Lunch and a Walk about Town

  Winterfell - Spring 226 AC

  Jack Carter

  A stack of parchment was beginning to build up on my desk, crude sketches of farm tools I wanted forged: heavy plow, seed drill, thresher, half remembered from an old classes I took. My stomach growled, a hollow ache slicing through thoughts of fallow fields and coin tallies. “So much to do,” I muttered, rubbing my temples. The throb pulsated steady now, a dull hammer in my skull. “But first, something to fill my stomach,” I told myself.

  A knock, firm and deliberate, drew my attention. “M’lord, Victor Cassel’s ‘ere ta see you,” one of the door guards announced, his voice muffled through the thick wood of the door. “Enter,” I called, roughing up my tone, hoping it made me seem more noble. The door creaked, and Victor Cassel stepped in—Winterfell’s castellan. Grey streaked his thinning hair, his face weathered like old leather with deep lines etched around sharp eyes and a stern jaw set under a trimmed beard. Chainmail gleamed under his furs, and duty hung on him like a second skin. “My lord,” he said, his gravelly voice clipped as he bowed sharply. His gaze never left my face; those eyes reminded me of a veteran who’d seen hell and kept marching. I could tell the sword hanging at his side was not for show.

  “Definitely not the kind of man I would want to mess with,” I thought. “Victor,” I said, standing and throwing my cloak around my shoulders, wolf fur tickling my neck. “What can I do for you?” He straightened, unblinking. “Lady Alysanne and Jocelyn request you join them for luncheon in the family dining hall.” I nodded—my stomach growled again, right on cue. “I was just thinking I could go for some lunch—lead on.” His brow didn’t twitch. “As you wish, my Lord—this way.” He turned, and I followed him down the cold, grey corridor, torchlight flickering off damp stone. “I’ll have to figure out this maze eventually; it won’t do, being led around my own castle all the time,” I thought, the clanking of Victor’s chainmail bouncing off the stone all around us. For a while neither one of us spoke—Victor struck me as a man of few words—but for me, I was just too busy marveling at my intact leg. The pull and contractions of muscles I hadn’t had for nearly fifteen years still felt alien.

  Just as we rounded the corner, I turned to Victor. “I will send someone for you after I’ve eaten. I want to take a tour through the castle town, plus we need to discuss a few changes I wish to see done.” He kept pace, his face still a stoic mask. “A tour through Wintertown, my Lord?” he asked, voice steady as ever. I nodded, and he continued without a flinch, “Aye then, I’ll see that an escort and your horse are prepared.”

  The dining hall was off the Great Keep—a smaller chamber, cozy despite the chill outside. Its oak table stretched long, worn smooth by years, and a squat hearth crackled low, throwing warmth and shadows across subdued tapestries—tales and battles from the Starks’ storied past. Victor bowed smartly and departed.

  Two women sat at the table, their heads turning as I stepped in. The older one—mid-twenties, I guessed—had dark hair pulled into a tight braid that gleamed faintly in the firelight. Her grey eyes were sharp, cutting through the dim room like a blade, though faint lines framed them, softened by a sadness that seemed to cling to her like a heavy cloak. She stirred a steaming bowl with a spoon that hung idle in her hand, watching me with a steady, unreadable weight. The younger one—maybe fourteen—slouched a bit, all elbows and restless energy. Her dark hair spilled loose over a wool dress, framing a long face that mirrored mine—or Edwyle’s, anyway—but her eyes, red-rimmed from tears, flickered with a brittle spark, lips twitching like she might smirk or snap at any moment.

  “Come sit and eat,” the older woman said, her voice faltering—low, steady, but cracked at the edges, like she was holding it together by will alone. She pushed a bowl toward me—chunks of meat and barley swam in a murky broth, a slab of dark bread resting beside it. I took the head seat, figuring it was mine; the wood groaned under me as I settled in and dug in, tearing off a hunk of bread. It was chewy, bland, but warm—better than MREs. A clay pitcher of watery ale sat sweating on the table—the only drink in sight. “Probably safer than water,” I mused, dipping the bread into the stew. A warmth spread through me, easing the hollow ache in my stomach. The older woman popped a piece of bread into her mouth, her movements careful and deliberate, while the younger one stabbed at her meat like it’d personally offended her, quick and sharp.

