Meeting of the lords

30AC

The following morning, after the breaking of the fast, the lords of the North, somber and expectant, gathered in Torrhen Stark's solar. The remnants of the previous night's revelry were absent, replaced by an air of quiet anticipation. Lord Torrhen sat at the head of the long table, his expression serious and resolute. Theon, Brandon, and Gilliane were also present, their gazes sweeping over the assembled lords – the heads of the great houses of the North, their faces reflecting a mixture of curiosity and respect for the Lord of Winterfell. The warmth of the summer sun streamed through the newly installed glass windows, illuminating the ancient chamber as Torrhen Stark prepared to address his bannermen.

Lord Torrhen Stark leaned forward, his gaze sweeping across the serious faces of the Northern lords gathered in his solar. "My lords," he began, his voice grave, "news from King's Landing has reached us. King Aegon Targaryen, the Conqueror himself, is growing old. His health, by all accounts, is failing. This, as you well know, creates a certain… instability in the realm."

He paused, allowing his words to sink in. "More concerning still are his sons, Aenys and Maegor. Aenys, the elder, is said to be of a gentler disposition, perhaps more inclined towards peace. However," Torrhen's brow furrowed, "he is also described as… indecisive, easily swayed. Maegor, on the other hand…" A shadow seemed to pass over his face. "Maegor is a different beast entirely. Ambitious, ruthless, and possessing a fiery temper that rivals even the dragons of old. Whispers abound of his impatience, his hunger for power. The relationship between the brothers is said to be strained, to say the least."

Torrhen Stark nodded slowly, absorbing the murmurs and concerned glances that rippled through the assembled lords. "Indeed," he continued, his voice firm. "If the Stranger claims King Aegon and Aenys ascends the Iron Throne, I fear his reign will be… weak. A realm needs a strong hand to guide it, especially one forged in conquest. A king who is easily swayed, whose decisions lack conviction, invites instability. It creates opportunities for those who crave power, those like Maegor, to sow discord and perhaps even challenge the established order. We in the North value strength and decisiveness. A weak king in King's Landing could mean a weak realm, and a weak realm is vulnerable to threats both within and without." His gaze swept across the room, meeting the eyes of each lord in turn, emphasizing the gravity of his words. "We must consider what this means for the North, for our long-term security and prosperity."

"Therefore," Torrhen Stark declared, his voice resonating with a newfound urgency, "we must prepare the North for the turmoil that I foresee will come. A weak king in the south, coupled with the ambition of his brother, spells instability for the Six Kingdoms. We must ensure that the North remains strong, united, and self-sufficient."

Torrhen Stark reached beneath the heavy oak table, his movements deliberate and drawing the attention of every lord in the solar. He retrieved a sheathed sword, the scabbard crafted from dark, sturdy leather. Slowly, with a deliberate grace, he drew the blade.

A collective gasp rippled through the room. The steel of the sword wasn't the familiar grey of Northern craftsmanship. Instead, it shimmered with a mesmerizing pattern of dark and light lines, twisting and flowing like water caught in a frozen eddy. It possessed a subtle, almost ethereal beauty, hinting at a strength beyond its appearance. The edge gleamed with a keen sharpness.

"My lords," Torrhen announced, his voice carrying a note of quiet pride, "behold the work of Darryn, our master blacksmith here at Winterfell. By experimenting with various metals and different process, he has forged a new type of steel. He calls it 'Damascus steel'."

He held the blade aloft, turning it slowly so that the light from the glass windows danced across its intricate surface. "Observe the pattern," he urged, inviting the lords to approach and examine it more closely. "This is no mere ornamentation. It speaks to the very way the metal is crafted, folded upon folded, hammered and tempered with secrets known only to Darryn. It yields a blade of unparalleled strength, one that holds a razor's edge and will not easily break." A murmur of awe and impressed curiosity filled the solar as the lords crowded around to witness this remarkable new weapon.

Torrhen Stark nodded, allowing the lords to marvel at the Damascus steel sword. "As you can see," he added, his voice firm, "it possesses a keenness of edge unlike our common steel. But take heed," he continued, gesturing for Lord Manderly to carefully lift the blade, "feel its weight. It is remarkably lighter than a sword of comparable size forged traditionally. This combination of lightness and superior sharpness will give our warriors a significant advantage on the battlefield." He then allowed the other lords to examine the sword, each in turn commenting on its balance and the mesmerizing patterns within the steel.

