TGW: Chapter Ten (pt. 2)

Chapter Ten (pt. 2)

A few hours later.

The hearth fire blazed, its light dancing on the walls of the Great Hall, casting flickering shadows over the rough-hewn stone and polished iron sconces. The scent of roasted venison mingled with the saltiness of the lingering ocean air, the rich, smoky aroma of pine logs, and the faint tang of fresh snow wafting in through the narrow windows. Winterfell was at feast, and Cregan Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, sat opposite Prince Aemond Targaryen, listening as the younger man spoke in a measured tone. Beside Aemond, Prince Daeron attacked his trencher with the appetite of a boy who had known hard travel, barely sparing a glance for the conversation. Cregan, however, found himself distracted more by the direwolf gnawing lazily on a thigh bone behind the princes, similarly content to ignore the rest of the room.

"Trade is blood, Lord Stark. If it flows well, the body thrives," Aemond was saying, his voice calm and deliberate as he drew Cregan’s attention back to their conversation. "A Guild here, in Winterfell, would be the keystone to seeing the North progress. I have already spoken to Tyland Lannister, Ormund Hightower and representatives from other relevant parties. The guild would facilitate a trade route connecting your lands directly to the Vale, the Westerlands, and the southern cities. Imagine a steady stream of grain and wine from the Reach, olives and spice from Dorne, and precious metal from the Westerlands flowing northward. In exchange, the North's natural bounty, resources the South has slowly come to covet, flowing south. Peat, ice, wool, and blubber. Timber, dragonglass, amber, and jet even."

Cregan leaned back in his high-backed chair, fingers tapping thoughtfully against the armrest. His gaze travelled over Aemond's face—the hard lines, the proud, sharp features—searching for any sign of deceit or overreach. He found none and proceeded to express what little doubt had begun to form in his mind. 

"It seems, from your words, you mean to bypass the port towns, at least to some extent? How do you intend to move trade of the volume you speak overland? The North is not like the South, my prince. We have harsh winters, roads that vanish under snowdrifts, and vast leagues of empty land where travellers can easily meet their doom. Such a grand venture… these merchants you speak of would need more than good intentions to make it through these parts. What have you planned for that?"

Aemond inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the question. “Your points are valid, my lord. Hence why, of all places, I came to Winterfell last despite her great importance. The North’s isolation has been a challenge for centuries… one which I hope to resolve before my tenure as Master of Coin expires. The six great roads of the realm," the prince continued, fully pausing from his meal, "the Roseroad, the Goldroad, the Oceanroad, the Riverroad, the Highroad, and the Kingsroad—must be remade and expanded, properly paved, I'm afraid—not just paths beaten by the march of travellers. And more than that, the construction of a seventh road, cutting through from Riverrun to Highgarden, must be arranged, as well as garrisons and guardposts to watch them. The planning for these undertakings is already well underway, and preparations will begin in earnest in a few months. Soon, we will see men and materials flowing to bring these roads to a new standard, an undertaking worthy of the realm's ambition."

Cregan blinked, a flicker of surprise crossing his face, though he quickly masked it. “The expense alone…” he began, but Aemond interrupted with a raised hand.

“The expense will be borne by more than just the Crown. The Merchant Guild made obscenely wealthy by my policies, as well as a few members of the nobility—those who stand to benefit from a more interconnected realm. And with those revenues from taxation and tariffs, the same coffers will grow. My plan is to lay the foundation so that commerce is encouraged to move freely across the entire continent. Each region will benefit—goods that are scarce will become accessible. In times of plenty, surpluses will move where they are most needed. The North, in particular, will gain… sustenance during the leaner years. With these roads, Winterfell will no longer be a distant fortress but a crucial artery for the flow of trade across Westeros.”

Cregan ran his fingers across his beard, mulling over Aemond's words. “You make grand promises, but your ambitions seem even grander… I fear you mean to bring more than grain to the North."

Aemond did not react to the challenge in Cregan’s tone. Instead, he nodded after a moment of prolonged silence, his demeanour mellowing into something far sombre. “I see a dark future ahead, Lord Stark—portentous dreams that keep me up late at night. The true threats to Westeros lie beyond the Wall, as you must know. Death festers in those lands, and when it finally chooses to move, it will be the North that stands first in its path. Strengthening these lands, fortifying them, ensuring their prosperity—that is not just wise, it is essential. A strong North is a shield for all of Westeros. And it is only by recognizing that truth now that we can hope to face what may come.”

Another prolonged moment of silence followed. Then Cregan spoke once more, “...Do you truly believe these words you speak or are they empty gestures solely to ensure my compliance?”

