Don't Poke Direwolves

  Winterfell - Spring 226 AC

  Jack Carter

  “… For three days, Jonnel Umber shouted and blustered in the great hall, accusing me of "Stark greed" and demanding that I cede the land to him. I remained silent, offering him only mead and a full cup, knowing that Northern lords are like direwolves: they'll tire eventually if you don't poke them when they're snarling.”

  A loud bang snapped me from the journal, dragging my attention to the solar door. “Enter,” I called, voice rougher than I meant—still getting the hang of barking orders like a lord. One of my guards poked his head in, bushy beard framing a weathered face. “M’lord, Torhen wished to tell you he’s finished one o’ them tools you requested o’im.”

  “Thank you, let him know I will be down shortly.” I slipped a scrap of paper between the pages—yellowed and crinkled from some long-dead Stark’s hands—and shut the journal with a soft thud. As I gathered my cloak, wolf-pelt collar brushing my neck, my mind churned over what I’d been reading. Among the solar’s bookshelves, I’d found this gem—written in the common tongue, not those jagged First Men runes I couldn’t crack. Cregan Stark, some ancestor from almost a century back, had scribbled down his dealings with Northern lords—raw, unfiltered, a cheat sheet for a guy like me playing Edwyle. Every page was stolen time—one wrong word, one slip, and I’d be a stranger in their eyes, not their lord. Just keep moving, Jack, I thought, the direwolf sigil on my doublet catching the dim light as I headed out.

  I stepped into the bailey, the cold biting through my boots, grey sky pressing down like a slab of slate. A thin mist clung to the ground, curling around the stables where Torhen wrestled the first plow into place. Its iron blade gleamed dull under the overcast light, hitched to a sturdy draft horse whose breath puffed white in the chill. The wood was rough-hewn, scarred from the forge, but sturdy. This was progress, tangible and sharp-edged.

  He saw me coming and wiped his brow with that sooty rag, a hint of pride in his gruff nod. “Four more comin’, m’lord,” he said, voice thick with forge smoke. “This’un works well—cuts deep, like you wanted.” I watched as he gave the horse a nudge—the plow bit into the earth with a low groan, tearing a clean, wide furrow through the crusty soil. The dirt churned up dark and rich, flecks of frost glinting in the turned earth, a promise of what those fallow fields could yield if we pulled this off.

  I couldn’t stop the grin spreading across my face—this was a game-changer. Empty fields weren’t doing us any favors, and spring wouldn’t wait. “It’s a fine piece of work, Torhen,” I said, clapping a hand on his shoulder—solid as the iron he hammered. He grunted, maybe pleased, but a shadow flickered in his eyes. “I’ll see the fields are ready for ‘em,” I added, already picturing plows ripping through the North, prepping a harvest bigger than Winterfell’s granaries had ever held. Small victories counted in a land of long winters—each one a brick in the wall against starvation.

  The plow worked. The land would be ready. But tools were just the start—if I wanted real change, I needed the right hands shaping it. By week’s end, I called a meeting, ideas buzzing like flies in my skull. The solar buzzed too as my people trickled in, the air thick with the rustle of parchment and the faint whiff of old smoke from the hearth. Rodrick shuffled in first, chain clinking as he sank into a chair with a sigh, looking like the census had leeched a decade off him. Henry followed, green eyes sharp, posture stiff, cradling the ledgers like a newborn babe. Victor came next, weathered face a stoic mask, leaning against the wall, hand resting easy near his sword hilt. Torhen lumbered in behind, awkward in this room of ink and words, his soot-stained tunic better suited to the forge’s roar. Alysanne slipped in last, braid tight, grey eyes glinting with that testing edge from our first lunch—a week ago, but it felt like months.

  “My thanks for your time—I have a few things I wish to discuss with you all,” I said, cutting through the quiet. I leaned against the ironwood desk, its surface cool and smooth under my palms, the carved wolves prodding my back like a reminder of who I was supposed to be. “But first, Henry, how goes the waste collection?”