Torrhen Stark waited until each lord had a chance to examine the Damascus steel sword, the murmur of their impressed comments filling the solar. He then laid the blade carefully back on the table and turned his gaze to encompass all those gathered. "Beyond the strength of our steel and the bounty of our harvests," he announced, his voice taking on a new tone of strategic purpose, "I have also have visions of how we can further improve the North through trade."

Torrhen Stark's words about trade hung in the air, piquing the curiosity of the assembled lords. Then, with a gesture that surprised many, he reached beneath the table once more. This time, instead of steel or parchment, he produced an array of stoppered glass bottles, each filled with a clear or richly hued liquid. He also presented small, intricately carved wooden cups.

"These," Torrhen announced, a hint of a smile playing on his lips, "are beverages made by us by distilleries. They are new and hold potential for trade. This clear spirit," he picked up one of the bottles, "is called 'vodka,' strong and clean. This amber one is 'brandy,' distilled from fruit. This clear one, flavored with herbs, is 'gin.' This golden liquid is 'whiskey,' aged in wood. And this dark, sweet one is 'rum,'."

He gestured for servants to pour small measures into the cups. "I invite you, my lords, to partake. Taste these exotic drinks. Consider their appeal. If the southrons and the free cities crave such novelties, perhaps the North can find a new source of wealth in bringing them here." A murmur of intrigued anticipation filled the solar as the Northern lords cautiously accepted the offered drinks.

Joer Umber, ever the blunt Northman, took a hearty draught of the vodka. His eyes widened, and he let out a surprised bellow. "By the Old Gods!" he exclaimed, his voice slightly hoarse. "That burns the throat like dragonfire! Strong stuff, my Lord."

Lord Mormont cautiously sipped the brandy, swirling it in his cup before taking a more substantial taste. His usually stern face softened with surprise. "Hmm," he murmured, a flicker of intrigue in his eyes. "Quite… different. A warmth that lingers. Not unpleasant."

Lord Manderly, with a degree of trepidation, took a small sip of the gin. A moment later, his face contorted, and he erupted into a series of coughs, his ample frame shaking. "Seven Hells!" he wheezed, wiping his watering eyes. "What manner of spiced fire is this?"

Lord Ryswell, known for his appreciation of strong drink, took a more generous taste of the whiskey. He savored it for a moment, a grim nod of approval on his face. "Aye," he declared, his voice firm. "That has a kick to it. Packs a proper punch. A drink for a cold night."

Lord Bolton, ever inscrutable, took a slow, deliberate sip of the rum. His pale eyes narrowed slightly as he swirled the dark liquid in his cup, his expression unreadable. He swallowed, a faint hint of something akin to contemplation flickering across his features, but offered no verbal comment, simply savoring the taste in silence.

Torrhen Stark listened intently to the varied reactions of his lords, a thoughtful expression on his face. He nodded slowly as each offered their opinion on the exotic spirits.

Turning to the towering Lord Joer Umber, he said, "Lord Umber, your honest assessment is valued. I shall see that you are provided with the knowledge of how this 'vodka' is made. Perhaps its fiery nature can be tamed or appreciated in the harsh winters of your lands."

He then addressed Lord Rickard Karstark, his gaze steady. "Lord Karstark, you found merit in the 'brandy.' I will entrust you with the secrets of its distillation. Perhaps it can bring a new warmth to Karhold."

Next, he turned to the discerning Lord Mark Ryswell. "Lord Ryswell, your appreciation for the 'whiskey' is noted. I shall share with you the methods of its aging and crafting. May its potent flavor find favor in your halls."

His gaze then fell upon the still-recovering Lord Desmond Manderly. "Lord Manderly," Torrhen said, a hint of amusement in his voice, "the 'gin' may have disagreed with your palate initially, but its unique character may yet hold value. I will provide you with its recipe, should you wish to explore its potential further."

Finally, he turned to the silent Lord Marlon Bolton, who still held his cup of rum. "Lord Bolton," Torrhen said, his voice even, "your quiet contemplation speaks volumes. I shall share the secrets of this 'rum' with you. Perhaps its sweetness will find a place in the trade of the North."

Torrhen Stark then turned his attention to Lord Theomore Mormont, his gaze direct. "Lord Mormont," he said, his voice thoughtful, "We have also found a way to preserve ice, to keep it from melting even in warmer climes. We have successfully tested these methods here at Winterfell. The Shivering Sea yields a bounty of ice. During the warmer months, when the southron lords and the free cities yearn for coolness, we could potentially harvest and transport this preserved ice. It could become a valuable commodity, a trade that would bring wealth and ships to our shores. Consider this, Lord Mormont. Your lands are closest to the Shivering Sea. Perhaps Bear Island could become a center for this new trade."

