Chapter 3
Ned
He passed through the main gate of Winterfell. "Finally back in my own home," he thought.
Along the way, he had met men from Winterfell — two hundred riders strong. They had joined him just before he reached Moat Cailin.
As he rode past the ancient ruin, Ned could not help but notice how much it had changed since he last saw it as a child, leaving for the Vale. The crumbling towers had been partially rebuilt, and the causeway had been cleared of much of the overgrowth. Watchfires burned atop the repaired walls. He saw that while the Moat was still a long way from becoming a proper castle, work had clearly begun on it. Yet the scale of it humbled him — even now, the rebuilding was in its infancy. It would easily take more than a decade to fully restore the fortress to its true potential.
When Ned asked the riders who had sent them, they showed him a letter from his brother Benjen.
Benjen had dispatched the escort south along the Kingsroad. The letter explained that it was to protect both men and the gold they carried — tribute from White Harbor and smaller northern holdfasts. There had been reports of increased bandit activity near the Neck over the past moon.
Ned frowned. "Mayhaps word spread of the gold shipments from White Harbor," he mused. It would not be the first time rumors led desperate men to foolish deeds.
Still, the foresight impressed him. His brother had taken initiative, and the men had been well-supplied and disciplined. That was no small thing. And Moat Cailin—once an idle relic—now bore the signs of active use. Whoever had a hand in that, it had not been Benjen alone.
Winterfell loomed ahead, familiar and yet changed. As the gate closed behind him, he dismounted and took a slow breath. The cold northern wind carried with it the scent of pine, frost, and hearthfire. Home.
But even here, there were things he would need to learn anew.
Once in his father's solar—now his—he took a moment to take it all in. He couldn't help but notice that the solar was different. Bigger now. It held more books, maps, ledgers, and curiosities from across the North. Whoever had seen to its upkeep had done so with thought and purpose.
Before long, his brother Benjen entered with Maester Luwin, Ser Rodrik Cassel, a man wearing a healer's chain wrapped around his wrist rather than his neck, and a boy perhaps no older than four-and-twenty, bearing the Stark crest and a patch that read "Mayor" on his left chest.
The man with the healer's chain spoke first. "Lord Stark, I am Maester Albar. Forgive the unusual presentation of my chain — I find it more practical worn at the wrist, given the nature of my work."
Ned eyed him curiously. He looked the part — grey robes, calm demeanor — but there was something precise, in the way he moved.
"Your work?" Ned asked.
"I oversee all healing in Winterfell and the Wintertown," Albar said. "We've expanded our infirmaries over the last two years. I now have six apprentices, some from noble families, others from smallfolk. We maintain a round-the-clock rotation. Injured men from patrols, sick children from Wintertown, pregnant women, frostbite victims—we treat them all."
"And you answer to...?"
"Lord Benjen Stark," Albar replied. "Though more often, to necessity. I send formal reports to Lord Nhilux each moon, but for day-to-day concerns, I report to Lord Benjen — ever since the passing of your late father. Lord Nhilux also granted me the title of 'Chief Medical Officer', to reflect the breadth of my responsibilities within the keep and Wintertown."
Benjen chuckled softly. "He's modest, Ned. Albar's saved more men than any blade could. He trained two of his apprentices well enough to handle emergencies without him."
Ned gave a slow nod. "You'll find no objection from me if the people are tended. Winterfell has always looked after its own."
His gaze lingered on the healer. "Where are you from, Maester Albar? The Citadel rarely sends two maesters to a single holding."
Albar inclined his head respectfully. "That would be unusual, my lord, if I had come from the Citadel. But I did not. I was found by Lord Nhilux thirteen years ago. He saw in me an interest and talent for the healing arts, and paid for my instruction across many places in Essos. Four years ago, he sent me across the Narrow Sea to study in Norvos and later Pentos, where their techniques differ from our own. I returned to serve your father before his passing."
Ned's brows drew together. "So you serve Lord Nhilux directly?"
"I do. But my work is for Winterfell and its people. Lord Nhilux tasked me to oversee the health of the castle and Wintertown both. It is a duty I have taken to heart."
The young man with the mayoral patch cleared his throat. "Milord Stark. I am Cedric, appointed as acting mayor of Wintertown."
