Everyone froze.
Greatjon Umber's ham-sized hand, reaching for his flagon, halted mid-air.
Maege Mormont lowered the piece of roast meat she had been about to eat.
Even Wyman Manderly, who had been burying his face in his food, lifted his grease-smeared, jowly face.
Dozens of eyes snapped to Lynn.
The Harvest Council?
Oh, right.
That was supposed to be the main topic.
Even if they all knew it was just the official pretext.
"Winter is coming."
Lynn began.
Those three words were the words of House Stark.
Northmen knew, better than any Southron ever could, what winter truly meant.
"The maesters at the Citadel say the summer we have been living in is the longest in living memory."
"Many of the children of our houses were born in this long summer. They have forgotten what a cruel winter feels like."
Lynn's gaze slowly swept across the room, meeting the familiar gravity on every face.
"And a long summer always means an even longer, harder winter."
"The Long Night."
From the corner, Roose Bolton, who had been silent and blending into the shadows, spoke the words in his soft, whispering voice.
The words seemed to drop the temperature in the hall, sending a chill through everyone's bones.
"Exactly. The Long Night," Lynn nodded.
"A night cold enough to freeze hell over, a night that will make the living envy the dead."
"My people—the ones you call wildlings—they didn't climb the Wall to raid and reave."
"They were running for their lives."
"They were fleeing a darkness and cold that threatens to swallow the entire world."
An uneasy murmur ran through the hall.
Wildlings?
Those savage raiders were afraid of winter? Since when? Were they not part of the winter themselves?
"King-Beyond-the-Wall," Rickard Karstark stood up. He was a gaunt man with a thick beard and eyes as hard as northern flint.
"Are you saying this winter will be different from the rest?"
"Not different. Entirely apart," Lynn emphasized.
"I united the tribes beyond the Wall not to conquer the south, but to survive."
"I made them set aside their blood feuds to stockpile everything they could find for winter."
"We felled timber, gathered supplies, dug cellars... we did everything we could."
Lynn paused, his gaze sharpening.
"But we lack the one thing that matters most."
"Food."
"I have over a hundred thousand mouths to feed among the Free Folk alone, not to mention the hundreds of thousands in Astapor."
"I may have aid from the Tyrells and Lannisters now, and merchant ships from Slaver's Bay, so it looks like I have plenty."
"But when the Long Night truly falls, I cannot guarantee I can secure enough grain to keep their bellies full."
"You cannot eat stone or iron. Wood will not fill an empty stomach."
"Without food, even if we can hold back the cold, we will all just starve to death."
Silence descended on the hall.
It was the simplest, yet most unsolvable problem.
The North was poor. Damn poor.
The land was barren, the climate harsh, the population sparse. Every harvest was barely enough to feed themselves.
"Lord Stark has already pledged half of Winterfell's reserves to serve as winter stores for the North," Lynn continued.
Ned Stark nodded in confirmation.
"Winterfell has been preparing for years, and while it is well-stocked, it is far from enough."
Lynn turned his eyes to the bannermen.
"The North needs your help. We need the surplus from your own granaries."
A heavy, awkward silence filled the room.
The lords looked at one another, their faces pained. It wasn't that they were unwilling; it was that they truly had nothing to give.
"Lord Lynn..."
The first to speak was the mountain of flesh, Wyman Manderly.
He shifted his immense bulk in his chair with difficulty, forcing a genial smile. As the wealthiest lord present, he felt he had to set an example.
"White Harbor is the richest port in the North. My granaries do have some stores remaining."
"On behalf of House Manderly, I pledge half of my reserves to your cause."
"But..."
His tone shifted, his smile turning bitter.
"Even so, it is a drop in the bucket."
"To feed so many people, through a winter of unknown length... the amount of grain needed is beyond imagining."
"Lord Manderly speaks true," Maege Mormont said gravely.
"The catch from Bear Island is barely enough to feed my own smallfolk each year. We have no surplus."
"House Mormont can offer only our loyalty and our axes."
Her words echoed the thoughts of most of the smaller lords present.
They would bleed for the Starks. They would die for the North.
But they could not conjure grain from thin air.
