Chapter 16 Harvest

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Chapter Sixteen: The Harvest of the North

The solar at Winterfell was warm despite the chill that clung to the stone walls. Ned Stark stood by the open window, the cold wind brushing against his face. Below, Winterfell bustled with life. The sounds of hammers striking wood echoed from the new glass gardens under construction. Farmers hauled sacks of grain into the granaries, their carts creaking under the weight of a bountiful harvest.

It had been a good year—better than any Ned could remember.

The knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts. "Enter," he called.

Maester Luwin stepped inside, a bundle of parchment in one hand and a satisfied gleam in his eyes. The elderly maester's grey robes swished softly as he approached. Despite his age, his movements were brisk, and his mind sharper than most young men.

"My lord," Luwin greeted, inclining his head.

"Maester," Ned acknowledged, gesturing to a chair near the hearth. "Sit. You seem pleased."

Luwin's lips curled into a rare smile. "I am, my lord. I've just come from inspecting the trial fields near Winterfell. The results are... extraordinary."

Ned arched a brow. "Extraordinary, you say?"

Luwin nodded as he spread the parchments across the desk. "The yield from this harvest has doubled, my lord. Grain, vegetables, root crops—everything has grown better than expected. And that's not all. The crops are resistant to the cold and require a shorter growing season. Such resilience is rare, especially in the North."

Ned leaned over the desk, examining the figures meticulously recorded by Luwin. The numbers were impressive, far beyond what they had anticipated when they first implemented the trial.

"It worked, then," Ned murmured, thinking back to Jon's unexpected suggestion.

Jon had come to him nearly two years ago, speaking of crop rotation—a practice he had read about in the old books tucked away in the Winterfell library. "Plant different crops in the same field each season," Jon had explained, his young face serious. "The soil will stay strong, and the harvest will grow better."

At first, Ned had been skeptical. But knowing Jon's strange connection to the old gods, he had trusted the boy's instincts and ordered the experiment.

Now here was the proof: a doubled yield and hardier crops.

"Your son's insight has proven invaluable," Luwin said with admiration. "The rotation system—wheat, clover, barley, and turnips—has replenished the soil magnificently. But there's something more at work here."

Ned's gaze flicked up. "What do you mean?"

Luwin's expression turned cautious. "Such rapid improvement in crop traits is highly unusual. Typically, it would take generations of careful breeding to achieve such resilience. It is almost as if... the land itself has been imbued with some newfound vigor."

Ned's jaw tightened, a flicker of unease settling in his chest. He knew what Luwin did not dare say aloud—that this transformation likely had nothing to do with mere farming practices.

The changes in the crops had started after he resumed an ancient and brutal tradition.

Ned's gaze drifted toward the godswood visible through the window. The heart tree loomed tall and solemn, its red leaves whispering in the wind. Beneath its watchful eyes, Ned had returned to performing executions.

He had wielded Ice and let the blood of traitors and criminals soak into the earth, feeding the roots of the heart tree. It was a barbaric tradition, one his ancestors had practiced for generations. Ned had dismissed it as superstition—until he had no choice but to revive it.

The first time, unease had gnawed at him, but he had steeled himself and carried out his duty. Afterward, subtle changes had become apparent. The soil near the godswood had grown richer, the crops stronger.

Coincidence, perhaps. Or so he had tried to convince himself.

But as the seasons passed, the changes became undeniable. The crops thrived as if blessed by ancient forces awakened by blood sacrifice.

Ned's heart was heavy with the knowledge. The gods he had sworn to honor seemed to demand a price for their blessings.

Luwin's voice broke through his thoughts. "I advise that we distribute these improved seeds to farmers across the North. If the results here are replicated, it could change everything. The North would be stronger, more self-sufficient."

Ned nodded slowly, his mind warring with itself.

He knew Luwin was right. The prosperity of the North was at stake. The people had suffered through harsh winters and lean harvests for too long. They deserved better.

Yet the thought of continuing such ancient and bloody practices weighed heavily on his conscience.

"Your advice is sound," Ned said, his voice measured.

Luwin hesitated, his sharp eyes flickering with something unspoken. He was wise enough to suspect that something beyond ordinary farming practices was at work, but he chose not to press the matter.

"Very good, my lord," Luwin said respectfully. "I will begin preparations for the seed distribution."

As the maester departed, his robes rustling softly, Ned remained by the window, gazing out over the bustling fields.

The decision he faced was clear. The prosperity of the North was paramount, and he would do what was necessary to ensure its survival—even if it meant bearing the burden of ancient traditions.

The wind whispered through the godswood, carrying with it the faint scent of earth and leaves. The heart tree loomed, watchful and eternal, its roots stretching deep into the land.

Ned Stark, ever the reluctant wielder of both sword and tradition, made his choice.

He would follow Luwin's advice, distributing the seeds to farmers across the North.

The people would not know the cost, and Ned would carry the weight of it alone.

The North would endure. And so would he.