Chapter 1.5: A Strangers Skin
Jack Carter
The portcullis rattled shut behind us, iron teeth gnashing into the stone as Victor and I rode through Winterfell’s gate, mud sucking at the horses’ hooves with wet, greedy gulps. Wintertown lingered like a bad taste—gaunt women dumping slop into the mire, kids too thin for my liking, their bony knees poking through patched wool as they darted between snorting pigs. I’d seen squalor in Iraq, villages gutted by war—dust and blood and hollow stares—but this was a slow rot, the feudal status quo grinding folk down ‘til they were shadows. Day one in Edwyle Stark’s skin, and it still felt unreal, like some VA doc would shake me awake any second, the phantom tingle of my stump warring with the cold dead weight of aluminum for which ached worse. “Just keep moving, Jack,” I muttered, shoving the panic down, voice lost under the creak of leather and the horse’s huff. Focus on what you can fix—one step at a time.
Victor reined up beside me, chainmail glinting dull under his furs, face weathered like a cliff face carved by too many storms. He’d just sent a guardsman sprinting off into the castle after a quiet word—boots splashing mud, spear clattering against his back. “My lord,” Victor rasped, voice grinding like gravel over a tire tread, “the waste crew’s been seen to—thieves’ll start haulin’ tomorrow.” His grey eyes flicked to mine, gaze steady, then shifted to that same neutral tone he’d used in Wintertown. “My Lord Stark, if you feel losin’ a hand too harsh, why not send these men to the Wall? At least there’d be honor in that. The Watch is always needin’ more men.”
I tilted my head, reins slack in my grip, the horse shifting under me as I chewed it over. Is basic waste management really so terrible a thing? I wondered, the thought curling wry in my skull. “Is there not honor in keepin’ one’s town clean?” I asked, voice low but firm, testing him. “Or helpin’ increase our farm yields? I read the Tyrells do somethin’ similar, and they’re the most bountiful of the kingdoms.”
A bluff—I had no damn clue if the Tyrells shoveled shit or danced with roses—but it landed. Victor’s brow furrowed, deep lines etching deeper as he sank into thought, eyes narrowing like he was sizing up a battlefield. After a beat, he bowed his head, slow and deliberate, a concession carved in stone. “Aye, I cannot fault your logic, my lord,” he said, voice gruff but yielding.
I nodded, a flicker of relief easing the knot in my chest, but it didn’t last. “But the cells still hold three—two rapers, one Watch deserter,” he added, tone flat again, like he was reading a supply list. “They still await judgment.”
I swung down from the saddle, boots squelching in the bailey’s churned mud, a cold feeling spreading from my stomach like frost on a windshield. Something I’d read in the books hit me hard: The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. For those crimes—rape, desertion—there was only one sentence in the North. Death. Hell, I agreed with it in principle; I’d seen what lawlessness did in warzones, the cost of letting predators roam. But standing here now, the weight of it landed like a punch to the gut. Me, swinging a blade? Taking a head? I’d killed before—Iraq wasn’t bloodless—but pulling a trigger was easy, mechanical, detached. This was different—intimate, personal. Northern justice meant feeling the weight of their lives leave their bodies, the resistance of flesh and bone against steel. The North demanded it. Could I? My throat tightened, a dry swallow scraping it raw, and I shoved the thought down, locking it tight behind the next task.
I handed the reins to a stableboy—scrawny, shivering in a patched tunic, his hands trembling as he took the leather—and felt “Lord Stark” settle heavy on my shoulders, like a rucksack stuffed with bricks. “I’ll judge them tomorrow,” I said, voice steady despite the churn in my gut, the words tasting like ash. Victor’s brow twitched, just a flicker—surprise, maybe, or doubt—but he didn’t press. “As you will, Lord Stark,” he replied, bowing sharply, chainmail clinking faintly with each step as he turned toward the keep, his broad back disappearing into the lengthening shadows.
