The King in the North

The midday sun hung low in the sky, its light pale and distant over Winter Town. Even at its peak, the North never truly lost its chill, and here among the narrow streets and busy markets, the air carried the crisp bite of approaching winter. Robb Stark and his companions made their way through the crowd, the scents of roasting venison, fresh bread, and tanned leather mingling with the earthy aroma of snow-dampened wood.

Fenrir padded close to Robb's side, his black fur blending with the moving throng, but his size alone ensured no one dared step too close. Nearby, Ghost's pale form moved like a shadow between the wooden stalls, his red eyes glinting beneath the cover of hanging furs and stacked barrels.

As Theon tore into his second meat skewer with a satisfied hum, Lyanna watched the townsfolk with quiet intensity. She was noting things, much like Robb—the way some merchants had thinner wares, the way some faces bore lines of worry even as they laughed.

Jon, ever the watchful one, kept his hand near his belt knife, eyes flicking over the edges of the alleys as they passed.

"You always expect the worst," Theon said, nudging him.

Jon didn't take his eyes off the street ahead. "Not the worst. Just trouble."

"Isn't that the same thing?"

Before Jon could reply, Robb slowed his horse near a gathering of watchmen near the town's center. A few armored guards stood conversing with an older man, their faces set with grim expressions. As Robb approached, the conversation halted, and the elder of the group, a grizzled Northman with a weathered beard, inclined his head.

"My lord Stark," the man greeted. "Didn't expect to see you out here today."

"I wanted to see the town for myself," Robb said, dismounting smoothly. "And now that I'm here, I hear talk of bandits troubling the roads. What can you tell me?"

The man, whom Robb now recognized as Captain Halward, scratched his beard. "Aye, we've had trouble, my lord. Small groups at first—three, maybe four men at a time, harassing lone travelers and stealing supplies. But lately, it's grown worse. Some of the traders coming from the Wolfswood claim they've seen dozens moving through the trees at night, organized-like."

Robb exchanged a glance with Jon and Theon. Bandits weren't unheard of, but organized groups were another matter entirely.

"Any idea who leads them?" Lyanna asked, arms crossed.

Halward shook his head. "No names, but a few survivors say they saw a man in a tattered cloak giving orders. Not just some highwayman—he's got them moving like raiders, striking fast, disappearing into the woods before we can mount a proper chase."

"That doesn't sound like ordinary bandits," Jon muttered.

Halward nodded grimly. "It's not. These ones aren't just stealing grain or furs—they've taken horses, weapons, even carts of iron tools meant for the blacksmiths. If they're gearing up for something bigger, we need to root them out before they become a real threat."

Robb considered this. If armed outlaws were growing bold enough to challenge trade in Winter Town, the North had a problem.

"How many watchmen do you have patrolling the roads?"

"Not enough," Halward admitted. "We ride in pairs, but they're always gone before we get there. They know the land well."

"We need to draw them out," Lyanna said. "Give them a target they can't resist."

Jon exhaled, already knowing where this was going. "You mean bait."

"Not bait," Robb corrected. "A trap."

Theon grinned, tossing the remains of his skewer aside. "I do love a good hunt."

At the watchmen's outpost, Robb and his companions studied a rough map of the surrounding area, laid out on an old wooden table. The Wolfswood spread wide to the west, thick with twisting paths and hidden clearings—a perfect place for outlaws to disappear.

Robb traced a line along one of the lesser-used roads. "This is where most of the attacks have taken place?"

Halward nodded. "Aye. It's the main route for traders coming down from the mountain clans and northern holdfasts. They carry goods—iron, pelts, salted meat. If these raiders are targeting those supplies, they'll strike again soon."

Robb turned to Jon and Lyanna. "We'll send a small decoy caravan, something valuable enough to lure them out. When they attack, we'll be waiting."

Jon frowned. "And if they don't take the bait?"

Theon smirked. "Then we try again with something shinier."

Lyanna rolled her eyes, but there was a glimmer of approval in her expression. "It's a solid plan. But I should be on the wagon."

"No," Robb said immediately.

Lyanna's eyes flashed. "Why not? I'm more than capable."

"Because it's too dangerous," Robb countered. "I need you watching from the trees, covering the road in case something goes wrong."

She crossed her arms. "Fine. But if your plan fails, I'll say 'I told you so.'"

Robb smirked. "Wouldn't expect anything less."

They spent the next few hours refining the plan—a false trade wagon, escorted by disguised riders, hidden archers in the trees. With luck, they would uncover who was truly behind these raids and put an end to the threat before it spread.

*****

After hours of planning, negotiations with the watchmen, and ensuring their trap was ready to be set, Robb and his companions found themselves riding through the streets of Winter Town once again. The day had been long, but rewarding—the merchants and guards knew that House Stark was watching, listening, and that alone gave them some relief.

"We should return to Winterfell now," Jon said as they neared the main road leading back to the castle, but Theon groaned loudly.

"We could," Theon drawled, "or, and hear me out here, we could enjoy a proper drink before we lock ourselves away in that frozen fortress."

Lyanna, riding her black mare, raised an eyebrow. "A drink?"

