Title: The Audit of Winter, Part One
Title: The Audit of Winter, Part One
Year and Month: 113 AC, 9th Moon
Leaving the stark peaks and bruised pride of the Vale behind, the Royal Progress turned its face to the last and greatest of the six kingdoms: the North. The journey itself was a statement of intent, a logistical feat designed to demonstrate the reach and resources of my crown. To move a city of five thousand people from the Eyrie's shadow, across the treacherous swamps of the Neck, and up the length of the Kingsroad to Winterfell was a task that would have broken a lesser king. For me, it was merely a complex project to be managed.
This leg of the journey was different from the others. My audits of the Riverlands, the Westerlands, the Reach, and the Stormlands had been inspections of vassals, assessments of remote corporate divisions. The North was personal. This was my Queen's homeland. I was not merely a king visiting a vassal; I was a son-by-law visiting the house of his wife. This familial connection, however, did not alter my primary objective. Family, in the grand ledger of the realm, was simply another asset class, one that required careful, and often more complex, management.
The journey north from Gulltown by sea was the first stage. My nephew Daemon remained in King's Landing as Warden of the Capital, a responsibility that kept his ambitions productively occupied. My other nephew, Viserys, ever dutiful, had sailed from Dragonstone to join us, his presence a comforting symbol of Targaryen family unity. Lord Corlys's fleet, a vast armada of grey-sailed warships, escorted our procession of royal barges, a display of naval supremacy that cowed the pirates of the Bite and impressed the merchants of the Free Cities.
My Queen, Lyanna, stood beside me on the deck of our flagship, The Iron Dragon, as the grey-green shores of the North came into view. A profound change had come over her since we had left the Vale. The quiet, watchful tension she carried in the southern courts had melted away, replaced by a serene, almost joyful confidence. The air, now sharp with the scent of pine and cold, clean water, seemed to invigorate her.
"You are happy to be home, my Queen," I observed, my voice a neutral statement of fact.
"I am happy to breathe air that does not smell of schemes and perfume, my King," she replied, a rare, genuine smile touching her lips. She looked at our three-year-old twins, who were watching the waves with wide eyes, bundled in fine northern wool. "They will feel it too. The strength of the North. It is in the soil, in the water. It is different from the south."
"Soil composition and water purity are quantifiable assets," I noted. "And according to my surveys, ripe for development."
She laughed, a sound as clear and surprising as a wolf's howl on a winter night. "You truly cannot see a forest without valuing its timber, can you, husband?"
"A forest that is not valued is one that is eventually burned for firewood," I countered. "I value your home. That is why I am investing in it so heavily. That is why I am bringing its king a report on his returns."
Our first stop was White Harbor, the gateway to the North. The city, under the shrewd governance of Lord Wyman Manderly, was already a testament to the success of my Northern Prospectus. The harbor was a forest of new masts, the docks were being expanded with granite quarried from the west, and the city hummed with a new, vibrant energy.
Lord Manderly, a man of immense girth and even greater ambition, received us with a lavishness that rivaled the Tyrells. But his was not the soft welcome of Highgarden. It was the robust, proud welcome of a man showcasing the profits of a successful enterprise. He did not praise my Queen's beauty; he praised her wisdom in choosing a king who understood the value of trade.
"Your Grace," he boomed, his jowls quivering with enthusiasm as we feasted in his Merman's Court. "The King's Bank has been a godsend! The loans for the new shipyards were approved in a month! We have already secured a contract to ship northern iron to the Free City of Pentos, bypassing the southern ports entirely! The profits are… staggering!"
He was a man who understood my language. I spent two days in White Harbor, not feasting, but in his solar, reviewing his accounts, analyzing trade routes, and drafting charters for new merchant guilds. I was not a king on progress; I was a visiting chairman auditing a high-performing subsidiary and planning its next phase of expansion.