Ned arched an eyebrow. "A mayor? Since when Wintertown has such a title?"
Benjen stepped forward. "It began small. After the rebellion, with so many small disputes and trade issues cropping up, we needed someone local to handle things before they reached us. Nhilux suggested we formalize the role."
Ned crossed his arms. "It is a lord's duty to see to the needs of his people."
Benjen nodded, but his face was grave. "Aye, it is. But the issues had piled high, Ned. Farmers waiting moons for resolution, merchants being cheated in the market, smallfolk caught in bitter quarrels. Some were left without justice for too long."
"And you thought this... mayoral title would help?"
"Not just a title. A function. Cedric doesn't rule, he listens. He manages what he can and passes the rest to me for now. It lightens the load and gives the people a face they know. A voice among them."
Ned looked at the young man again, considering. "And he's done well so far?"
Benjen smiled faintly. "Better than expected. He's fair, calm, and keeps good records. Not bad for a boy who started with just ink-stained hands and sharp ears."
Ned exhaled. "Then let him keep doing what he's doing. But I'll be watching."
"I'd expect nothing less," Benjen replied.
Cedric nodded. "I handle minor and petty disputes, milord. Arguments over livestock, trade stalls, property lines. I organize town meetings, oversee market fairness, and keep ledgers of complaints. Anything above my station, I refer to Ser Rodrik or Benjen. My work is mainly simple, but every three moons I also send a simple report to Lord Nhilux."
Ned blinked at that, the weight of it settling on him. "Even that falls under his eye?"
"He likes to stay informed," Cedric said, his voice even. "He rarely intervenes, but he watches. And when he does speak, it's with purpose."
Ned sat back, letting their words settle. It was strange — the way Nhilux's name kept coming up. Not shouted, never paraded, but always there. A quiet thread pulling all of this together. Winterfell had changed while he was gone — grown, improved, hardened. And behind so much of it was a man who didn't sit at high tables or speak at feasts. Just a shadow working behind stone and snow.
He wasn't sure what to make of it. But he couldn't deny it: this home of his, it was stronger now, different now. And somehow, Nhilux had a hand in almost every corner of it.
"A boy your age with such responsibility?" Ned asked, though his tone was more surprised than critical.
"I was a steward's son. My father served Lord Rickard. When he passed during the rebellion, I remained. I've been apprenticing under Lord Benjen and Lord Nhilux since. Lord Nhilux paid for my family to have a proper home in Wintertown, found my sister a good merchant husband, and secured my mother a steady job in wool making, coloring, and weaving — work that pays fairly and keeps her content. I owe him much, milord, and I hope that in time I can repay his kindness with good service to Winterfell and its people."
Ned looked to his brother. Benjen gave a brief nod. "He's sharp, and more importantly, he listens."
There was a silence in the room as Ned absorbed the sheer scale of quiet changes.
"You've all been busy," he murmured.
"The North needed it, my lord," said Maester Luwin quietly.
Ser Rodrik folded his arms. "And there's more yet to be done. The training yard is full each morning. We've built two new watchposts between Winterfell and Barrowton. Supplies come in cleaner. Roads are watched."
"Nhilux's influence?" Ned asked.
Benjen nodded, but slowly. "In part. He advised, yes. But there's more to it than just one man whispering ideas. You were away, Ned. Sent to foster in the Vale when you were what—seven? Nine? You never really saw how things were handled day to day. You remember Winterfell as it was then—quiet, proud, stubborn. But not ready. Not prepared."
He paced a step, then looked toward the hearth. "After you left, Father started to change things. Bit by bit. Nhilux arrived not long after that. Helped with the books, the storage, the repairs. Father never spoke about him much, but he listened. When the war came, everything we hadn't finished got rushed or dropped. When Father died, and you were gone fighting, it fell to me to keep what we had from falling apart."
Benjen looked up at his brother. "The truth is, a lot of what you're seeing now started years ago. Nhilux just… made it all fit together. Taught us how to hold it steady. The roads. The grain. The healing houses. You're seeing the finished stone, but the foundation was laid while you were away. That's why it feels so different. Because it is."