Above, the evening sun dipped fast behind Winterfell’s high grey walls, a bruised purple bleeding into the sky, casting the bailey in a cold half-light. My head pounded with that same throb I’d carried all day—gunfire echoes from the USDA, the wolf's lifeless grey eyes—all piling on like sandbags. My feet led me back to the Great Keep, past the clatter of guards and the low murmur of smallfolk hauling firewood, ‘til I hit the chamber I’d woken in that morning. The door creaked shut behind me, heavy and final, and I sank onto the lumpy sack of a mattress—straw poking through the coarse linen, itchy against my skin. I closed my eyes, breath shallow, doing my best not to think about what tomorrow would bring—three swings, three lives, my hands on the steel. Fix what you can, Jack, I told myself, clinging to the mantra as the dark pressed in.
Three days passed since I’d told Victor I’d judge those bastards, and the cells still held them—their fates weighing heavy on my conscience. Each morning, I’d wake to the same cold churning in my gut, picturing the sword in my hands, their blood staining its blade. Afterwards it would always be the same, “I’ll do it tomorrow,” I’d say to Victor, each time his gaze cutting sharper. I would always find something else to focus my attention on.
I could hear the clang of hammer on steel before I saw the smithy’s squat building huddled against the castle’s south wall. As I crossed the bailey’s cold grounds, the morning frost crusting the mud like a brittle shell, its chimney coughed black smoke into the dawn’s pale sky. The heat from the forge hit me like a wall as I stepped in, a light sheen of sweat budding quick along my forehead. Torhen was inside—Winterfell’s blacksmith—a burly man with a bald head and a bushy black beard, his skin stained dark from years of soot and sweat. He and his son were working on a sword, the young teenager swinging the hammer while Torhen gave gruff instruction. They both looked up as I entered. He dipped his head in a quick bow, wiping sweat with a rag that only seemed to smear the grime around.
“M’lord,” he rumbled, voice rough as a grindstone.
“Torhen,” I said, beckoning the smith over to a battered table near the forge. My two shadows peeled off and took position at either side of the smithy’s door, chainmail clinking faint as they settled. “I need your skill on something new. A tool for the fields.” I spread out the parchment—creased and smudged from my earlier scribbling—that held the design. Near the forge, the firelight danced over the lines I’d scratched out from half-remembered pictures I’d seen in some long-forgotten class: a sturdy frame, a large curved blade, meant to turn soil deeper than their hand-hoes ever could.
Torhen squinted at the parchment, scratching his beard as he studied it, coarse hairs swallowing his soot-black hands. “What be this, then? Some manner of… digger?” He traced the lines of the plow with a calloused finger. “Five of ‘em you want? Turning the soil so deep… If’n you don’t mind my asking, m’lord, but what’s the need? We’ve had no troubles with the way of our fathers.”
“The way of our fathers, Torhen, was slow and back-breaking,” I said, letting the weight of the words hang in the air, my voice steady but edged with urgency. “How long to plow a field by hand? Three days? Four? If we have a horse or an ox pull one of these, we could plow twice the amount of land in the same amount of time.” He grunted, unconvinced but not defiant. His eyes, though, flickered to the forge, a calculating glint in them. “Five… That’s a sight of iron. And the curve of that blade…”
“Start with one,” I said, clapping a hand on his shoulder, feeling the rock-hard muscle beneath. “Get the design down. Then we’ll talk about the rest.” My mind darted—Can’t judge ‘til this is in motion. Fields need it more than the cells need emptying. Torhen nodded slowly, already reaching for his hammer. “Aye, m’lord. We’ll forge it true,” he said, gesturing to his son, but I didn’t hear as the image crept back—three shadowed faces and a bloodied sword, sharp and unyielding.
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I left the burly blacksmith to his work, the brisk air cooling my overheated body as I stepped out, the forge’s roar fading behind me. The frost bit at my damp brow, a small relief, but that cold churn still coiled tight in my gut—another day dodged, another fix to lean on.
The next morning dawn crept in cold and grey, a thin mist coiling over the bailey like smoke off a dying fire. I’d barely slept, the lumpy mattress jabbing me awake with every toss, that churn in my gut still gnawing over the cells. “I’ll do it tomorrow,” I’d told Victor again last night, his eyes narrowing to slits as he’d grunted and turned away. I needed something—anything—to keep my hands off that sword, and the census was as good a distraction as any.
