Game of Thrones: Paladin of Old Gods

POV: Eddard Stark

On the Northern Grid, Tomb Road, about ten miles from Barrowton.

Year 289 A.C., the 29th day of the ninth moon.

Two days after a young Lord began to try his hand at the art of dancing, singing, and poetry...

The hour was late in the inn 'Hearth of the First King'. Named after the First King Dustin, who many historical sources assume was the First True King of the First Men.

Nearly all of the four hundred and twelve guard and refreshment facilities in the Northern Network were implemented with taverns, inns, and even small brothels.

After bonding, the Northern roads had long been the safest and quickest ways to travel.

Four hundred and twelve minor customs points where a small duty had to be paid per person (children under twelve excluded).

One penny per ten miles per person.

Three pennies for each horse (Services of fodder, watering and stable included).

One copper star for each pulling wagon (Horses, shovels or mules included).

Three copper stars for each merchant wagon (If the wagon carries merchant goods with a value of one gold dragon or more).

Security over people and property was guaranteed along the entire stretch of road by the House of the North to which the land belonged.

Each guard point had twenty Northern soldiers on patrol at the blockade point or stretch of road.

Ned Stark had recently asked the portentous genius of numbers how much profit he thought this customs point made. The comings and goings of people were really remarkable.

"I cannot give a precise answer, my lord. However, I can tell you that the average daily profit on the entire Northern Network in the last quarter was one hundred and nine silver deer and four pennies.

So, considering that your total customs points are sixteen... in tolls alone, minus a tenth to be paid to the Crown... So yes, House Stark should have earned an average of thirty-eight gold dragoons and nine silver moons per day. But there is a 0.8% margin of inaccuracy to consider, my lord.

If it brightens your evening, Lord Stark, I and my other accounting associates estimate that by the second quarter after the start of summer, traffic will increase by at least 320%. The temperature will rise, the roads will need less maintenance; therefore, maintenance costs should drop by a minimum of 34%, increasing average net income." Replied Ronan, son of Tom, the master of coinage in direct service of Torrhen's Square.

'The Old Gods bless this boy.

After Robert signs that damn Royal Bill, I swear by my Ancestors, I will personally ride to Torrhen's Square to make this "True Hero of the North" a Green Knight.' Ned thought as he eyed the tavern's interior filled with members of his guard, drunk, merry, and well-fed...

That bottomless, shameless pit of Ser Haymitch was simultaneously embracing two promiscuous, easygoing damsels. He could not deny his men a well-deserved celebratory revelry after fighting on the front lines in the name of the North and the House that protected it.

"Another drink! Ahahah! TAVERNIER! HEY, TAVERNIER! Fill up the mugs and cups for everyone! Yes, Yes... hick... mark it in my name!" Shouted Ser Haymitch.

"Have you got the money, Ser? I ain't seen one copper coin here yet!" So shrieked the tavernkeeper, stopping the hand of a maid intent on getting two more full jugs of wine.

"How dare you! You are... burgh... I am a Knight and a War Hero in the service of the Noble, Wealthy and Powerful House Stark!!! What do you take me for? For a drunken... burph... hick!... A drunken two-bit ragamuffin, by any chance?! PEOPLE! HEY PEOPLE! Another toast!... TO LORD EDDARD STARK!" Invoked Haymitch at the top of his lungs, jumping up on the table.

"TO LORD STARK!!! YEEAAAAHH!!!" Shrieked in unison, over a hundred people raised their glasses.

*Sbam!* Eddard involuntarily slammed his open hand down on the table.

'That's enough, Ser! This is the fourth glass you've offered, or rather, that "I" offer to the whole tavern!' Howled the Quiet Wolf inwardly, holding back a growl.

Ned breathed deeply and regained his composure.

"Are you all right, my lord?" Ronan asked, the only golden light in that dark tunnel of misery, debt, non-refundable loans and unpaid bills.

That mathematical genius, sent by Lord Leobald Tallhart to help him prepare for his next face-to-face meeting with Lady Barbrey Dustin, had been assisting him enormously over the past few days in understanding and learning how to best expound the critical points in his favour for the approval of the loan of Four Million Three Hundred and Thirty Thousand gold coins to be applied for from the CEO and Majority Shareholder of the newly prosperous Never Winter Bank.

Ned could not delay any longer... Postponing the meeting with the Widow of Barrowton would have been interpreted as a clear sign of offence and provocation.

If the King of the North had been forced to grovel at the feet of his rich and powerful sworn bishop, lest in future House Stark face the Titan and the Lighthouse with Winterfell's coffers and armoury empty, Ned, with effort and much spirit of sacrifice, would have swallowed his honour for the second time and done so...