Aemond crooked a brow, a wry smile creasing the corner of his lips. “What do you think, Lord Stark? What else do I, a Targaryen prince, stand to gain this far North besides some peat and timber?”

Cregan held the prince’s gaze for another long moment. Taking his silence as a sign to continue, the prince brought the conversation back to the matter of trade. "The North is a great power, but one that has been dormant for too long,” Aemond spoke, bringing a chunk of meat to his lips as he did. “What is needed to actualize her awakening is a gateway for exchange, a solid bridge connecting your house to the wealth of the realm. A Merchant’s Guild could be that bridge." He paused, then spoke in a tone that was firm, regal, even between bites of venison. "The guild, as always, would remain under the purview of the Dragon's bank, and the garrison that would guard it will be controlled jointly by the crown and House Stark, with each having its representative and men-at-arms upholding their interests there."

Cregan let the words hang between them. He could feel the weight of eyes from across the hall—his closest bannermen, his family—all watching, waiting. "Aye," Cregan finally replied, nodding slowly. "And the cost?" he asked. "Who will bear the cost of this bridge you’re building between North and South? The guild, I mean."

Aemond allowed a thin smile, the barest curve of his lips. "I will. Personally. Consider it an investment in what will be… a fruitful future for the realm." He gestured lightly with his hand, his fingers briefly brushing the rim of his goblet. "On the other hand, the garrison would be a joint effort between your house and the crown given the nature of its conception. However, to fully realize this endeavour, the industries to support this trade must be developed with great haste. Mines, timber yards, and other resource sites. I am willing to finance their development as well—under a lease agreement that grants me a majority stake in their output as well as full control over their usage."

Cregan's frown deepened, his gaze hardening at that. "No, Prince Aemond," he said firmly. "I will not lease away control over any part of the North—not our forests, nor our mines, nor any swath of land. These belong to House Stark and to the people of the North. I will not hand them to another, even if only temporarily."

Aemond studied him, and then he nodded, conceding the point. "Very well. The resources remain under your control. The guild will still stand, and the trade will still flow nonetheless. However," he continued, leaning forward slightly, "such a grand endeavour will inevitably be costly. Your Northerners are great, but not exactly renowned for your wealth. The realm cannot afford delays due to a scarcity of funding, and to ensure the North is capable of upholding its end, I am prepared to offer loans from the Dragon's Bank at favourable interest rates."

Cregan nodded, his gaze still wary but now considering. "Aye, Prince Aemond. I see the wisdom in your words. Very well, should we need it, we will accept the assistance of the Dragon's Bank—so long as the terms remain as fair as you promise. As for the rest, Winterfell will hear more details of your proposal. I will speak to the other lords, and together we may judge how such an arrangement could be sustained.”

“That is well understood,” the prince nodded. “On the matter of speaking to the other lords,” he continued, "there is one more proposal I wish to make."

Cregan cocked his head, one dark brow arching in cautious interest. "And what might that be, Prince Aemond?"

"I would ask that you host my Direwolf friends within the Wolfswood for a year," Aemond said, his tone almost casual, yet there was nothing casual about the request. Another one of the Direwolves in question lay by the door, sleeping, indifferent to the men and their deliberations. Why the beasts had followed the prince south, why they walked at his heel and lingered on his command, were mysteries that had nagged at Cregan like the chill gnaw of frost beneath his skin. Mysteries, it seemed, that Prince Aemond was in no rush to unravel.

Cregan's gaze shifted from the slumbering beast to the prince—to that one blue eye that gleamed like a shard of ice, and the faint smile carved like a scar upon his lips. Aemond Targaryen, with his riches, his ambitions, who offered gold for the inconvenience of a wolf-haunted wood.

A deal, then. A gamble, perhaps, but the Lord of Winterfell had gambled before, and he would again. "I imagine," Cregan spoke slowly, saying what they both knew would follow, "that Winterfell might accommodate your... friends, provided we are compensated for the wood, for the inconvenience." His lips twitched in what might have been the ghost of a smile, a hint of shrewdness flashing beneath the brooding. "The Wolfswood is vast, but nothing in the North is given freely, and I daresay your coffers might manage the expense."

"Of course," Aemond answered, seemingly amused at the attempt to fleece him. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

Silence fell between them then. For a moment, there was only the crackle of the hearth. "Then it is settled," Cregan said at last, with a final nod. "The lords shall hear your words, and your beasts shall have their wood. May the Gods watch over what comes of it."

"May they indeed," Aemond echoed, his attention turning fully then to the meal he was offered.