we were too busy surviving. It's time to thrive."
"Giant's Fleece," Greatjon tested the name. He grinned. "I like it. Sounds tough. But feels..." he rubbed the cloth against his cheek. "Nice."
"It will make House Umber rich," Ned promised.
"Done!" Greatjon slammed the table. "I'll build your mill. I'll breed the fluffy sheep. But if any Southerner calls me a seamstress, I'm taking his head."
"Fair terms," Ned laughed.
They spent the next hour working out the details.
"The Liddles and the Norreys," Ned said. "They are mountain men. They know the high country. I'm sending some of them to the Gift as well, to help you secure the borders against the Wildlings."
"Good men," Greatjon nodded. "Hard men. They'll hold the line."
"And the trade route," Ned continued. "You move the cloth down the Kingsroad to Winterfell. We consolidate it with the glass and the vodka. Then we ship it down the White Knife to the harbor. A unified Northern trade fleet."
"Manderly will want his cut," Greatjon noted.
"He gets the shipping fees," Ned said. "And the tax exemption applies to this too. For ten years, every dragon we make stays here."
Ned poured another round of vodka.
"To the New Gift," Ned toasted. "And the Giant's Fleece."
"To the North!" Greatjon roared, clinking his cup so hard he nearly shattered Ned's.
As the giant drank, Ned looked at the map. The pieces were moving. The food supply was being secured. The borders were being fortified. The economy was diversifying.
The foundation was laid. Now, he just had to keep the peace long enough for the cement to set.