55 AC
Moat Cailin
Jonnos Skoll Pov
The late afternoon sun, a pale disc in the northern sky, slanted through the tall, narrow windows of my solar in Moat Cailin, casting long shadows across the heavy oak desk. A stack of ledgers lay open before me, their pages filled with the meticulous script of stewards and merchants, detailing the flow of goods and coin through the Neck and into the North. My brow was furrowed in concentration as I traced a particularly complex trade route, ensuring the numbers aligned and the accounts were true. As Lord of Moat Cailin, the gateway to the North, such matters were of paramount importance.
A sharp rap at the door broke the quiet rhythm of my work. I looked up, my gaze momentarily losing focus on the intricate columns of figures. "Come in," I called out, my voice perhaps a touch gruffer than intended. My mind was still wrestling with the intricacies of tariffs and tolls.
The door creaked open, and Maester Gilbar entered, his demeanor as somber as the grey stone walls of Moat Cailin. He approached my desk, his eyes downcast, and presented a sealed letter. I took it from him, my fingers brushing against the smooth parchment. The seal bore the unmistakable sigil of House Stark: a grey direwolf rampant on a white field. My brother's hand.
I broke the seal and unfolded the letter, my gaze scanning the familiar script. As I read, a mixture of emotions stirred within me: anticipation, a touch of pride, and a hint of the old Stark stoicism.
"Thank you, Maester Gilbar," I said, my voice low but firm, as I finished reading. "That will be all."
The maester bowed his head and retreated, his sandaled feet silent on the stone floor. I turned to the guard standing outside the open doorway. "fFetch my wife," I instructed, my tone brooking no argument. "And then send for my sons. I have news to share."
A half hour passed, the setting sun casting long shadows through the narrow windows of my solar. I paced restlessly, the weight of the news heavy on my mind. The implications of my brother's letter were significant, and I wanted to share them with my family immediately.
A knock sounded at the door, and I turned, my hand resting on the back of a high-backed chair. "Enter," I called out, my voice slightly louder than usual.
The door swung open, and Lena stepped into the room, her expression a mixture of concern and curiosity. Behind her stood my sons, Torrhen and Alaric. Torrhen, the elder, was already a young man, his features hardening with the responsibilities of a future lord. Alaric, still a few years younger, possessed a more eager, almost restless energy. They both looked to me, their eyes questioning.
I held up the letter, the Stark direwolf emblazoned on the parchment. "This is from Theon," I said, my voice low and steady. I crossed the room and offered it to Lena. "Read it."
Lena took the letter, her brow furrowed slightly as she scanned the contents. A slow smile spread across her face as she finished reading. She looked up at me, her eyes gleaming. "So," she said, her voice filled with a quiet satisfaction, "the College is complete"x
"Aye," I confirmed, my voice a low rumble.
I turned to my sons, Torrhen and Alaric, who had been listening intently. "Next year," I said, my gaze sweeping over them, "you will both travel to Winterfell. You will enter the College, not just to learn, but also to forge bonds with your peers. These will be the future lords and ladies of the North, the future leaders of our people. The relationships you build there will be crucial in the years to come."
Lena stepped forward, her expression softening as she looked at Torrhen and Alaric. "Your father speaks truly," she said, her voice filled with a quiet strength. "This College represents a new era for the North, a chance to unite our houses and strengthen our bonds in ways we have not seen before. It is an opportunity for you to learn not only from the finest scholars in Westeros, but also from each other."
She placed a hand on Torrhen's shoulder, her gaze meeting his. "Torrhen, as the future Lord of Moat Cailin, the connections you make at this College will be vital. You will be responsible for the defense of the Neck, for ensuring the safety of all who pass through our lands. The alliances you forge, the friendships you cultivate, will be as important as any skill with a sword."
She then turned to Alaric, her eyes filled with a warm affection. "And you, Alaric, though your path may lead you in a different direction, the knowledge and the relationships you gain at the College will serve you well. You will be a representative of our house, a voice for the North. Make us proud, my sons. Make us proud."
"Aye," I echoed, my voice firm. "Make us proud."
I turned back to my sons, my gaze shifting between Torrhen and Alaric. "And how is your training progressing?" I asked, my voice laced with a hint of paternal pride. "Are you both diligent in your sword practice? Have you mastered the breathing techniques I taught you? The North demands strength, and Moat Cailin, more than any other place, must be defended with vigilance and skill."
Torrhen, ever the more serious of the two, stepped forward first. "My sword training is progressing well, Father," he said, his voice steady and respectful. "I practice daily with the master-at-arms, and I have been focusing on improving my footwork and my parrying technique. I also practice the breathing exercises you taught us, though I admit, they require constant discipline."
Alaric, his younger brother, spoke with a bit more enthusiasm. "I am also training hard, Father," he chimed in. "I am quicker than Torrhen, but he is stronger. We often spar together, and he usually wins, but I am learning. The breathing techniques help, especially when I am tired. They allow me to focus and regain my strength."
Torrhen added, "We understand the importance of being skilled warriors, Father. Moat Cailin stands at the gateway to the North, and we are its shield. We will be ready to defend it, and the North, when the time comes."