Ned said nothing at first, only watched the flames dance in the hearth, shadows flickering on the stone walls of the solar. Then he nodded, quietly. "Aye. I see that now."
Benjen hesitated. "In part. He advised. But most of this was born out of need. You were at war. We had to prepare for what may come."
Ned turned to the solar's large window and looked down at the courtyard. He had never seen this in his father's solar. And he liked it — not just for the view, but for what it represented. Light, vision, openness. From here, he could see his people — townsfolk bustling in the yard, children chasing one another between stalls, guards patrolling with practiced ease. Winterfell was no longer just a seat of power — it breathed, lived, and moved with quiet strength.
A window. That was new.
As he stepped closer, he blinked, realizing something else. It wasn't just a window — it was glass. And not the cloudy, bubbled kind he remembered from southern castles. This was clear, flawless. He could see the sharpness of the cobbled stones below and even the frost curling along the edges of a training dummy's post.
"This glass," Ned said, placing a palm near its surface. "It's... clearer than I've ever seen."
Benjen, still by the hearth, looked up. "Ah. That. You're not the only one impressed. It's new. From a guild funded jointly by House Manderly and House Bolton."
Ned turned to face him, eyebrows raised.
"The Boltons and Manderlys working together?" he asked, genuinely surprised.
Benjen nodded. "Strange times, brother. The guild's based in Bolton lands near the border to Manderly territory. The Boltons provide security. The Manderlys the coin and knowledge. It was Lord Nhilux who introduced them — suggested the potential of glasswork."
"And they agreed?"
"It took some pushing. But the profits, even early on, were enough to silence old grudges. They've produced window panes like this, ale bottles, and even simple lenses for reading. Nhilux says they're working toward greenhouse panels."
"Greenhouses? Really?"
Benjen smiled. "Apparently. We can now build them cheaper than ever."
Ned looked back at the glass. The implications were... vast.
"How secure is this?" he asked.
Benjen's expression darkened slightly. "Heavily guarded. The Boltons take no chances. The guildhall was attacked twice — assassins, likely glassmakers from Essos. Tried to poison the master smith once. The other came as a buyer and almost succeeded in setting the place ablaze."
"Essosi guilds don't like competition," Ned said quietly.
"No," Benjen agreed. "And this one's thriving. Nhilux saw that need before anyone else. Again."
Ned said nothing for a moment. Then he placed his hand once more against the cool, perfect glass. Winterfell had changed. And beneath it all, the shadow of an Essosi man with no title — a man who had never once stood to toast or boast — had shaped the North more deeply than most kings ever could.
Winterfell was alive.
He turned back to them. "Then keep doing what you've been doing. And I'll listen."
They nodded, one by one.
And for the first time since returning, Ned Stark felt less alone.
Before the meeting dispersed, another figure entered quietly — older, lean, his chain braided in green, yellow, and black links. It hung more traditionally around his neck, but Ned noted he carried vials along a sash at his hip. He bowed low.
"Lord Stark," he said, his voice gravelly. "I am Maester Gormund. I oversee herds, livestock health, medicinal cultivation, and... where necessary, poisons and their antidotes."
Ned tilted his head. "And who do you report to, Maester Gormund?"
"To Maester Luwin in matters of council," Maester Gormund replied. "But in practice, to Lord Nhilux, who placed me here four years past. I work closely with Maester Albar — he handles the healing arts from day to day, while I manage the health of livestock, and the cultivation of herbs and medicines."
Benjen nodded. "Gormund's been crucial for our cattle health, breeding rotations, and expanding herbal gardens. He's the one who warned us about the tainted grain from Essos last year."
"I've worked to ensure our animal stock is the healthiest it's been in a generation," Gormund added. "With Lord Nhilux's support, I've imported breeding manuals and rare seeds for high-yield herbs."
Ned let his gaze drift over the assembled faces. Three maesters. A mayor. Expanded operations. Glassworks. Healing wards. Market oversight. Trade.
This was no longer the Winterfell he had left.
And deep in its foundation was a man not of the North at all, but of Essos
He didn't trust easily — but he could not deny the results.
"Very well," he said finally. "If this is the North we build... then let us build it strong."
they talked for a whole hour and the meeting, at last, drew to a close.
