The nights in the North were as cold as sharp knives, and with the approach of the long winter, they grew colder still.
In the council chamber of Winterfell, the hearth fire crackled, but the cold still seeped through the cracks in the stones and into the bones of every lord present. Cregan Stark, the young lord, sat in the high seat, his face tense. He was twenty years old this year, and had ruled the North for only three years. In those three years, he had been conscientious, not daring to relax for a moment.
He had thought that if he managed well enough, he could safely get the North through this long winter. But this letter had shattered everything.
A letter from King's Landing.
Below him stood more than a dozen men. Bolton, Dustin, Flint, Karstark, Manderly, Mormont... every house in the North was there. At this moment, each lord's face was grim.
"My lord," Lord Roderick Dustin of Barrowton rose, holding the letter—it was crumpled in his hand. "The Iron Throne insults our North!"
He was forty years old, with a fleshy face and a hot temper. His house had guarded the Barrowlands for generations, fighting countless battles against the ironborn; he had crawled out of piles of corpses and was the fiercest of them all.
"Listen to what it says here!" He unfolded the letter and read it aloud, his voice echoing through the council chamber.
"'Considering the ambiguous collusion between the northern houses and the traitness Rhaenyra, I question your loyalty. The long winter grain is suspended. If Lord Cregan is willing to travel to King's Landing in person and kneel before the Iron Throne to beg forgiveness, I may consider revisiting this matter...'"
He threw the letter to the ground and stomped on it.
"Kneel and beg forgiveness?! Who does he think he is—Aegon the Second?! A suckling babe, and he wants the Lord of the North to travel to King's Landing in person? To kneel before him?!"
Another lord stepped forward. "More than that!" His name was Omar Flint, tall and thin; his eyes were always narrowed, but now they were wide. "Look at the last sentence! 'All lords of every territory are forbidden to send grain to the North. Offenders will be punished for treason.'"
He sneered, his laugh full of chill. "The Greens! They mean to starve us to death!"
"My lord!" Another man rose.
Wyman Manderly, Lord of White Harbor, the wealthiest lord in the North.
"My lord," his voice was deep as thunder, rumbling in their ears. "We have shown the utmost restraint. Our refusal to participate in this war is already the greatest kindness to the Targaryens. Now they want to cut off our food—not only that, but they order all the southern kingdoms not to send grain. That is to dig up our roots!"
He paused and drew a deep breath. "White Harbor's granaries will not last this winter. They cannot hold!"
Silence fell over the council chamber.
Lord Cregan sat in the high seat and said nothing. He knew Manderly spoke the truth. White Harbor was the richest place in the North, with the largest granaries. If White Harbor could not hold, then nowhere else could.
He remembered his father's words before he died.
"Cregan, remember: the Starks have ruled the North for eight thousand years—not by force, but by the hearts of the people."
The North was too cold. Summers were short; winters were long. Every long winter, the old folk walked into the snowstorms and left the extra food for the young. Every long winter, children starved or froze to death, dying in their mothers' arms. And the Starks' duty was to keep as many northerners alive as possible. Every time the long winter came, the Starks took the wealth they had saved in midsummer, bought food, and gave it to the common folk.
For thousands of years, the Stark treasury had held only a few thousand gold dragons. Not even as rich as a southern lord. But the northern people remembered. They remembered who had saved their lives. They always remembered that it was the Starks who led them to survive. The North never forgot.
"My lord!" Another man rose.
It was Lord Karstark. He was a branch of the Starks, closely tied to them. Young and strong. He struck his chest with his right hand, his voice shaking the hall.
"Since the Greens give us no way to live, then let us march south!" He roared. "To hell with them! The Iron Throne wants to starve us? Then let them see—we'll rob them blind! We'll show them how strong we are!"
"Well said!" Dustin was the first to respond, giving Stark a thumbs up. "Karstark is right! March south! I have two hundred cavalry at Barrowton! All veterans, experts at killing ironborn!"
Flint also stepped forward. "I have two hundred from Widow's Watch! My hunters in the Wolfwood are deadly with their bows—they could shoot out a dragon's eye!"
Lady Mormont rose. She was a woman of fifty, from iron nobility, and more ruthless than any man. As a child, she had followed her father raiding Bear Island, but was captured by Lord Mormont, who admired his captive and forcibly married her. Her husband had been dead for twenty years; she had ruled Bear Island alone. When the ironborn invaded, she had personally led the troops to drive them back.
"Bear Island sends one hundred!" Her voice was as deep as a man's. "All can fight! The bears on my island are stronger than those soft-shelled shrimp from the south!"
Lord Lightwell stepped forward—a middle-aged man of forty with a shrewd face. "I will send fifty cavalry and two hundred infantry. I can also spare some food."
Lord Severn rose; he was a young man who had just inherited his family's holdings, his blood boiling. "I will contribute one hundred! All cavalry, trained by my house. They are eager to test themselves against southerners!"
Lord Thaw rose; he was older, his beard white, but his back was straighter than anyone's. "My house Thaw sends eighty cavalry. Though few, every one was trained by my own hand—one can fight three."
One by one, they stepped forward.
"We will give sixty!"
"We will give one hundred and two!"
"We will give fifty, but we can make up more in food!"
Cregan looked at them, a hot surge rising in his heart.
This was the North. These were his vassals. They bickered and argued on ordinary days, and no one listened to anyone but the Starks. But in the critical moment of life and death, they would stand together for the North. Just like their fathers. Just like their ancestors.
"My lord!" Karstark looked at the young lord, who was deep in thought, and spoke again. "I know what you are thinking—the dragons. We would be fighting dragons."
He smiled, showing white teeth.
"So what? A dragonslayer is just a killer, isn't it?" He laughed loudly. "I believe the northerners can do it!"
Roars erupted in the council chamber.
"Yes!"
"Dragonslayer!"
"Let the southern lords and the Targaryens see how mighty we are!"
Cregan looked at them and drew a deep breath.
He understood that this was just brave talk. Dragons were not so easy to kill. For thousands of years, many heroes had wanted to kill dragons, but they had all been reduced to ash. Aegon the Conqueror had conquered all of Westeros with three dragons.
But he could not say that. Not now. He could not undermine his vassals' morale.
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