Chương 17: Waiting and Thinking

A slow ache gnawed at my head again — the thumping was fading, but still there. I put it down to warging into Hedwig too often, though I could probably ease off my training a little. I wanted to master it as soon as possible, and waiting on Benjen's letter was wearing on me day by day. Weeks had passed since Benjen had ridden north back to the Wall with his black brothers, tasked with convincing Lord Commander Mormont to let the Thenns and giants cross south to bend the knee and serve the Starks and the North.

He carried the contract with him, sealed with Father's own hand, along with a letter explaining why this mattered to the Starks and to the North as a whole, and how it would ease some of the pressure on the Wall besides. The silence since had hung heavy. Even understanding the politics of it, Benjen and Jeor might well have trouble bringing the whole of the Watch around before they could move forward, or at least the majority of it.

I didn't like having my plans out of sight, but I wasn't especially worried about old Mormont stirring up trouble either. He'd want to scrub the shame his son Jorah had left on their name. Even sworn to the Watch, forsaking his house in name, I knew the old bear still carried the weight of it — the shame, the disappointment in his son's actions. In Westeros, blood ties didn't snap so easily no matter the vows, be it to the Night's Watch, the Faith, the Maesters, or the Kingsguard.

I'd seen it in the show: septons from House Hightower, maesters of noble lines, all still pulling strings for their kin. Jeor would be no different. Jorah's fall into slave trading after the Greyjoy rebellion had gutted the Mormonts' honor.

With that sting still fresh, I had little doubt he'd back Benjen and arrange the meeting — sooner rather than later, I hoped, though I knew the Watch would still have its own trouble finding the Thenns, tracking the giants, and giving them time to argue among themselves before any decision came. They'd come, though. That much I was sure of. The Stark name stretched back thousands of years, echoing on both sides of the Wall for good or ill depending who you asked, but it still carried real weight and respect.

It would help as a lure too — a promise of safety from rival clans, and worse, from the White Walkers, who should already be stirring somewhat past the Wall by now. They'd bend the knee for that alone. I stood up from the chair in the guardhouse where I'd been sitting and thinking, my joints stiff from too long in one place, and stepped out into Winterfell's bustle.

Maids hauled water in sloshing buckets, guards traded blows in the yard, some of them using my training methods, and somewhere the wind whistled through the gaps in a broken tower. It was one thing to watch this world flicker across a screen, I thought, but to live in it, for months now — the cold stone underfoot, the sharp air in my lungs — was something else entirely. A medieval fanboy's dream.

I wouldn't be reshaping Europe's history like some god playing Age of Empires or Crusader Kings, and I couldn't change the fate of the Romans or any of the sixteen German states, but I had the chance to shift Westeros, and I meant to take it, especially given the luck of being made heir to a house older than memory itself. I let the thought settle, then turned my mind to one of the other projects I wanted to see through before the first war ever kicked off: Wintertown.

It hadn't amounted to much in the books or the show — just a refuge for the mountain clans and villagers when winter bit too hard. But it could be more. I'd set up a meeting with Vayon Poole, the steward who kept Winterfell's books and oversaw the town's upkeep. I found him at the gate, wrapped in furs against a chill that barely touched me. I wore only a tunic, leathers, and a cloak — the cold no more than a faint whisper against my skin these days, a quirk the household had mostly stopped questioning by now.

I stopped beside him as he kicked at a lump of mud frozen solid in the churned street.

"How've you been, Vayon?" I asked, keeping it easy, since I hadn't made much of a habit of chatting with him beyond chores or requests passed along through Jory.

"I've got some ideas for Wintertown I'd like to talk about, and I'd appreciate your reading them." He smiled, pleasant and warm.

"Mostly free today, my lord, since I knew we'd meet. What's on your mind?"

"The roads through Winter Town, and the settlements around it," I said, nodding at the mess underfoot.

"Any way to make them less of a hazard? Father's given me leave to improve the town, but it's got to be cheap. No big costs, just some clever fixes unless we really need it." Vayon scratched his beard, thinking it over.

"Better roads would help, but the North's mud and snow fight back on any thought of that, weather always undoes most efforts."