They had done enough for today. There would be more to learn, more to discuss. But for now, Ned needed rest. His journey had been long, and his thoughts heavy.
He stood from his father's — now his — chair and looked once more through the clear glass window, watching the slow movements of his people below.
Tomorrow, he would begin his lord's duties in earnest.
.........
Cedric---
The wind bit sharper near dusk. Cedric pulled his cloak tighter as he walked down the slope from the Great Keep toward Wintertown, the lights of the market stalls flickering like stars below. His boots slipped once on the frosted path, but he didn't fall. He never did, not where anyone could see.
He wasn't sure what he'd expected from meeting Lord Stark. A lecture? Disappointment? A dismissal? But instead, the man had looked at him — really looked — and said he would be watching. That was more than most had ever offered him.
He stopped near the wooden palisade that separated the keep's shadow from the town proper. There, just beyond the last torch, a small group of tradesmen argued over a borrowed cart. He didn't need to listen closely — it was always the same. Who loaded what, who owed whom, who got paid and who didn't.
"Keep it civil!" Cedric called out, striding over.
The men stopped. One of them, Old Joss, dipped his head. "Mayor. Thought we had it sorted."
"You thought wrong." Cedric crossed his arms. "You've got until sundown to get that cart unloaded and returned. Or I'll have you both speak to Ser Rodrik. Your choice."
Grumbles, then nods. The kind of obedience that came not from fear, but the habit of knowing someone was watching. Cedric turned back toward the town square. He passed the market rows, still bustling even as the cold grew — coin flowing, people bargaining, bread steaming in the hands of children.
He saw two of Maester Albar's apprentices helping a woman with her wrapped arm. Nearby, a scribe read off names at the grain line. Every piece in motion. All tied together by a system Cedric didn't create, but one he now helped maintain.
He ducked into his office above the grain hall — a small room filled with scrolls, ledgers, and maps. A fire burned low in the hearth. On his desk was a sealed note, plain wax, no sigil.
Lord Nhilux's handwriting.
He opened it carefully.
"Keep eyes on the tanners' guild — prices too stable. Likely collusion. Rotate the grain lines next moon. Consider discreetly promoting Keller to oversee the southern lane patrols. He's honest. – N."
Cedric let out a breath and smiled faintly. A reminder that he was never really alone in this job.
He reached for his quill. Time to draft his next report — and make sure this strange, humming machine of a town kept turning.
Tomorrow, Lord Stark would begin his rule in full.
And Cedric would be ready.
.........…..
The wind along the castle's west outer wall carried a sharper bite after dark. Cedric stood bundled in a thicker cloak, collar turned high, boots crunching faintly on the frost-laced stone. He leaned against the cold parapet, watching the distant torches of Wintertown flicker and dim.
Then came the first bell.
A low, deep tone rolled across the valley — the sound that marked the end of end for Wintertown's folk. Markets shuttered. Workers laid down their tools. Fires were banked. For most, it meant rest.
For Cedric, it meant the start of a different kind of duty.
He couldn't help but feel nervous. He had only met Lord Nhilux like this twice before — and both times, it had been because he'd made a mistake. Once for a missed grain shipment, another for misjudging a dispute between two rival merchants that nearly turned to blows.
Tonight, his mind ran through the day's events again and again, trying to find the error he hadn't noticed. Had he forgotten something? Mishandled a report? Missed a sign of trouble in the markets? Nhilux's notes were usually brief, sharp, and never dramatic — but a nighttime meeting always meant something important. Or something gone wrong.
He shifted his weight and tried to still his thoughts. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was one of Nhilux's strange habit-driven rituals, or one of those long-winded lessons he dropped like stones in water, never quite explaining their meaning until weeks later.
He flexed his fingers to keep them warm and kept his eyes on the distant rooftops, listening to the quiet settle into stillness.
Somewhere behind him, soft footsteps approached — too steady to be a guard, too silent to be anyone but the man he was waiting for.
"You're early," said a calm, low voice behind him.