"Not just a drink," Theon grinned, already nudging his horse in the direction of a familiar sign hanging over the entrance of a lively stone-and-wood tavern, nestled between two blacksmith shops. "A celebratory drink. We put in a good day's work, didn't we? Might as well toast to our success."

Robb considered for a moment. Normally, he would have brushed off Theon's suggestion and returned to Winterfell, but he felt the exhaustion in his bones, the stiffness in his shoulders from riding all day.

Jon sighed heavily, already knowing what was coming.

Robb smirked. "One drink."

Theon whooped.

Lyanna shrugged. "I won't say no to a warm meal."

Jon shook his head. "You three are going to be the death of me."

The tavern, known as The Frosted Tankard, was one of the better establishments in Winter Town—a place where merchants, hunters, and even the occasional lord's retainer gathered to share stories, laughter, and ale. It was warm inside, a welcome change from the crisp night air, and the scent of roasted meat, honeyed mead, and burning firewood filled the air.

The moment they stepped inside, heads turned. Robb wasn't wearing his usual Stark cloak, but his presence alone was enough to make the room quiet for a moment—then conversations resumed, though several people inclined their heads in respect.

The tavern keeper, a burly man with a thick beard and kind eyes, approached. "My lords." He nodded to Lyanna, adjusting his greeting with a respectful nod. "And my lady. A rare sight, having the Young Wolf and his friends in my humble hall."

"We're just here for a drink and a meal," Robb assured. "No titles tonight."

The man grinned. "Then let's get you settled."

They took a corner table, one that gave them a good view of the room. A serving girl brought out steaming bowls of venison stew, thick bread, and a pitcher of mead.

Theon filled his mug to the brim, raising it with exaggerated ceremony. "Here's to our noble efforts while others sleep soundly in their beds."

Robb chuckled, raising his own cup. "To the North."

Jon, shaking his head, lifted his own. "To getting through the night without Greyjoy embarrassing us."

Lyanna snorted. "I won't hold my breath."

Laughter erupted around the table.

As they ate and drank, the mood around them shifted from cautious respect to familiarity. A few older hunters shared stories of their time fighting off wildlings in the Frostfangs, while a group of blacksmiths debated whether Northern steel was superior to the blades forged in the Reach.

One man, already deep into his ale, leaned in toward their table with a grin. "Tell me, Young Wolf," he said to Robb. "They say your direwolf is as big as a horse and can tear a man in half. That true?"

Robb glanced down at Fenrir, who lay stretched beside his chair, his thick black fur blending into the shadows. The direwolf huffed, uninterested.

"You'll have to ask him," Robb said with a smirk.

The man laughed heartily, clapping his hands. "Hells, that beast looks like he could eat a bear."

"Not unless Greyjoy's cooking it," Jon quipped.

Theon rolled his eyes. "You burn one meal—"

Lyanna grinned. "One?"

The banter continued, the tension of the day slipping away as they drank, talked, and for a few precious hours, felt like the young warriors they were—before duty, before war, before fate would come knocking.

By the time they had settled into their meal and drink, the Wolf's Den was alive with laughter, music, and the familiar clatter of tankards against wood. The warmth of the tavern was a welcome contrast to the night's chill, and for the first time that day, Robb let himself relax.

Theon had already started his third cup of mead, regaling a small group of listeners with a dramatically exaggerated tale of how he once fought off a group of six bandits alone. Jon sat back, quietly enjoying the warmth of the fire, while Lyanna—despite her usual seriousness—had the faintest smirk at the ridiculous boasts being thrown around.

Just as Robb was finishing his drink, a voice caught his ear—a foreign accent, the clipped, flowing cadence of the Free Cities.

"By the Drowned God, I'd give my weight in gold to have cold ale like this in Braavos."

Robb glanced toward the source—a merchant, heavyset and balding, wiping foam from his lips after downing a frosted mug of ale. His companion, a leaner man dressed in fine blue silk, chuckled.

"You and me both," the second man sighed. "Nothing stays cold in the heat of Braavos. You drink fast or you drink warm."

The merchant sighed wistfully, rolling the cold tankard between his hands. "A shame, really. If a man could keep drinks chilled, he'd make a fortune back home."

Robb stilled.

It was an idle comment, meant as nothing more than a passing thought, but the words struck him in a way he hadn't expected.

Cold. In the heat of Braavos.

The North was known for its harsh winters, its deep snow and ice, its cold air that could freeze a man's bones. And yet, here in this small tavern, a merchant from across the sea longed for the very thing that the North had in abundance.

Robb swirled the last of his drink, his mind turning.

Could it be done? Could the North use its cold—its ice, its frost, its natural climate—as something more than just an obstacle to survive?

He had heard of southern lords building underground cellars to keep their wines cool, but what if it went beyond that? Could ice be stored? Transported? Used as a luxury good in the Free Cities?

A new market, untapped, unseen.

A grin played at the edge of his lips as he leaned back in his chair.

Theon, noticing his expression, raised an eyebrow. "What are you scheming now?"

Robb smirked, taking another sip of his ale. "Just a thought."

Jon, ever perceptive, studied him. "The kind of thought that leads to trouble?"

Robb laughed, shaking his head. "The kind that leads to opportunity." But the idea had taken root.

Perhaps the North had more to offer than just warriors and wolves.