"Aye," I replied, a grim satisfaction in my voice. "Make sure the enemies of the North are buried deep within the bogs and swamps."
"There will be an opening celebration for the College in the first moon of next year," I announced, my voice firm. "We will be attending, of course, as representatives of Moat Cailin and House Skoll. We must be prepared."
With that, Lena, Torrhen, and Alaric followed me out of the solar, leaving the ledgers and the weight of responsibility behind, For mid-day meal.
The midday meal in the Great Hall of Moat Cailin was a somewhat subdued affair. The weight of the upcoming journey to Winterfell, the implications of the new College, and the ever-present responsibility of guarding the Neck hung heavy in the air. Lena and I discussed the preparations. Torrhen and Alaric, though eager for the journey, maintained a respectful seriousness.
As the meal concluded, a steward approached me, his face etched with a mixture of deference and concern. "My lord," he began, his voice low, "there are several petitioners waiting to speak with you. Smallfolk and merchants, mostly. They seek your judgment and your aid."
I sighed, the brief respite from matters of state already coming to an end. "Very well," I said. "Bring them in, one at a time. I will hear their pleas."
The first petitioner was a smallholder, his clothes those of a normal farmer, his face weathered by the harsh conditions of the Neck. He spoke of a dispute with a neighboring farmer over a boundary line, a matter that threatened to escalate into violence. I listened patiently, asking questions, seeking to understand the root of the conflict.
The next petitioner was a merchant, his fine clothes and worried demeanor a stark contrast to the smallholder. He complained of bandits preying on his caravans, disrupting trade, and endangering his men. He sought protection and redress for his losses.
I listened to each plea, each grievance, each request for justice. The burdens of lordship were many, and the needs of my people were constant. I made careful notes, promising to investigate each matter thoroughly and to deliver a fair and just ruling.
The petitions continued for some time, each one a reminder of the complexities of governing the Neck. There were disputes over land and water rights, complaints of unfair taxes, and pleas for assistance in the face of hardship. I listened patiently, offering words of comfort, promising to look into each situation.
Finally, the last petitioner departed, leaving me weary but resolute. Lena, who had remained by my side throughout, placed a comforting hand on my arm. "You carry the weight of the North on your shoulders, Jonnos," she said, her voice filled with a quiet admiration.
"It is the burden of our house," I replied, my gaze distant. "Moat Cailin stands at the crossroads, the gateway to the North. We must be strong, we must be just, and we must be vigilant."
With the petitions concluded, I felt the need to clear my head, to shake off the weight of responsibility, if only for a time. "I am going to the training yard," I announced. "I need to clear my head."
Lena nodded, understanding my need for physical exertion. "Be careful," she said. "And try not to break too many bones."
I smiled, a rare and fleeting expression. "I will try my best," I replied.
I made my way to the training yard, the sounds of clanging steel and grunts of exertion filling the air. The yard was a large, open space, surrounded by the grey stone walls of Moat Cailin. Several guards were engaged in sparring matches, their movements a mix of skill and brute force.
I approached the master-at-arms, a grizzled veteran with a scarred face and a no-nonsense demeanor. "I would like a bout," I said, my voice firm. "With our best man."
The master-at-arms nodded, his eyes assessing me. "As you wish, my lord," he replied. "Brynden, you will face Lord Skoll."
A tall, muscular guard stepped forward, his expression respectful but determined. He bowed slightly, then took his position, drawing his sword. I drew my own, the familiar weight of the steel grounding me.
The sparring match began, a clash of steel and skill. Brynden was a skilled swordsman, strong and agile. But I was the Lord of Moat Cailin, a Stark of the North, and I would not be easily bested.
We traded blows, the ringing of steel echoing through the yard. I parried his attacks, seeking an opening, testing his defenses. He pressed forward, his movements relentless, his strength formidable.
The match was intense, a battle of wills as much as a battle of skill. I focused my breathing, channeling my energy, seeking the flow of the fight. I moved with a controlled grace, anticipating his moves, seeking to exploit any weakness.
Finally, after a long and grueling exchange, I saw an opening. I feinted high, then struck low, my blade finding its mark. Brynden yielded, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
I lowered my sword, a sense of satisfaction washing over me. The exertion had cleared my head, the weight of responsibility momentarily lifted. I had proven myself, not just as a lord, but as a warrior.
"Well fought, Brynden," I said, my voice respectful. "You are a skilled swordsman."
Brynden nodded, his expression weary but respectful. "Aye, my lord," he replied. "You are a formidable opponent."
I spent some time in the yard, watching the other guards train, offering advice and encouragement. It was a reminder of the strength and skill that defended Moat Cailin, the bulwark of the North.
As the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the yard, I felt my strength returning. I had cleared my head, reaffirmed my skills, and found a measure of peace in the midst of the day's burdens.
I returned to the solar, ready to face the challenges that lay ahead. The journey to Winterfell, the opening of the College, and the future of the North... I would be ready. I was the Lord of Moat Cailin, and I would not falter.