Cedric turned and bowed slightly. Lord Nhilux stepped into view, his long black coat trimmed in silver thread flowing slightly in the breeze. Beneath it, he wore tight, unfamiliar trousers and a black undershirt — a strange attire to Northern eyes, unlike anything worn by the lords of Westeros. His expression remained unreadable in the low torchlight.
"I thought I ought to be, my lord," Cedric replied.
"Timeliness. A rare virtue. And a dangerous one in the wrong profession," Nhilux murmured, moving to the parapet beside him. "Unless, of course, you're an assassin. Then it's just good manners."
Cedric stood quiet, unsure if that was praise or warning.
"Your letter mentioned a collapsed scaffold. A broken leg. A bruised spine. But no deaths. That's… acceptable."
"I've already begun investigating, my lord. The foreman—"
"The foreman is irrelevant," Nhilux cut in. "Rot spreads downward. If wood was poor, it was the buyer's error. If bracing failed, the engineer's. If the plans were flawed…" He turned his head slightly. "Was it you?"
Cedric shook his head quickly. "No, my lord. I reviewed the plans myself. The fault lies elsewhere."
Nhilux studied him for a long moment, then gave a small nod. "Good. But don't grow comfortable, Cedric. Winterfell does not forgive carelessness, and neither do I."
They stood in silence a moment longer, the wind rustling through the battlements.
"Why summon me here, my lord? This place... this hour... there's something, isn't there?"
Nhilux didn't reply right away. Instead, he pulled a small pouch from inside his cloak and offered it to Cedric. Inside were a handful of dark, fat cocoa beans.
"Ibbenese Nightcocoa," Nhilux said. "Cultivated in the frost valleys north of the Grey Cliffs. Once thought impossible. Now growing in your lord's lands."
Cedric blinked. "You arranged that?"
"A gift," Nhilux said with a faint smile. "For Lord Manderly's daughter. She had a fondness for sweet drinks and bitter ambition. And she kept secrets well."
"Why are you telling me this?" Cedric asked, brow furrowing.
Nhilux gave a slow shrug, his tone suddenly lighter, laced with amusement. "Perhaps I was just bored. I like the view from here at night. The cold keeps the noise away, and the stars—well, they don't ask questions."
Then, more seriously: "Because you are clever. Because you remember things. And because the North needs more than brute strength and Stark loyalty. It needs foresight."
Nhilux turned fully to face him. "There will come a time when decisions must be made without guidance. When I am..... gone."
"You're leaving?"
"One day," he replied, voice unreadable. "Not yet."
He placed a hand on Cedric's shoulder. "Until then, listen more than you speak. Learn what others overlook. The future of Winterfell depends not on kings or crows... but on the quiet work done in the cold — by common folk with calloused hands and tired backs. Not the too-proud lords or kings who mistake legacy for labor. It's the small, unseen efforts that hold this world together, not their banners."
With that, Nhilux exhaled slowly and, in a fluid motion, hoisted himself up to sit atop the stone railing. He balanced there easily, legs dangling over the edge, his posture relaxed in a way that unsettled Cedric just a little. The old stone groaned faintly beneath him, but Nhilux seemed unconcerned.
"You ever just sit up here and watch?" Nhilux asked, gesturing toward the dark sprawl of Wintertown below. "They're quiet now, but every flicker of firelight is a story. A man humming over his stew, a mother rocking a child. Real life, Cedric. Not the pageantry."
Cedric gave a hesitant nod. "I suppose I've always seen it more as… logistics. Supply routes, grain counts, guard rotations."
"Of course you have," Nhilux said, not unkindly. "But even spreadsheets have blood behind them. Try to remember that."
They sat in silence for a beat, the night still and sharp.
"You're not nearly as tense now," Nhilux remarked dryly.
Cedric glanced up, realizing it was true. "I thought I was in trouble."
"Maybe you were," Nhilux said with a sly smirk. "But then I decided I was too tired to scold you. Or maybe I just needed someone to share the night air with. Gods know these walls have enough ghosts already."
Cedric chuckled faintly. "A strange kind of mentorship, my lord."
"You've no idea," Nhilux replied, eyes turned to the stars once more.
Cedric smirked and added, "If you ever decide to stop being cryptic, I'll need a full day to adjust."
