49AC
Winterfell
A heavy silence had fallen over Winterfell, a stark contrast to the joyous celebrations of not so long ago. Lord Torrhen Stark, the Wise Wolf, the man who had guided the North through decades of peace and prosperity, was dead. The ancient stones of Winterfell seemed to mourn his passing, the grey walls absorbing the hushed whispers of grief that echoed through the halls.
From across the vast expanse of the North, lords and ladies had journeyed to pay their respects. The banners of their houses, usually flown with pride, now hung heavy and still in the courtyard, their vibrant colours muted by the somber occasion. Inside the Great Hall, where laughter had recently rung so freely, a solemn gathering mourned the loss of their liege lord.
Brandon Stark, Torrhen's son, stood at the head of the hall, his face etched with grief. Beside him stood his wife and children, their expressions mirroring his sorrow. One by one, the lords and ladies of the North approached them, offering their condolences for the loss of a wise and respected leader. Words of comfort, though inadequate against the weight of their shared grief, were spoken with sincerity and respect.
Following the solemn funeral rites, the assembled lords and ladies knelt before Brandon Stark, pledging their fealty to him as the new Lord of Winterfell. Their voices, though subdued, carried the weight of ancient oaths and unwavering loyalty. Then, one by one, they turned to Theon Stark, Brandon's heir, a young man now facing the immense responsibility of his birthright, and swore their allegiance to him as well. The future of the North, though shadowed by loss, remained bound by the enduring traditions and loyalties of its people.
The last of the northern lords and ladies had departed Winterfell, their retinues disappearing into the snow-dusted landscape, leaving behind a lingering silence. Within the ancient walls, however, the business of the North did not cease. In Lord Stark's solar, a room that had witnessed countless such gatherings over the centuries, Brandon Stark, now Lord of Winterfell, met with two sons, Theon, his heir, and Jonnos Sköll, the newly appointed Lord of Moat Cailin. The weight of responsibility hung heavy in the air, a stark contrast to the festive atmosphere that had so recently filled the castle.
Theon broke the silence, his voice thoughtful but edged with concern. "Well," he began, "it seems the lords of Skagos still haven't come to Winterfell, even after repeated summons. They haven't sworn fealty to their liege lord."
Jonnos nodded, his expression grim. "Aye," he confirmed.
"Maybe we should remind them... personally," Theon suggested, his tone suggesting a more forceful approach.
Brandon Stark sighed, the weariness of the past days evident in his voice. "So it seems," he said, the words carrying a note of reluctant acceptance. "I will send ravens to all the lords, to summon their bannermen."
Jonnos's eyes gleamed with a grim determination. "War, it is," he stated, the words hanging heavy in the air.
The three men then turned to the grim task at hand: planning for war against Skagos. They discussed the island's defenses, its wild inhabitants, and the challenges of mounting an invasion across the treacherous Shivering Sea. They considered the strength of their own forces, the loyalty of their bannermen, and the best strategies for a swift and decisive victory. The solar, once a place of counsel and administration, was now a war room, the fate of the North hanging in the balance.
After a long silence, Brandon spoke, his voice heavy. "There's a raven from King's Landing," he said, his gaze distant.
Theon raised an eyebrow. "About what?" he asked, his tone curious but wary.
"Increase in taxes," Brandon replied, the words dropping like stones into the quiet room.
"Why?" Theon demanded, his voice sharp with suspicion.
Brandon's expression hardened. "The raven states that since the North has been producing different kinds of goods and is self-sufficient with its harvest, the crown believes we can afford to contribute more to the realm."
Jonnos's voice was filled with barely suppressed fury. "So, if we prosper," he said, his hand clenching into a fist, "they want the fruits of our profits, without doing anything to earn them?"
Brandon nodded, his face grim. "Aye," he confirmed.
Theon's jaw tightened. "This has Septon Barth all over it," he muttered, his tone laced with disdain. "He can't allow the last bastion of the Old Gods to prosper too much. Otherwise, the smallfolk in the south might start questioning their own faith, seeing how well we thrive without the Seven."
From his position by the side of the room, Jonnos grunted in agreement. "Aye," he echoed, his gaze fixed on the crackling fire in the hearth, his mind already turning to the coming conflicts, both in the wild islands to the east and the distant, grasping south. "What will we do about it?" he then asked, turning his attention back to Brandon.
Brandon sighed again, rubbing a hand across his weary eyes. "I will write back to King's Landing," he said, his voice firming slightly, "and I will make it clear that we cannot increase the tax burden too significantly. Our vassals have endured a harsh winter, and any undue strain could breed discontent."
Theon shook his head, a grim smile twisting his lips. "They want our lords to be unhappy," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "Because we are the only house in Westeros that is uncontested in its rule. They fear our strength, and they fear our prosperity. If we increase the taxes, our lords will protest. If we don't, the Iron Throne will demand explanations. Either way, we're fucked."
The weight of their combined burdens settled heavily upon them. After a long moment of somber contemplation, Theon and Jonnos, recognizing the need for Brandon to address the matters at hand, quietly took their leave. They left Brandon alone in the solar, surrounded by the trappings of his new responsibilities, to grapple with the challenges that lay ahead.