  “Ten-odd cart loads rolling south daily, m’lord. Muck’s piling at the midden heap like you wanted. The town smells cleaner, less rot choking the air, though some of the smallfolk are still tossing chamber pots in the streets.” His voice stayed flat, but I caught a nod—grudging respect, maybe, behind that accountant’s mask.

  Disappointing, but not surprising. I’d seen Wintertown’s filth on day one—shit flowing like rivers—and even a whiff less stink was progress. Old habits die hard, though. “Anyone caught dumping joins the muck-gatherers,” I said, tone firm, officer-sharp. “Second offense gets lashes—make it clear, Henry.” He nodded, quill scratching the order on a scrap, ink smudging his fingertips. The lashes were harsh, and they chaffed at my modern sensibilities, but the smallfolk had no money for fines, and the only other sources of punishment for this world were amputations—either limbs or heads, or sending them to the wall.

  “And the pens?” I asked, turning to Victor. He straightened, boots scuffing the stone. “Finished, my lord. There was a lot of grumbling, but all the pigs and chickens have been rounded up.” His gravelly voice held steady, grey eyes locked on me. “Though I received word this morning, the count of livestock is less than at the start. I believe some of the smallfolk have snatched their stock back.”

  “I suppose they wouldn’t like losing their stock,” I snorted. Let ‘em grumble—they’d see the payoff when the less of their family and friends died of sickness—but Victor had a point; I couldn’t shrug off theft. “Henry, we’ll pay a fair price to those who gave up their animals.” He bowed his head, jotting it down. “If anyone’s caught trying to ‘snatch’ livestock back,” I said to Victor, “they will join the muck-haulers themselves.”

  “Aye, my lord,” he replied, short and sharp, chainmail clinking faintly.

  “We cannot let our fields lie fallow any longer,” I added, nodding to Torhen. “Thanks to Torhen here, we have a new tool to make the work go by faster. Use that new plow and get those men out there.” I told victor, as Torhen grunted, a flicker of pride crossing his face, though his brow creased.

  “How long ‘til the rest are ready?” I pressed the bulky smith.

  “By the next moon, m’lord,” Torhen said, voice thick with forge smoke. He hesitated, scratching his beard with a calloused hand. “Works well—cuts deep—but some’s frettin’ these tools’ll take their livin’, outpace their hoes.” His eyes flicked down, uneasy.

  “Which is exactly my hope,” I thought. The plan was an agricultural overhaul—better tools, fewer hands needed, more food, freeing folks for other trades. “The North will always need strong hands,” I said, voice steady. “And not just in the fields. Fewer men breaking their backs in the dirt means more smiths, masons, traders. More work that builds the North stronger.”

  Alysanne leaned forward, braid swaying slightly. “They fear change,” she said, voice soft but firm. “You have set matters in motion, nephew, but the lords of the North must behold you and swear their oaths in proper form to maintain our unity.” Her grey eyes held that Can you hack it? glint, prodding me like at lunch. Oaths of fealty—she was right; I couldn’t assume the support of the nobility.

  “Letters,” I said, turning to Rodrick. “Draft them tonight and send one to every lord across the North. They’re to come to Winterfell, swear fealty, soon as they can ride.” He nodded, quill scratching another note, his chain clinking like a tired sigh.

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  Henry cleared his throat, ledger open on his lap. “Concerning costs, my lord, when shall we import the grain? The census has diminished the treasury—ink, paper, scribes—and that’s before the carts and plows. Our coin is stretched exceedingly thin.”

  Victor shifted, his first move since arriving. “Raise taxes. We will all need to tighten our belts in these hard times.” His gravelly tone cut hard, hand flexing near his hilt.

  Rodrick’s head snapped up, frown deepening. “Raise taxes now, and you’ll have a revolt by spring’s end. All are stretched thin as it is, Victor.” His voice rasped, worn but unyielding.

  Alysanne nodded, grey eyes steady. “He speaks true. Press too hard, and they will fracture. These plows seem promising—why not grant them a chance?” Her tone carried that soft steel, backing Rodrick.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Torhen scratch at his beard—awkward as hell in this squabble. I was about to refocus when I paused, squinting at him. Something was off—his hands weren’t black with soot, his face clean for once. “Torhen,” I said, cutting in, “excuse my bluntness, but why are you not covered in soot?”