"You'd miss it," Nhilux said, amused. "Though your sense of humor is dangerously close to what my people used to call 'dad jokes.'"
Cedric raised an eyebrow. "Is that good or bad?"
"Deeply unsettling," Nhilux said with a grin. "But strangely endearing. There's something timeless about humor that makes people groan — even if they secretly enjoy it."
Cedric laughed. "I like to think I'm just preparing the next generation of tired clerks with bad jokes and stronger quills."
"And probably worse handwriting," Nhilux added. "The curse of overconfidence."
"It's all part of the plan," Cedric said. "Charm them with wit, confuse them with script." He grinned.
That made Nhilux laugh — a sharp, genuine sound that echoed briefly against the stone. "Gods help me, you're going to turn into a legend among bad scribes one day."
"You don't always do things by the book," Nhilux said with a smirk, "but it works. The men follow your lead. The stewards actually listen when you speak. Even the older ones — the ones who used to grumble just seeing you — they're starting to come around."
"You think?"
"I know. And they see what I see — not just the boy who came from the Vale with clean boots and nervous hands, but a man who gets things done."
He didn't reply right away. He was still smiling, but there was something bashful in the way he looked away.
"Of course," Nhilux continued casually, "you still carry that worried look sometimes. Like you think someone's going to tug off your cloak and find a fraud beneath."
Cedric shrugged. "It's not far from the truth."
"You'll grow out of that," Nhilux said. "Or you'll grow too tired to care. Either way, the work keeps you honest."
He tilted his head. "Now, about that ever-growing town..."
A moment passed.
"You've done well, Cedric," Nhilux said at last. "People respect you now. They ask for you. Even the foremen grumble less when your name is mentioned."
Cedric shrugged, but his ears tinged red. "Still feels strange. I'm younger than most of them. Some days I feel like I'm playing at being important."
Nhilux nodded thoughtfully. "That feeling never goes away. It's just that eventually, you stop caring. Or you get too busy to notice."
"That's comforting," Cedric muttered.
"Isn't it just?"
They both laughed.
"Wintertown's population has almost tripled in six years," Nhilux said. "In three more, it may double again. You'll have more to manage than you realize."
Cedric blew out a breath. "So what should I do, my lord?"
"We'll speak with Ned Stark. Or should I say, the new Lord Stark," Nhilux said, with a dry chuckle. "His father Rickard hated being called by his name. Not that he showed it after the first few years."
Cedric grinned. "Noted."
"You'll need new assistants. Not for paperwork — you've that handled. But for dealing with people, daily affairs. Faces they can turn to when yours is buried in grain ledgers and what not. If Wintertown keeps growing... we may have to start calling it Wintercity."
Cedric snorted. "That sounds... strange."
"Strange is only the first-word people use before they realize it's true," Nhilux said. "Start thinking what that might look like. Project forward. Four years. Fifteen, maybe twenty thousand people, depending on the harvests and the roads."
Cedric blinked. "That many?"
"You'll manage," Nhilux said softly. "You always do."
They sat in silence once more, the night wind gentle now, filled with distant sounds of sleeping lives and quiet hope.
After a moment, Cedric said, "I saw Lord Stark earlier today. He looked tired, but in good spirits."
"Ah, you met him already?" Nhilux asked with a raised brow.
Cedric nodded. "Did you?"
"Nah," Nhilux said, stretching his back slightly. "I'll let him have his rest tonight. Tomorrow, I plan to bury him in new work."
Cedric laughed. "That's one way to say welcome home."
"He wouldn't expect any less," Nhilux said with a sly smile. "Starks are at their best when slightly overwhelmed."
He was quiet for a beat, then added, "Did you know there's a place in the Far East where the wind whistles through a valley and makes music? Not just howling — actual harmonics. The locals call it the Singing Pass. I passed through it once during a trade mission. Spent two nights just listening. Never told anyone."
Cedric looked at him, curious. "Is that true?"
"Of course it is," Nhilux said with a small grin. "Mostly."
Cedric gave a mock sigh. "One day, I'll get a straight answer out of you."
"Perish the thought," Nhilux replied. Then, with a casual air: "By the way — did you get this moon's salary yet? Or is the steward still testing how long a man can wait before losing his mind?"