  “Has Rodrick told you the news?” the older woman asked after she sipped her ale, a tremor spilling a drop before she steadied her hand, “About your father…”

  “Yeah,” I said, forcing a somber tone—my throat tight, not from grief I didn’t own, but from the lie I had to sell. I had no warm fatherly memories to recall with William—Just USDA reports and a gunshot's echo. “He delivered Artos’ message this morning. I’ve been in the solar since, digging into what a mess the North’s in.”

  The younger one’s spoon clattered—her grip on it tightening, her whole body going rigid. Her face twisted like she was holding something in, and then—

  "Father’s not even buried yet!" her voice cracked on father as she shoved her bowl, broth sloshing onto her trembling hands. “And you’re at his desk like he’s nothing!”

  Her eyes flashed through tears before dropping fast to hide them.

  I caught my mistake too late. “Stupid,” I berated myself silently. “I’m a stranger in this skin—no memories of their Edwyle, just a man out of time. They’re looking for someone to grieve with—a brother, a nephew—and all I had was plans and reforms.” The older woman’s spoon clinked against her bowl, a sharp sound that broke the tension. “Jocelyn, enough,” she snapped, her tone weary but firm. “Your brother is lord now—mind your tongue.” She turned to me then, underneath her grief, I saw a glint in her eye—a test. “So Nephew, this mess you speak of? My brother would've met it head on—how will you?”

  I met her gaze. “Hygiene’s where I’m starting,” I said, keeping my voice even. “All water needs to be boiled before drinking or cooking—it’ll keep the sickness out. Then there’s a waste crew I’m setting up; they’ll haul the shit to a midden heap and turn it into compost, which means more food from the fields.” Germs were too much to explain—I went with “sickness” instead, hoping it’d land without sounding too outlandish. Jocelyn snorted, stew splashing the table—“Boiling water? Hauling shit? Father dies, and you’re fussing like a healer?”—her voice biting, but her hands shook, knuckles whitening on the spoon.

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  Alysanne’s eyes flicked to her—not convinced, I could tell. She paused, then nodded slow—“Strange notions,” she said, voice softening, “but if it works, I’m with you. William trusted that head of yours—I’ll trust it too, for him.”

  “Thanks,” I said, throat tight—her trust a weight I didn’t deserve, not yet, a stranger in their kin’s skin, but I’d damn well earn it. “I’ll need your support.”

  I took a swig of ale, bits of wheat clinging to my palate. I grimaced, swallowing it down. “It should be criminal to serve this,” I thought. When suddenly an idea struck me. “Alcohol, that's the key.” I’ll start a brewery, owned and operated by the Stark house. If there was one thing you learned growing up in the backwoods of Arkansas, it was how to make moonshine. The process wasn’t all too difficult, and I recalled we got plenty of copper from the mountain clans. If I could get a still made, even the worst quality alcohol it could produce would be better than whatever the hell I was just drinking.

  I stood, my bowl empty, the warmth of the stew settling in my gut. “Gotta see Wintertown—excuse me.” Alysanne nodded once, a faint tilt of her head. Jocelyn brittle glare lingered—rift raw between us, but I’d bridge it somehow. I couldn't do this all myself. “Just keep moving Jack,” I thought.

  Victor was waiting just beyond the hall, two guards stood behind him, their beards bushy and spears held ready—my shadows, trailing me like hounds. “My lord,” he growled in that gravelly voice of his, offering a bow that made his chainmail clink softly. “Shall we go then?” I said, keeping it short. “Aye, my lord. Your horse is ready.” He nodded, a single dip of his head, before we made our way to the stables.

  The smell of hay and horse sweat greeted me as we stepped inside, sharp and earthy; I cracked a slight smile at the nostalgic smell. A black palfrey stood saddled, her coat sleek and steady under the dim light. I swung into the saddle, my movements slow and unsure, but she took my fumbling in stride—I rode horses in my youth, but losing a leg had put a stop to that. “Good girl,” I murmured, giving her neck a pat while Victor mounted a grey mare nearby, the two guards falling in on foot. The portcullis groaned as it rose, and we rode out, the sound of mud squelching under hooves filling the air. “Spring my ass,” I grumbled, eyeing the patches of snow still clinging to the ground, pulling my cloak tighter against the biting chill still lingering in the afternoon light.