  Everyone stopped, heads swiveling to the big man. He blinked, startled, then rubbed a hand across his jaw. “Soap, m’lord. Wife’s in the kitchens—swears by it now. Won’t let me in the house ‘til I scrub the soot off me hands and face.” His gruff voice softened, a hint of a grin tugging his lips.

  I grinned back, wheels spinning. Why didn’t I see this sooner? I’d been so fixated on hygiene—disease stats dancing in my head—I’d missed the profit angle. “We’ll up production—set up a proper spot in Wintertown to make it,” I said, mind racing. “Nan’ll run it since she knows the mix. Alysanne, you’ll oversee it—try infusing it with scents, pine, lavender, something southron highborn ladies’d buy.” Alysanne’s eyes glinted, nodding. Luxury soap could rake in coin and clean folks up—escpecially if we keep the basic stuff cheap for the smallfolk.

  I took a breath—time for the big pitch. “That’s not all. The North’s languished for too long—we’ve got land to feed ten times our number, unused, fallow. I propose we bring southerners up—folk seeking land and opportunity—to settle and work it.”

  Silence descended on the room, thick like winter’s frost. Victor’s hand clenched his sword, eyes narrowing like I’d torched his kin. “My lord, the North’s no gentle Southron vale. This land lies fallow not for want of ambition, but because the frost bites deep and winter claims all. Southrons are too used to their mild cold—I doubt they’d survive a true winter. Our folk will not share with strangers unversed in our ways.” His gravelly voice cut deep, the castellan’s logic cold as the Wall.

  Rodrick’s growl followed, low and hard. “I must agree, my lord. They’ll bring their Seven and septons—uproot what renders us distinct. The North endures as ours—its blood flows from the First Men, its breath from the Old Gods. These strangers will not kneel before the heart tree; they shall seek to remake this land in their own image.” His voice rasped—a warrior’s zeal in a maester’s frame.

  Henry paused, pen hovering, then spoke evenly. “They would bring hands and coin—perchance easing the treasury and our storehouse’s strain.” Alysanne leaned in, tone resolute. “Their gods shall not overthrow ours, Have you forgotten that the Manderlys are of the seven? Yet White harbour still has godswood within its borders. I stand with you, nephew.”

  Victor’s face looked like he’d swallowed a lemon. He carried on, ignoring her point. “Southrons shall weaken us—turn us to silk-kissing fools who know nothing of honor and loyalty.” Rodrick nodded—rare accord—while Torhen scratched his beard, lost in this mess.

  My fingers tapped the desk, frustration building—stubborn as hell these two—but Cregan’s journal flickered in my mind: don’t poke them when they’re snarling. We needed hands to keep from starving—a North to rival the South’s fields—but you can only bend a culture so far before it snaps. Prosperity would forge loyalty. “We’ll start small,” I said, voice steady after mulling it over. “Southerners’ll work Stark lands only, here in Winterfell—in small numbers—and only those willing to assimilate to our ways. They’ll bring coin, work the fields, and we keep our ways sharp.” Victor’s jaw tightened, glare unyielding, but he held silent. Rodrick muttered, “I suppose a drip is preferable to a flood,” grudgingly conceding. Henry nodded while Alysanne gave me a small, supportive smile. Torhen just stared, probably wishing he’d stayed in the forge.

  I turned to Henry and Roderick, “Work together and organize the purchase of grains from the riverlands, and spread the word to any trader that comes through Winterfell, House Stark will offer land for farmers to work.”

  I paused, hand still on the desk, I was just about to end the meeting when another thought struck, this one from my first meeting with Henry days back. “One more thing,” I said, voice cutting the air again. They all turned, caught off guard—Rodrick’s quill hovering, Victor’s hand twitching near his hilt. “Charcoal. We’ve got lumber aplenty—Bear Island, Hornwood—but we’re burning it raw. Back in the… where I’ve read,” I corrected fast, dodging a slip, “charcoal heats hotter, lasts longer than firewood. Could save our stocks and fetch a price south. Henry, where do we get ours now?”