So, I found myself pushing open the door to the room we’d given over to the census, a cramped nook off the Great Keep, more suited to storing furs than sorting souls. Inside the air hung thick and heavy, not with the usual scents of Winterfell—woodsmoke and cold stone—but with the sharp tang of ink and sweat. Every available table had been crammed into the room, each one piled high with scrolls and slates. Scribes—more accurately any servant or guard that knew how to read or write—hunched over their work, their quills scratching at scrolls like desperate little claws, names piling up in wobbly rows.
Rodrick, his chain of office clinking like a man weighed down with more than duty, approached with a weary sigh. “M’lord,” he greeted, bowing stiffly. “The work progresses… though not as swiftly as we might hope.”
I leaned over a scribe’s shoulder, squinting at the wet script—Tom, cooper, 34—the ink glistening under the dim flicker of a tallow candle. “How far’s it gone?” I asked, voice steady, slipping into the clipped calm I’d used briefing supply runs.
“Winterfell and a few of the nearby villages,” Rodrick said, rubbing a bronze link like it’d ease the strain in his voice. “Riders brought rough tallies last night.”
I moved deeper into the room, picking my way through a tangle of chairs and half-unrolled parchments. Rodrick’s assistant, Luwin, his face pale and drawn, rubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand, leaving streaks of ink like warpaint across his cheeks. “We’ve never attempted such an extensive census, m’lord,” the old maester continued. “Copying tomes from the library is one thing… but to account for every soul from here to the Wall…”
“A necessary burden,” I said, stopping beside a scribe who was struggling to sharpen a worn-down quill. The man glanced up, startled, nearly taking a finger off with the knife he was using. I waved at him to keep his seat, seeing as he made to stand up. He looked exhausted, dark circles under his eyes like bruises. I placed a hand on the man’s shoulder, feeling the tension knotted in his muscles. “You’re doing a good job, keep it up,” I said, my voice sincere despite the uncertainty gnawing at my own gut. Did I bite off more than I could chew? I wondered.
“No, we need this information,” I thought, shoving the doubt down as I looked around again. The small room was alive with the frantic bustle of shifting paper and the clink of inkpots. With this information we could be more efficient with our people and resources. “We will need more help if this is to be done,” I muttered, half to myself.
“Did you say something, my lord?” Rodrick asked, coming to stand at my side, his chain catching the light with a dull glint.
“Send a raven to the Manderlys,” I told him, firming my tone. “Have them send a dozen clerks or merchant sons who can read and write—White Harbor’s got ‘em to spare.” As the North’s only port, I’d bet on merchants eager to send kin to the Lord Paramount’s call.
“Aye, my lord,” Rodrick said, “but they’ll want coin. Ink and parchment cost plenty, and we’ve still got grain to buy.” His voice carried that same old worry from the solar—fair, but it grated all the same.
“I understand your concern, Rodrick, but this must happen,” I said, cutting through his hesitation, my gaze steady. He bowed his head in acquiescence—another weight on his pile—and I left him to it, stepping out with my brain whirring. He wasn’t wrong—our coin reserves weren’t infinite, and grain imports would eat most of it. I needed a new income source, and fast. The door creaked shut behind me, muffling the quill scratches, but that churn stayed—another day dodged, the sword still sheathed.
That afternoon, I ducked into the small shed by the smithy that I had commandeered, my sleeves rolled up and a strip of cloth tied over my nose and mouth. Inside, Nan, the young servant that I’d roped into helping me, was already at work, her hands steady as she carefully dribbled the ash water mixture into the pot of bubbling tallow over a low fire. The air inside stung—a sharp chemical scent irritating my eyes. Nan squinted at the mess, her mop of brown hair tied back in a thick braid. “Too thin, m’lord,” she rasped, voice muffled behind her own cloth mask—something I’d insisted she wear.