  The streets—just dirt paths in reality—were churned to a muddy quagmire by trampling feet and the odd cart. No cobblestones, no pavement, just a mess that sucked at my horse’s hooves. “Isn’t this supposed to be the capital of the North? Shouldn’t there be more people?” I thought as we toured through Wintertown. Most of the men were still gone—off at Long Lake with Artos—but still, I’d estimate there weren’t more than fifteen hundred people here. Those people that I did see were mostly women and kids shuffling about, gaunt and ragged in rough-spun wool and patchy furs. A girl, maybe ten, stepped from a crooked doorway and upended a chamberpot right into the road—a brown splash hit the mud, barely a ripple in the stink. An old woman followed, her pot’s contents joining the flow—careless, like it was nothing. Pigs snorted through the slop, rooting for scraps, their bristled backs brushing past scrawny chickens pecking at God-knows-what. The animals roamed free, no fences, no pens—just chaos in the filth.

  There were a few craftsmen that called Wintertown home—deemed too important to potentially lose in the fighting. A tanner hunched over hides near the edge of town, the sharp reek of piss and rot cutting through the haze—his hands black with work, oblivious to the squalor. An innkeeper swept the stoop of a sagging log building, the sign creaking above—two stories, probably the tallest thing here outside Winterfell. A blacksmith hammered away, sparks flying—smaller than the smithy in the castle—but even his forge couldn’t mask the stench drifting from a pile of dung ten feet off. This was a typical feudal village, alright—dirty, smelly, a hygiene nightmare out of some history book I’d skimmed back in high school. My gut churned, half from the smell, half from the realization—this was my problem now.

  I turned to Victor, my voice coming out sharper than I intended—indignant at the town’s condition. “How many in the dungeons?” He rode steady beside me, unfazed by the stench or my tone. “Fifty, give or take—were awaiting judgment from your father,” he replied. I pressed further—“And their crimes?”—“Petty theft, mostly, with two rapers and one Watch deserter,” he said, his eyes scanning the town like a hawk watching for trouble. “Thieves—how many of those?”—“Forty-odd,” he answered without hesitation. “More than plenty for now,” I thought—hands I could put to work.

  “Round up half those thieves and have them report to Henry,” I said. “Tell him that they will be used for the waste crew I ordered him to put together.”

  Victor’s brow twitched slightly, the first crack in his mask. “A waste crew, my Lord?” he asked, voice steady but wary.

  I nodded. “They’ll haul chamber pots, old rushes, all of it—to a midden heap five miles south.”

  Victor's brow twitched slightly. One of the guards stiffened beside him. A long pause stretched between us before he finally spoke, his voice carefully neutral. “You want men—Northmen—to shovel shit?”

  “They’re criminals, aren’t they?” I said. "They will pay for their crimes with labor, and after they’re done, we will pay them a silver a moon to stay on.” His eyes narrowed a fraction—he didn’t argue, just took it in." “Would you prefer I take their hands instead?” I added, meeting his gaze steadily. “The state of this town offends me, Victor. I will not have my people living in filth like pigs,”

  “As you will, my lord,” he said, his gravelly voice steady as stone.

  “And the other half, my lord?” Victor asked a moment later, as we continued to plod through the town. “They will also be put to work,” I replied, my gaze landing on another pig wallowing in the muck. “Tomorrow they will begin building a large pen near the midden. When that is completed, all of these animals will be moved there. There will be no more livestock wandering freely.”

  “I shall see it done, my lord,” he said. I could see him watching me out of the corner of my eye, a slight furrow between his brow. “I should probably be worried—no doubt I was acting way out of the norm for what he knows of the real Edwyle,” I mused, trying and failing to care. I knew it would be bad, but not like this. The filth wasn’t just in the streets—it was in the air, in the walls, soaked into the very bones of the town. This was sickness just waiting to happen

  As we began to make our way back to the castle, I found myself lost in thought. After seeing the town, I knew that soap was a must. If I remembered correctly, it was fairly easy to make—tallow, which I could probably get from the tanner, and lye, wasn’t that just wood ash soaked in water? We would need it to scrub the grime off this place and its people. Maybe I could convince the innkeeper to build a bathhouse? Getting this done would be a nightmare, but I’d drag them into cleanliness—kicking and screaming if I had to.