Lord Theomore Mormont, his weathered face thoughtful, considered Torrhen Stark's proposition. The idea of trading ice, something so abundant in the North yet so craved in warmer lands, held a certain appeal. After a moment of contemplation, he nodded firmly. "Lord Stark," he said, his voice gruff but carrying a note of approval, "this… this has merit. The Shivering Sea offers us more than just hardy men and stubborn bears. If you have found a way to keep the ice, then Bear Island will gladly be at the forefront of this endeavor. We know the seas, and we know how to work hard. We will make this ice trade a success for the North."

rrhen Stark then turned his gaze towards the quiet Lord Jojen Reed, his expression thoughtful. "Lord Reed," he began, his voice carrying a note of significance, "you know the bogs and marshlands of the Neck better than any man in the North. For years, those lands have offered little in the way of substantial harvests. However," a hint of a smile touched his lips, "with the help of my… brother, Brandon Snow and his people, who resides in Essos, we have acquired knowledge of a crop grown in the distant lands of Yi Ti. It is called 'rice,' and it possesses a remarkable quality: it thrives in wet, marshy ground. I hope that with your knowledge of the Neck's terrain, we can cultivate this rice and finally bring prosperity to those often-overlooked lands."

Torrhen Stark's gaze held a keen intensity as he addressed Lord Jojen Reed. "With this crop," he emphasized, "perhaps, at long last, we can lessen our dependence on the grain shipments from the south. The Neck, a land often dismissed, could become a vital source of sustenance for the North, freeing us from the whims of southern lords."

Lord Jojen Reed, his eyes thoughtful, nodded slowly. "Lord Stark," he said, his voice soft but firm, "the crannogmen have always lived close to the land. If this rice can grow in our marshes, we will cultivate it. We will make the Neck a source of strength for the North."

Before the quiet agreement could settle, a booming voice echoed through the solar. Lord Joer Umber, his face flushed with a mixture of ale and righteous indignation, slammed his fist on the table. "Aye!" he roared. "And good riddance to their craven ways! Let them keep their fancy grains and their soft hands! We'll grow our own food, drink our own spirits, and forge our own steel! The North will stand on its own two feet, beholden to no one!" He punctuated his outburst with a loud, guttural curse directed at the south, eliciting a mix of amused chuckles and nods of agreement from the other Northern lords.

Torrhen Stark waited for the echoes of Lord Umber's pronouncements to subside, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Indeed, strength lies in self-sufficiency," he agreed, his gaze sweeping over the assembled lords. "However," he continued, his tone shifting to a more practical matter, "even if our fields yield abundance and our forges produce wonders, trade will falter if the pathways between our holds remain treacherous and slow. A wagon mired in mud profits no one."

With that, Lord Stark reached beneath the table once more, retrieving a small sack made of roughspun cloth. He placed it on the table, its contents a fine, grey powder. "My lords," he announced, gesturing for them to examine it, "another gift has been granted to us. This substance… they call it 'cement'." He then instructed a servant to bring a basin of water and some stones. Carefully, Torrhen mixed some of the grey powder with water and the stones, creating a thick, viscous slurry. "When this mixture dries," he explained, pointing to a hardened sample he had prepared earlier, "it becomes as strong as rock. They call this 'concrete.' With this, we can pave our roads, build sturdy bridges, and make our trade routes swift and reliable, ensuring the wealth of the North flows freely." A murmur of intrigued understanding rippled through the solar as the lords examined the strange grey powder and the hardened concrete sample.

Torrhen Stark surveyed the intrigued faces of his bannermen. "My vision," he declared, his voice firm with conviction, "is to connect every major holdfast in the North with roads built using this 'concrete.' Imagine, my lords, the speed and efficiency of trade, the swift movement of men and supplies, no longer hindered by muddy tracks and treacherous terrain. Winterfell will be the heart of a network of reliable pathways, binding the North together as never before."

He then addressed the matter of cost, his gaze unwavering. "House Stark will bear seventy percent of the expense for this ambitious undertaking. The remaining thirty percent will be divided amongst the other noble houses of the North, proportionate to the size and wealth of their holdings. This endeavor will benefit us all, and it is only right that we share in its investment." A murmur of consideration rippled through the solar as the lords weighed the implications of this grand plan.