Moreover, his Magical Hosts would arrive in White Harbor within less than a moon. Ned had many preparations to make... and so many noble and opulent people to entertain and feed...

Before he dismissed that boy and lay down on his bed, Ned needed to hear those candied and persuasive numbers.

Tomorrow would come, and he needed to at least give himself a more than deserved night's rest filled with dreams, plenty of gold, and hope.

"Please, Master of Coin Ronan... Before you take your leave, could you repeat House Stark's profit prospects on the Damascus Steel shield and armour trade?" He was well aware that this was the fourth time he had asked him the exact same question in two days, but Ned desperately needed it.

"Emm... of course, my Lord.

Suppose Grandmaster Mott can keep to the promised timetable, and Lord Duncan can advertise well in front of all the guests from Westeros and Essos who have currently confirmed participation. In that case, we estimate a minimum net profit in the first year of about eight hundred thousand gold dragons." Ronan replied with a slightly confused expression.

Ned closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, reciting an instant prayer to Seraphine, his Guardian and Protector, inside his head.

He could only blame himself for what had happened that night at the royal banquet in Pyke.

He had not worshipped and given thanks to the Old Gods that morning and even the two before, as was his custom. Hence the well-deserved divine punishment perpetuated in treachery by his childhood friend Robert.

After all, that boy had explained it to him.

['Three' is a number much encountered in stories of gods, prophecies, and magic.]

Three days after landing in Seagard and praying to the Old Gods in front of a Heart Tree for thirty minutes every morning, a messenger from the Old Ones comes.

A holy boy named Ronan. Sent to him to help him through his tribulations.

Another reason Ned was worried that day and needed repeated reassurance was because he couldn't find a Heart Tree that morning. So he prayed anyway but broke the ritual that had become a habit.

He revealed those superstitious concerns to no one. He was Lord Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Protector of the North in Westeros and King of the North in the eyes of the Gods and his bannermen, the Green Knights.

He could show no sign of supposed madness or weakness.

His main concern was that Ronan would abandon him to his fate the day before he was to meet that vengeful Witch who couldn't wait to pluck him alive. But the day was over - nothing terrible happened.

A few minutes passed, and Ronan stood up.

"With your permission, my Lord... Eh... Yes, I'll be right there. I beg your pardon, Lord Eddard. I will come at once to give you my greetings as soon as possible." Said the boy, interrupted by a whisper from one of his personal guards.

"Go ahead, Ronan. There will be no need for that. Go and get some rest." Ronan bowed as he passed Jory and the two guards on duty standing to protect their Lord.

About four minutes later...

Jory had just returned from settling Ser Haymitch's account.

Ned noticed the former purse bulging with silver on the Captain's belt return half empty.

Eddard finished the mug of dark ale and prepared to head for his rooms, but before he could turn toward the hallway, a familiar voice stopped him.

"Lord Stark! One moment please!" The guards recognized Ronan and let him pass.

"Yes, Ronan? Has something happened?" Ned asked. Ronan approached to relay the message quietly.

"A dispatch from Braavos, my Lord. From The Watcher...

The Watcher of the ' You-know-what' has failed to obtain permission from 'You-know-what' to have the escort fleet of 'You-know-who' remain off White Harbor waiting, my Lord..." Ronan.

"The Escort Fleet? How many ships did 'my honourable guest' bring with him? What's the problem anyway?" Ned.

"The problem, my Lord, is that only an escort of fifty sailors and fifty guards can remain on each war galley. A single extra man or woman will be interpreted as a gesture of war by 'you-know-who'. But 'you-know-who' does not trust his treasures and precious cargoes to be left in poorly guarded ships." Explained Ronan.

"Poorly guarded ships? Fifty sailors and fifty guards in Galea doesn't sound like too few. But how many ships are we talking about? More importantly, how big could these Galleys possibly be? " Ned didn't like the turn this discussion was taking at all...

"The only solution, my Lord. It is for the host Royal Household to ensure the safekeeping and safeguarding of 'You-Know-Who's' Personal Assets in Winterfell. But both parties demand that the remaining excessive retinue of 'You-Know-Who' not cross the castle walls for as long as 'You-Know-Who' remains within the borders of Westeros." Ned sighed with an air of surrender.

He was already aware that this visit would cost him another arm and a leg...he might as well give up an ear.

This is what happens when a mortal plays games with the Gods...