"I understand your difficulties. That is why," Lynn's voice cut through the gloom, drawing everyone's attention back to him.
"Relying solely on the North will never solve this problem."
Lynn walked to the center of the hall and had a large map of Westeros unrolled on a table.
He reached out and pointed south.
To a land of rivers and fertile plains.
"But there is a place that can."
"There is a place where the soil is so rich it practically bleeds gold. A place where a single harvest can feed half the kingdom."
"The breadbasket of Westeros."
Everyone's eyes followed his finger to the familiar name.
The Riverlands.
"Yes, the Riverlands."
"If we can secure the support of the Riverlands, we can survive one Long Night, or two, or three!"
Lynn's words ignited a spark of hope.
Of course!
The Riverlands!
House Tully was House Stark's staunchest ally by marriage. Lady Catelyn was a Tully of Riverrun! If Lord Ned asked, how could Riverrun refuse to aid the North? Even if they couldn't give it for free, the North could buy it!
But Lynn's next words dashed that hope against the rocks.
"However, right now..."
"The greatest breadbasket in Westeros has fallen into the hands of madmen and schemers!"
Lynn then laid out the truth about Lysa Arryn's actions and her filthy deal with Walder Frey.
He didn't embellish. He simply stated the facts.
But each fact was enough to make the blood of these honorable Northmen boil.
"That madwoman! She killed her own father?"
"For Littlefinger? A man already dead?"
"And Walder Frey! That old turtle who was late to the Trident! He dares conspire with that lunatic to usurp Riverrun?"
"What are they trying to do?"
"You fool! Do you even have to ask? They are trying to strangle the North!"
The hall exploded.
Roars of anger erupted from every corner.
They finally understood.
This might be Lynn's duel with the southerners, yes.
But it was also a conspiracy against the entire North!
If Lysa and the Freys controlled the Riverlands, they controlled the gateway to the south. They controlled the lifeline the North would desperately need in the future.
They intended to let the North starve to death in the coming Long Night!
BANG!
A massive fist slammed onto the table. It was the Greatjon.
The oak table shuddered violently, plates and flagons clattering and spilling.
"Bugger them all to seven hells!"
The Greatjon's face, already red with drink, was twisted in fury.
"Those treacherous curs! Who do they think they are?!"
"The North, the Riverlands, and the Vale have always been friends! This alliance cannot be broken by a few schemers!"
"They dare try to starve the North?!"
"Ned! Lynn! Give the order!"
He drew the greatsword from his back and drove it into the table, the blade sinking half a foot into the wood.
"The warriors of Last Hearth have been waiting to march south and take some southern heads!"
"Aye! Fuck 'em!"
"Let them taste the North's fury!"
"For the North!"
"For survival!"
The crowd was frenzied.
Every Northern lord stood, drawing their steel. The fire in their eyes burned hotter than the hearths.
Before, they thought this was a war for vengeance, for their ally House Tully.
But now they realized the truth.
This was for themselves. For their families. For the survival of the North itself!
It was a war for existence.
Ned Stark looked at his roaring bannermen, a surge of pride welling in his chest.
He looked at Lynn with approval and trust.
With just a few words, Lynn had perfectly aligned everyone's interests, anger, and survival instincts.
He had turned his personal vendetta into a collective crusade. He had made them want to fight for him.
"My lords!"
Lynn raised his horn of ale, signaling for silence.
The raucous hall quieted again, everyone looking at him with almost fanatical intensity.
"Lysa Arryn and Walder Frey are preparing a grand wedding at Riverrun to celebrate their 'alliance'."
"They intend to force Lord Edmure Tully to wed a Frey girl, trampling the honor of House Tully into the mud."
Lynn smiled, a cold, predatory expression.
"The Tullys are our most loyal allies. We cannot sit idly by!"
"That is not a wedding."
"That is the funeral of House Tully, and the funeral of all hope for the North!"
"They are celebrating our death. They are toasting to our doom!"
Lynn raised his cup higher, his voice cutting like the winter wind.
"Now, I ask you only one thing."
"Do we sit here and wait to starve, or..."
"Do we go down there and turn that wedding upside down?!"