  Henry straightened, ledger still open on his lap, green eyes flicking like he was tallying numbers already. “Imported, m’lord—mostly from the Riverland, some from the stormlands when they deign to sell cheap. The North’s too wet for proper charcoal—snow and frost keep the wood damp, and proper kilns require man power better spent in the fields .” His voice stayed flat, but there was a hint of resignation.

  I blinked, mind boggling. “Too wet?” I echoed, disbelief creeping in. Arkansas summers were humid as hell, and we still made charcoal—homesteaders cooked it in backyards with nothing but a barrel and a match. The North had forests thick enough to choke a convoy, and they were shipping it in? “You’re telling me we’ve got trees out the ass and we’re buying it from southerners?”

  Torhen shifted, scratching his beard with a rasp that filled the quiet. “Some smallfolk make their own, m’lord—backwoods burners, mostly. Chop a pile, cover it with sod, let it smolder. But the quality’s piss-poor—half ash, half damp muck—and it’s barely enough for a hearth, let alone trade.” His gruff voice carried a shrug, like he’d seen the sad little heaps himself.

  My fingers tapped the ironwood, frustration sparking. Wet or not, this was doable—I’d seen it done with less. “We’re sitting on a goldmine and leaving it untapped,” I said, leaning forward. “Torhen, have these “backwoods burners,” come to the castle—surely there are better ways to make charcoal. We’ll start small, test it here, then scale it up.”

  Torhen’s brow creased, but his eyes glinted. “Aye, m’lord.”

  Henry looked excited, probably imagining future trade revenue, while Victor’s jaw clenched—clearly unhappy about “southron invaders”. Rodrick sighed tiredly, his hand already cramping for the letters he’d have to pen, and Alysanne just watched, that glint in her eye saying she’d back me if it worked.

  “Well, now this meeting’s done,” I said, straightening up. I’d gained ground despite their mule-headedness—slow progress beat none. Tougher fights loomed in the future—hell, if my advisors were this stubborn, I could only imagine an Umber or Mormont. The North wasn’t built to bend, but I wasn’t here to break it—just to make damn sure it thrived.

  The others filed out—Rodrick’s chain clinking, Henry clutching his ledgers, Torhen lumbering off, Alysanne giving me a nod before slipping away. But Victor stayed, his broad frame blocking the doorway, grey eyes fixed on me like a hawk on a hare. The room went quiet, just the faint crackle of the hearth and the thud of my pulse in my ears. He stepped forward, boots scuffing the stone, hand resting on his sword hilt—not a threat, but a habit.

  “My lord,” he said, voice gruff, I could see the effort it took for him to remain courteous, “a week past, I asked when you’d pass judgment on those three in the cells—the rapers and the deserter. You said you needed time to weigh their crimes.” His gaze didn’t waver, cutting sharper than it had all meeting. “When shall you do it? There have been.. Whispers, my lord. Whispers that the New lord stark is hesitant. Just a green lad.”

  “I’ve been… occupied,” I said, voice steady but tasting like ash, same excuse I’d given him before. “Plows, soap, the census—it’s all needed doing.” A half-truth, in reality I’d been avoiding it—avoiding the execution yard, the eyes of those condemned men in the dungeons, the heft of the blade I’d have to swing.

  Victor’s brow twitched, calling bullshit without a word, but his tone stayed even. “The North doesn’t wait, my lord. Those men rot while you tarry—justice delayed weakens us all. You’ve set the thieves to work, aye, but these crimes demand blood. When?”

  I swallowed, throat dry, the churn in my gut twisting tighter. “Tomorrow,” I said, locking eyes with him, forcing the word out before I could dodge again. I couldn’t let those whispers stand—not if I was to rule this harsh, unforgiving land. “At dawn. I’ll swing the sword myself.” His gaze held mine a beat longer—surprise, maybe, or a flicker of respect—He nodded once, slow, like he was measuring me, then bowed sharply, chainmail clinking.

  “As you will, Lord Stark,” he said, turning for the door, his broad back disappearing into the hall’s shadows.

  “No more dodging, Jack,” I thought with a sigh, the weight of the sword I still hadn’t swung pressing heavier than ever—only now, I’d run out of room to run.