"Seraphine, help me..." Ned whispered imperceptibly before answering, "I understand, Ronan. Please tell the Master that it will be the burden and pleasure of House Stark to remedy this minor inconvenience.

We had already estimated our most respected and royal guest plus three hundred members of his retinue.

Do we already know how many more guests Winterfell will have to accommodate?" Ned asked with an unexpected tone of magnanimity and patience.

That boy had taken it upon himself to estimate the average daily expense for each host in Carcosa. However, the pin that pierced Ned's heart was the instructions and guidelines left by The Watcher's organization for his chief attendant.

Those damned rich Yi Ti people, born with a diamond-studded platinum spoon in their mouths, had very particular tastes and customs to satisfy...

Unless the royal Stark family wanted to show signs of discourtesy to the Chief Wizard of the Confederation of Wizards and Lord of Carcosa, every guest of the former Yellow Emperor of Yi Ti, whether noble or lowly born, had to be treated like a prince in the House that had received the honour and privilege of hosting him and his retinue.

Ronan had estimated an average daily cost per guest to be around the gold dragon...

'No! Stop thinking about the gold! I'm poisoning my mind...' Quiet Wolf thought, rubbing his sore eyes as he waited for Ronan's reply.

Ned was tired of constantly thinking about gold, debts and riches he might never get.

Money was necessary, of course, a means to make the world go round, but it wasn't everything.

He didn't want to be remembered by history, his children or his future grandchildren as "King Eddard Stark, The Greedy Wolf"...

"Here... That would be thirty Galleys with a crew aboard of about three hundred people each, along with the thousand on the flagship... emm plus or minus six thousand nine hundred additional guests, Lord Stark."

End POV.

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POV: The Widow of Barrowton.

Lady's Private Solarium, Barrowhall.

The morning after, a Greedy Wolf was forced to take three more drops of a life-saving mixture before going to bed...

"Lord Eddard Stark, my lady." Wylla (Tysha) announced, bowing.

"Please have our welcome guest take a seat. Thank you, Wylla."

The Lady of Barrowton's personal attendant bowed, taking her to leave the room.

Finally, the moment promised and longed for by the Widow of the last descendant of House Dustin arrived.

Barbrey still felt some resentment for the trick played by that white-haired demon boy... but at least he had to admit that Bloody Snow was an ally of his word.

That boy could literally move Kings and Queens wherever and whenever his devious plots dictated.

Lady Dustin wouldn't have bet a penny on Tywin Lannister.

To move that rancorous stone giant and convince him to form an alliance with the Targaryens and the Martells.

Barbrey still did not understand why Duncan was so determined to go all-in with the man, nor why he wanted the Lannisters to be the North's second greatest allies.

Gerion Lannister, he would have understood, but what about Old Lion?

Did he want to trust the man who had treacherously struck the capital, ordered twelve thousand men to sack a city and go on a rampage, and forced his son to witness the **** of poor Tysha?

That boy... No, that 'Player' did not move pieces on the chessboard without a precise purpose or motive...

Bloody Snow was probably aware of missing information within his own ranks.

This was no time to think about the Lion of Casterly Rock... now Barbrey would have to focus all his attention on the Wolf of Winterfell.

A tall, strong, well-combed and well-dressed man entered the room, accompanied by the sound of closing doors...

Barbrey stood up from his desk in a tree-like position and gave the newcomer a warm and welcoming smile.

Her predatory nose caught the scent of fear and discomfort from the meek Wolf King who had just entered her nest unarmed.

A fragrance that made the remembrance and vengeful Widow of Barrowton's mouth water.

A slight twinge in her heart made her reason return quickly.

It was a warning sign from the mighty seal of druidic magic clinging to her heart.

That blood pact sealed with one of the most powerful ritual magics of the Sons of the Forest, which she and the other fourteen Green Knights had made at the Eye of the Gods, bound them together for the rest of their days.

She could neither betray nor fail to answer the call for help of her King to whom she had sworn enduring loyalty before the eyes of the Old Gods...

But that didn't mean Barbrey couldn't have a little fun.

The woman was well aware of what she could and could not do in front of this man.

Like, for example, the 'forgetfulness' of the servants in offering her guest bread, salt, and mead at the entrance to Barrowhall...

"Your Grace, what an honour...

Your faithful vassal, Barbrey Dustin, Lady of Barrowton, Shield of Saltspear, Protector of Barrowlands, Green Knight in the service of the Old Gods and the First Men, as well as humble Trustee of the new and modest Never Winter Bank, welcomes you, Eddard of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Winter's First Defender and King In The North."

End Chapter.

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