Leaving the somber atmosphere of the Lord's solar, Theon sought the open air of the Winterfell courtyard. The crisp northern air, though carrying the chill of late autumn, felt refreshing after the enclosed space and weighty conversation. He spotted Diana near the archery butts, her movements fluid and graceful as she guided their young daughter in the practice of the bow. Even from a distance, he could see the girl's focused concentration as she drew back the string.
Sitting on a nearby wooden bench, bundled in furs against the cold, was their son, Artor. The boy, now a few years older, watched his mother and sister with an absorbed expression, occasionally kicking his small boots against the bench in quiet anticipation. The sight of his children, engaged in such a timeless northern pursuit, brought a fleeting moment of peace to Theon's troubled thoughts.
He approached the bench and, with a quiet smile, sat down beside Artor, watching them. After a while, Diana and Morgan finished their archery practice. They walked towards Theon and Artor, their cheeks flushed from the exertion, and reached for the waterskin hanging from Diana's belt.
Taking a long drink, Diana lowered the waterskin and turned to Theon, her brow furrowed slightly with concern. "How was the meeting?" she asked.
Theon glanced at Morgan and Artor, his expression thoughtful. "Why don't you two go play for a while?" he suggested gently.
Morgan and Artor exchanged a mischievous smile. With a shared giggle, they turned and raced off, their small figures darting across the courtyard.
Once they were out of earshot, Theon turned to Diana, his usual lightheartedness absent. "War with Skagos," he said, the words stark and heavy in the quiet courtyard.
Diana, without hesitation, simply nodded. Her gaze met his, unwavering and resolute. "Well it was long overdue," she stated, her voice calm but firm, leaving no room for argument.
After a moment of comfortable silence, she asked, her expression turning serious once more, "Any more news from the meeting?"
Theon's expression darkened. "A raven from King's Landing," he said, his voice grim. "They want to increase our taxes. They say that because the North is prosperous and self-sufficient, we can afford to pay more." He paused, a bitter edge creeping into his tone. "Brandon is going to send a message back, explaining that our people have already suffered through a harsh winter, and we cannot take on any extra burden."
Diana's eyes flashed with anger. "The South," she spat, the word filled with disdain. "They are craven. There is no end to their hunger for greed and power."
Theon sighed, a weariness settling over his features. "I know," he said, his voice low. "We will try to reason with the King. That is all we can do for now."
Diana's expression softened slightly, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. "Well," she said, changing the subject with a teasing glint in her eyes, "if you're finished with all this dreary talk of taxes and war, how about a spar? I could use a bit of practice, and you look like you could use a good... distraction."
Diana's playful challenge hung in the air, a welcome contrast to the earlier grim conversation. Theon, despite the weight of the matters discussed, found himself unable to resist her infectious energy. A genuine smile finally broke through his weariness. "A distraction, you say?" he countered, his voice regaining some of its usual warmth. "I seem to recall the last time we sparred, I was the one providing the instruction."
Diana laughed, a bright, clear sound that echoed in the courtyard. "Oh, please," she scoffed good-naturedly. "You got lucky. Besides, I've been practicing." She gestured towards the archery butts, where she and Morgan had been training earlier. "I'm feeling rather... limber."
Theon rose from the bench, stretching his arms and legs, the tension of the meeting slowly easing from his muscles. "Very well," he conceded, a spark of anticipation lighting his eyes. "But don't come crying to me when you're on your back again." He knew better than to underestimate her skill. Diana was a formidable warrior in her own right, her movements a blend of grace and power honed through years of training.
They moved towards the center of the courtyard, the hard-packed earth providing a suitable sparring ground. A few of the nearby guards, sensing the shift in mood, paused in their duties to watch, a small crowd gathering at a respectful distance. Even in times of somberness, the Northmen appreciated a display of martial prowess.
Theon and Diana faced each other, their stances mirroring years of shared practice. They began with a series of circling movements, each testing the other's defenses, the air between them thick with unspoken understanding. The first clash of steel was a controlled explosion of force, the ringing sound echoing off the stone walls of Winterfell.
The spar unfolded with a fluid intensity, a dance of steel and skill. Blows were exchanged, parried, and dodged, each movement precise and deliberate. There was a fierce competitiveness between them, but also a deep respect and trust. They knew each other's strengths and weaknesses, their styles intertwined like the roots of the ancient weirwood trees.
Theon fought with a controlled aggression, his movements strong and purposeful. Diana, in turn, fought with a fluid grace, her agility and speed allowing her to counter his strength with skillful precision. The sounds of their combat – the clash of steel, the grunts of exertion, the quick, sharp breaths – filled the courtyard, drawing the onlookers further into the spectacle.
As the spar progressed, the intensity increased. The blows became harder, the movements faster, the outcome less certain. Both warriors fought with a fierce determination, pushing each other to their limits. It was more than just a spar; it was a release of pent-up emotions, a way to channel the anxieties and uncertainties of the coming war and the troubles with the Iron Throne.
Finally, after a prolonged and exhilarating exchange, Theon managed to gain a slight advantage. With a swift maneuver, he disarmed Diana, her sword clattering harmlessly to the ground. He held his own blade poised, the tip resting lightly against her throat. The courtyard fell silent, the only sound their ragged breathing.