From White Harbor, the true journey began. The progress moved onto the Kingsroad, a great serpent of silk and steel winding its way through the vast, empty wilderness of the North. Here, the scale of my kingdom became truly apparent. Days would pass between sightings of a holdfast or a village. We were a moving island of southern civilization in a sea of ancient, untamed forest.
Lyanna thrived. She taught our children the names of the trees, the tracks of the animals. She would ride her fierce northern mare beside my own destrier, her face alive with a freedom she never showed in the south. In the evenings, by the fire in my command tent, we would speak of the North. She told me its stories, its legends, the histories of its proud, stubborn houses. It was invaluable intelligence, a cultural briefing that no maester's scroll could provide.
I, in turn, continued my own audit. By day, I rode with my men, assessing the quality of the newly paved sections of the road, noting the locations for future watchtowers and inns. By night, my consciousness would soar.
Through his senses, I saw the true, raw potential of the North. I saw hills rich with iron and silver, rivers teeming with fish, forests that could build ten thousand ships. I saw its vulnerability, its sparse population, its lack of infrastructure. My mind was constantly working, drafting new proposals, new projects. A royal lumber industry. A system of canals to link the eastern and western rivers. A concerted effort to map the mineral wealth of the mountains. The North was not just a project; it was the work of a lifetime.
Our passage through the Neck was a tense, eerie experience. The swamps were a maze of black water and green shadow, the air thick and heavy. The crannogmen, the elusive people of the swamps, watched us from hiding, their eyes glittering in the gloom. We were met at Moat Cailin, the ancient, ruined fortress that guarded the causeway, by Lord Howland Reed. He was a small, quiet man with unnervingly wise eyes. He swore his fealty, but I knew his true loyalty was to the Starks and the secrets of his swamps. I made a mental note to fund a survey of the Neck, to understand its strategic and economic potential more fully. Every mystery was simply an unsolved logistical problem.
Finally, after weeks of travel, we saw it. Winterfell. It rose from the rolling plains of the North not with the graceful spires of the south, but with the solid, unyielding strength of a mountain. A sprawling complex of grey granite towers and thick curtain walls, it was a fortress built to withstand the longest of winters and the fiercest of sieges. Smoke rose from its chimneys, a welcoming plume against the grey sky.
As we approached, a host of riders emerged from the gates to greet us. At their head was Lord Rickon Stark, my father-by-law, his face as stern and proud as I remembered. Beside him was his son, Cregan, now a boy of thirteen, but already with the broad shoulders and serious demeanor of a future Warden of the North.
The reunion between Lyanna and her family was a moment of rare, genuine emotion. She dismounted and embraced her father, a silent, powerful hug that spoke volumes. She ruffled her brother's hair, and for the first time, I saw the young girl she must have been, free and wild in her northern home.
I dismounted, my black armor a stark contrast to the grey stone and furs of the northerners. I walked forward, the Conqueror's crown a cold weight on my head.
Lord Rickon turned to me and bowed his head, a gesture of a loyal vassal to his king. "Your Grace," he said, his voice a low rumble. "Winterfell is yours."
The words were customary, a formal welcome. But in the North, words had weight. To say the castle was mine was the highest pledge of fealty a Stark could offer.
"Lord Stark," I replied, my voice formal but clear. "I have come not to take your castle, but to see our family. And to review the progress of our shared enterprises."
I looked past him, at the open gates of the great fortress. I saw the faces of the household guards, the servants, the people of the winter town who had come to see their king and their own returned princess. Their faces were hard, weathered, and full of a fierce, guarded pride. They were not the cheering crowds of the south. They were a people who gave their loyalty cautiously, but once given, it was as strong and unyielding as the winter itself.
This was the heart of my newest, greatest asset. The audit was about to begin in earnest. I would feast with them, speak with them, and listen to them. But all the while, my mind would be working, calculating, assessing. I had come to my Queen's home, to the heart of the North. I had come to see my investment up close. And I would leave with a complete and thorough understanding of its value, its potential, and the precise measures needed to ensure it yielded a profit for generations to come. The Audit of Winter had begun.