"True," I said, crossing my arms.

"But I've been talking with Maester Luwin. We found some older Riverlands and Northern tricks for shifting water and mud to keep the ground firm. They've rivers aplenty down there, and it seemed to serve them well enough in the past." He frowned, curious.

"Shift the water? How? Digging?"

"Shallow trenches along the sides," I explained.

"Runoff flows off instead of pooling. Add sawdust to pack the earth, and the merchants could haul bags of it on their way through, spreading it over the main paths as they go. Keeps things solid, speeds up travel, especially through town — and if we supplied the sawdust ourselves, the merchants would know it'd help them on the return trip too, so they'd likely do the work gladly, since they'd be taking the roads regardless." Internally, I cursed the North's almost endless snow.

If it weren't for that, I'd have pushed for wooden tracks, the kind used in the Westerosi mines — link the North's hubs together properly. But snow would bury them fast, and I didn't know enough about steam engines to dream any bigger than that, not that I wanted to drag this society that far from its own footing anyway. Vayon nodded.

"Trenches could work. Sawdust and broken stone's cheaper than buying proper stone, though it takes more labor. Who'd do the work? Your father's not one for spending coins better saved for grain in a long winter, so hired hands are mostly out."

"Smallfolk from town or the castle," I said.

"A bit of coin for extra hours, even spare ones. The guards, off-shift, could pitch in too — I'd call it training, and lead the start of it myself, so it reads as training rather than common labor. They'd still get paid, even if it's modest. Keeps them fit, builds a little morale and good will with the town besides. It doesn't take much to sell it that way." He laughed, a rare sound from him.

"Unpaid labor dressed up as training? I never heard that one, Robb, your thinking is marvelous. I'll talk to the townsfolk, some of the craftsmen, and Jory about the guards." The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

"I'll leave it in your hands, then just keep me filled in so I can do my part," I said, clapping his shoulder.

"Even short-term fixes — better roads to the nearby settlements, or the king's road, or the keeps — could mean more trade and prosperity for the smallfolk, easier travel besides, and a stronger showing when we muster an army. This doesn't need to move fast, just steady. Thank you for taking this on — your work won't go unnoticed, by the people or by Father." I gripped his shoulder once, firm and grateful, and left it there.

I headed back toward Winterfell, skipping the training yard since I'd already put in my morning's work, and made for the library instead. I liked staying busy, pushing things forward, but for the moment it was mostly a waiting game.

I couldn't reshape the North overnight or even in a few months it would take many months and years to fully change it, but I could keep making smaller changes — staying mostly in the background, keeping things close to the story I knew, doing what needed doing quietly: removing Ramsay, training in the Old Tongue, arranging the meeting, working the contract for the Thenns and the giants. All of it would serve me well once the real story began, without risking my foreknowledge by changing too much too visibly.

Better roads for Wintertown fell into that same category — a longer-term project that wouldn't shake anything loose, just help me to set the stage. The South, the Lannisters especially, would go on seeing us as barbarians, grumpkin-haunted and backward — my best shield if rumors of giants ever surfaced. I doubted it would even come up, but if it did, we'd simply say Father had allowed a more civilized free folk clan to settle in the North. No direct mention of giants, which Father and Luwin had already agreed on.

I found Theon in the library, hunched over a book. He'd been digging more into his grandfather Quellon's ways lately — trade, numbers, Ironborn history — which Maester Luwin had mentioned to me once or twice, how he'd been helping the young Greyjoy along in his studies. I took the seat across from him and waited until he looked up with that Greyjoy smirk, the same one his more troublesome uncle and sister shared.

"What are you doing here, Robb?" he asked.

"Looking for a book to kill time," I said, leaning back. I hadn't read every tome in the library and never meant to, even with all the hours I'd already spent here. Still, I had the time, and in my old life I'd been a reader, the kind who found real escape in a good novel as my body grew older and frailer. Here, I had to balance that against steel and presence — a leader needed both, though leaning too hard into scrolls could irk the more martial lords.

I'd worked to keep my reputation as an heir who was both sharp and capable with a blade, which helped, along with being seen as gifted and favored by the Old Gods, my devotion doing more of that work than most people in the North realized.