"I did, actually," Cedric said. "And I have to admit — I'm paid better than I ever expected."
Nhilux waved a hand dismissively as if brushing off the notion. "You've earned it. Every clipped coin."
He gave Cedric a sidelong glance. "So, tell me... what reckless things are you planning to spend it on?"
Cedric grinned. "Maybe a bottle of Bear Island whiskey — the real kind, not the stuff the dockside merchants water down. Or a new coat, something fancy with buttons I don't need."
Nhilux tilted his head, amused. "Practical decadence."
Cedric shrugged. "But honestly? I might buy into a small business. Heard a new house opened in town. A... well, less respectable one. But coin is coin, and they seem to know how to earn it."
That earned a short laugh from Nhilux. "So you're investing in vice. Efficient."
"I'm just thinking ahead," Cedric said, smirking. "You taught me to plan for the future."
"And here I thought you'd take up pottery or goat farming. My disappointment is immeasurable."
Nhilux went quiet for a moment, his gaze distant. Then, almost to himself, he muttered, "Maybe I should get them all under one guild. Something proper — organized. Gods know it might keep that meddling little man from the future from poking his nose where it doesn't belong. Brother Cleanliness... or maybe the Management Guild again. That man knew how to track a broom and still manage ten taverns."
Cedric blinked. "I'm sorry — who?"
But Nhilux only smirked and shook his head, offering no answer.
Nhilux replied, voice low but steady. "Don't buy any brothels without checking their ledgers."
Cedric chuckled. "No promises."
Nhilux gave him a final nod. "Off you go. The night won't walk itself."
Cedric gave a small bow, his breath misting faintly in the cold air. "Goodnight, my lord."
"Goodnight, Cedric," Nhilux replied, his gaze returning to the stars. "I'll stay a little longer. I like the cold when there's a breeze. Clears the mind."
Cedric offered a quiet nod and turned away, boots thudding softly on the frosted stone as he made his way down the stair and toward the path leading out of the outer bailey.
As he neared the edge of Winterfell's perimeter, three guards emerged from a shadowed corner, lantern light catching on their breastplates.
"Master Cedric," one of them called with a short nod. "Headed back to Wintertown?"
"Aye."
"Then let us walk with you. It's late, and the roads are quiet — too quiet sometimes."
Cedric considered a polite refusal, but the warmth of the offer and the chill settling deeper into his boots swayed him.
"Alright," he said. "Lead on, gentlemen."
The four of them set off together, their footsteps crunching over packed snow. One guard, a broad-shouldered man with a thick northern accent, grinned as he spoke. "You should've seen that mule, Master Cedric. Took off through the market like it had seen a ghost. Had three merchants chasing it and one poor lad holding a basket of turnips that never stood a chance."
Cedric chuckled. "Maybe it just knew it was underpaid."
The guard beside him snorted. "Aye, well, it's smarter than half the coin-counters I've met. Present company excluded, of course."
The youngest of the three guards added, "And did you hear about old Nan's pie? Left it on the sill and found half the ravens from the rookery clawing at her shutters."
"The real crime," Cedric said dryly, "is that no one thought to save a slice."
That drew hearty laughter from all three. As they walked, the air remained crisp but not unfriendly. A lantern swung lightly from one of the guard's belts, casting a warm glow over the snow-dusted path.
It wasn't a long journey, but it felt easy — the sort of night where even tired men could forget the weight of their roles and let the cold carry their laughter toward the quiet heart of Wintertown.
Cedric smiled, tucked his hands into his cloak, and let the quiet conversation guide him down the slope toward the soft glow of Wintertown.
Author Thoughts -
volume one will be till chapter 6 or 7, not decided yet with the first volume will end with the starting of the ironborn rebellion. new volume i will make longer chapter and more side character pov as i enjoy writing them
Tell me what you think i wanted to show some other pov this one and not just main characters.
had a lot of fun writing Cedric, and i think it turned out ok. was not sure at first how to write a simple conversation but i think i did alright
Oh i was not expecting to upload today but i was bored the whole day so i ended up writing drafts for chapter 4,5 and 6. when i still bored i decided to finish chapter 3 and do a early upload.an