“Needs more tallow,” I said, coming over to stir the slurry with a wooden spoon, the handle worn smooth and splintered at the tip. If we could figure out the right mixture, we could cut down on the spread of disease and sickness here in the cold North. We’d been at it since that afternoon—trial and error with tallow from the tanner and lye from the ash pile—and it wasn’t clicking yet. “Try again tomorrow,” I muttered, wiping sweat off my brow with a sleeve, the damp wool chafing my skin. I’ll get to those three after we get a working batch made, I reasoned with myself, as I left Nan to douse the fire, the acrid steam trailing me out into the dusk.
Day three, we were back at it, the shed’s air thicker now, steam fogging the low ceiling ‘til it dripped like a slow leak. The mix curdled—too much lye this time, a gritty paste that stuck to the pot’s blackened sides. “Damn it,” I growled, scraping it out with the spoon, the stink burning my nose. Nan shook her head, muttering something about ash strength, and we started over—more tallow, less water, stirring ‘til my arm ached. “Almost there,” she said, peering into the pot as it thickened, grey and lumpy but holding shape. I nodded, stepping back as the fire’s heat pressed against my damp shirt, another day swallowed by the task.
By evening of the fourth day, I stood with Nan over a pot that finally cooperated. The mix set firm, grey and gritty, and we poured it into a rough mold—splinters snagging my fingers as it slopped over the edges. It cooled slow, hardening into a lumpy bar—ugly as hell, but solid. “This will cut through grease like a sword,” I said, hefting it in my palm, its weight a small victory, barely holding in a wince at my choice of words. “And get sickness down too.” Nan nodded, her thin lips twitching like she might smile, and I trudged to the kitchens, the bar tucked under my arm.
They would be my first test—where grease was abundant and practicality might win out over tradition. The scent of roasting meat and burnt oats drifted out as I stepped in. The kitchen of Winterfell hummed with the organized chaos of feeding a castle—pots banging like mortar rounds, meat sizzling on spits, the air dense with grease and smoke. Gilda ruled it all, a formidable woman with arms thick as hams, her iron ladle gripped like a club—ready to knock sense into anyone who crossed her.
She eyed me as I walked in, wariness carving lines around hazel eyes that’d seen too many winters. “M’lord,” she greeted with a curtsy, her tone sharp as the knives she worked with, “what need do you have of me?” Her eyes flicked curiously to the wrapped bundle under my arm.
“A gift,” I said, unwrapping the soap and setting it on her scarred table. “For washing—hands, pots, faces. Cuts through grease like nothing else.” Gilda took it, turning it over in her meaty hand like it was some odd relic, her nose wrinkling at the whiff of lye. “And what’s this supposed to be?” she asked, skepticism thick in her tone.
“Soap,” I said, watching her close. “Tallow and lye, simple and faster than using just sand and water.” Gilda’s eyes narrowed, lines deepening. “We’ve managed well enough with sand, m’lord,” she said, voice brooking no nonsense—like I’d insulted her whole damn kitchen—but I caught a flicker of curiosity as she glanced at a scullery maid nearby, hands red and chapped from scrubbing pots in cold water.
“Try it,” I urged, nodding to the maid—a timid girl who froze under Gilda’s stare. “Show her—doesn’t it clean better than anything you’ve used?” The maid hesitated, her gaze darting between us, as scared as she was of Gilda. I was still the lord here, however, so she dipped the bar into a bucket, suds bubbling up slowly as she rubbed it over a grease-crusted pot. Gilda leaned in, arms crossed, watching like a hawk as the maid scrubbed—black grime peeling off smoother than I’d hoped, water turning murky. The maid’s eyes widened, a small “huh” slipping out, and Gilda grunted—probably the most I’d ever get from the stubborn woman.
“Hmph,” she muttered, taking it back, rolling it in her meaty palm. “Quick, aye, but still smells like a dead pig.”
“Better than smelling like a live one,” I shot back.
That got a snort from one of the scullery maids. Gilda’s lips twitched—almost a smile. She handed the maid the soap back. “Keep it,” she muttered. I grinned—a small win, but I’d take it. The kitchen staff would marvel at these bars soon enough—grease gone like magic. And from here? It would spread. I’d make damn sure of it.