"Anything catching your eye, Theon? More trade, or Ironborn roots?" He grimaced.

"Yeah. Seems my uncle and grandfather were more aligned than I'd thought, though I already knew my uncle backed my grandfather's views. I took your advice and wrote to my mother's side of the family. Uncle Rodrik's been more open than my father, who hasn't answered a single letter." He said it with a heated edge, fist clenching. I nodded, keeping my face steady. Balon Greyjoy had all but written Theon off — show or book, he'd raid the North with or without his son, condemning him to death either way.

In the show he'd more or less considered Theon dead already, which made the man look even more foolish, given his son had been taken as ransom for his own failed rebellion. Wouldn't he rather have the honorable, quiet wolf raising his last living son than Tywin Lannister himself? His character had never made much sense to me. But seeing Theon lean toward his uncle and grandfather's example this time, more than before, growing genuinely invested in it — that was a real win.

"Good that he's reaching out, looking after his sister's last son. What's he said so far? Can I ask?"

"My mother's healthy, but not well," Theon said, his voice dropping.

"I think I'm still a boy who'll come home. Uncle says it's common enough, women who've lost sons clinging to memories, lost in them. Father's stuck in old glories, bitter since his rebellion. And my sister — she's shaping up to replace me. Like I'm already dead to them." I reached over and gripped his shoulder, seeing the weight settle on him, and used the moment to lift him back up, hoping to deepen our brotherhood a little further.

"Theon. Kraken of Winterfell, honorary Stark. You're not dead, and I won't let you go down that easy. Your family might forget you, but the North won't — and if they try anything, I'll have your back on that, you can be sure of it. You're the true heir to the Iron Islands. With my backing, maybe Uncle Edmure's too, and your uncle's connections on top of your birthright, we'll show them if they ever step out of line. Ironborn and North together mean better trade and more strength for both our futures.

We'll hammer that home if we have to." He smirked, shaking my arm off.

"Wait — as the elder here, shouldn't I be the one comforting you? though truly thank you, Robb. It means a lot. Ned's been more of a father to me than mine ever was, and he won't even write nor does he seem to care about our people on islands but only for his own glory." I stood, grinning." You seem to need a distraction? care to show me up with that bow. I could use the practice, and you're still Winterfell's best shot." He smirked at that, rising as we left the library together, his mood lighter.

Inside, I was already turning over the bigger game. The Ironborn would likely fracture into two factions, maybe three — Theon at the head of one, his uncle the Crow's Eye leading another, his sister possibly joining Theon rather than backing their uncle.

If I could get Theon to take Casterly Rock with his uncle's men and ships, perhaps with some help from Manderly's fleet, I could hit the Westerlands hard, the same way canon had — bypassing the Golden Tooth by the goat path, sacking Lannisport in the process. Meanwhile Theon's group could use the hidden entrance under the cliffs that Tyrion had once described in the show, the one he'd mentioned he used for slipping prostitutes into the Rock on his way to the Wall.

With that knowledge in hand, I could outmaneuver Tywin entirely, shattering his reputation and building my own further than even the show or books had managed, after breaking his first two armies. Which set me thinking on the next opportunity down the line — killing the Mountain early, maybe with a hidden crossbow unit tucked into the vanguard of whatever distraction force Roose had originally led, though I'd have Karstark lead it this time instead.

If things played out well, I'd have Casterly Rock and Gregor Clegane both dealt with, stacking my advantages and victories over the Lannisters well past what canon Robb had ever managed.

If Theon could claim the Rock from the lions for the krakens, he'd earn the support of the rest of the Iron Islands solidifying himself as the true ruler of the iron islands before his uncle could show up and for helping take a part of the mainland, and with me as the king who allowed that kind of land grant, it would work out well for everyone involved.

Tywin had rebuilt his family's reputation once already, though not kindly, so letting his son, or some other house, take up rule of the Westerlands after his armies had all been broken would let me tie the West to me more easily than ever. With those thoughts turning behind a smirk, I followed Theon out to practice with the bow, the old ache in my head, along with my lingering worry over Benjen's silence, both fading for now.