Hello, Drinor here. I'm happy to publish a new Chapter of A Hungry Dragon
If you want to Read 8 More Chapters Right Now. Search 'patreon.com/Drinor' on Websearch
Chapter 25, Chapter 26, Chapter 27, Chapter 28, Chapter 29, Chapter 30, Chapter 31, and Chapter 32 are already available for Patrons.
Jon Flint
The morning sun had barely crested Winterfell's eastern towers when Jon found himself perched on a narrow ledge forty feet above the courtyard, his fingers gripping stone. The cold autumn air bit at his face, but he barely noticed, his attention fixed on mastering a particularly challenging traverse he'd been attempting for weeks.
Just a bit further, he thought, stretching his left hand toward a crack in the mortar that would serve as his next handhold. His muscles burned from the effort, and he could feel the familiar rush of being somewhere no one else in Winterfell could reach. Well, except maybe Bran when he got older, that boy had spider's blood in him for certain.
The sound of horses and wheels on cobblestone drifted up from below. Jon twisted his head, purple eyes looking the main gate where a small procession was entering. The Dustin colors flew from the lead rider's lance, barrows and axes on russet. Uncle Benjen had arrived.
Jon reversed his climb, descending the tower face. He'd discovered years ago that going down was often harder than going up, but also more thrilling. His boots found purchase on ledges barely wider than his toes, hands flowing from hold to hold.
He dropped the last eight feet, landing in a crouch that absorbed the impact. A few servants loading barrels nearby jumped at his sudden appearance.
"Seven hells, Lord Jon!" one of them gasped, hand over his heart. "You'll kill yourself one of these days, climbing like that."
"Haven't yet, Harwin," Jon replied with a grin, brushing stone dust from his hands. "Though if I do, at least it'll make for an interesting story."
He jogged toward the main courtyard, arriving just as the Dustin party came to a halt. Uncle Benjen dismounted first, moving carefully. The scar on his throat was barely visible above his high collar, but Jon knew it was there.
"My son," Lyarra stepped forward first, her grey eyes looking at Benjen's face with a mother's concern. She reached up to touch his cheek gently, and Jon saw his uncle's eyes close briefly.
"Mother," Benjen rasped.
"Ned," Benjen rasped as his brother approached, and Jon knew that it caused him pain to speak. He pulled his brother into an embrace.
"Brother," Ned replied warmly. "Welcome home."
Lady Barbrey descended from the wheelhouse with her usual severe grace, her iron-grey streaked hair pulled back in a style that emphasized her sharp features. She inclined her head to Lyarra with perfect courtesy. "Lady Stark."
"Lady Dustin," Lyarra replied, and she added, "Thank you for bringing my son home to visit."
But Jon's attention was drawn to the two children who followed her.
Arthur Stark had grown considerably since Jon had last seen him. At eleven, he was all knobby knees and elbows, caught in that awkward stage between boy and man. He had his father's long face and dark hair, but his eyes—those were pure Dustin. Jon felt like he was looking at a male child version of Lady Dustin.
"Grandmother," Arthur said formally, bowing to Lyarra.
"Arthur," Lyarra said warmly, pulling him into a brief embrace that seemed to surprise the boy. "You've grown so tall. You'll be as tall as your father soon."
"Jon!" A small blur of dark hair and green wool launched itself at his legs. Joanna Stark, four years old, wrapped her arms around his knees.
"Lady Joanna," Jon said formally. "You've grown at least a foot since I saw you last."
"I'm going to be tall like Father!" she declared, tilting her head back to look up at him. Her grey eyes went wide. "Jon, I finally figured out why your eyes are purple. You are magic, aren't you?"
"Joanna," Lady Barbrey's voice carried a warning. "We've discussed this."
"But Mother, they're purple!" Joanna protested. "Like the flowers in your garden, but shinier!"
Jon knelt down to her level, speaking in a voice as if he was about to share a big secret. "Can you keep a secret?"
She nodded solemnly, dark curls bouncing.
"I'm actually part raven," he whispered. "That's how I can climb so high. But don't tell anyone—it would ruin my reputation as a normal lord."
Joanna giggled, then her eyes went even wider. "Can you teach me to climb? I want to be a raven too!"
"Absolutely not," Benjen rasped, though Jon caught the fond amusement in his damaged voice. "Bad enough... Jon scrambles about... like a squirrel. Won't have... my daughter... breaking her neck."
"I promise I won't break my neck, Father," Joanna said earnestly. "Just my legs maybe. Or an arm. But not my neck."
"How reassuring," Lady Barbrey said dryly.
Lyarra moved to Joanna, lifting her granddaughter into her arms. "My fierce little wolf," she murmured, pressing a kiss to Joanna's curls. "You're just like your aunt Lyanna was at your age—absolutely fearless."
Jon noticed how Benjen's face tightened slightly at the mention of his sister.
Barbrey Dustin looked at Jon with those penetrating eyes. "You've grown, Jon. And I hear you've been busy—candle guilds, trade innovations. Quite the young merchant prince."
"Just trying to be useful, Lady Dustin," Jon replied, standing and offering her a slight bow. "The North prospers when we all prosper."
"Hmm." She studied him a moment longer, then turned to help servants unload the wheelhouse.
Arthur had been hanging back, watching the interaction with those careful eyes. Jon approached him with an easy smile. "Arthur. You look more like your father every time I see you."
"People say that," Arthur replied. "Though Mother says I think like her."
"That's a dangerous combination," Jon said. "Your father's strength and your mother's mind? The North better watch out."
Arthur smiled. "I saw you climbing when we arrived. How did you stick to the wall like that? There weren't any ropes."
"Practice and strong fingers," Jon said, flexing his hands. "Plus knowing which stones are loose and which will hold your weight. Would you like me to show you some basics while you're here?"
Arthur's face brightened, then he carefully looked to Jon's right, and his eyes widened as if seeing a charging bear. "Mother would never allow it." He quickly added in a quiet voice.
"We don't have to tell her everything," Jon suggested. "Just some ground-level practice on the easier walls. Nothing that would get either of us in trouble."
Arthur glanced at his mother, then back at Jon. "Maybe," he said with a look of excitement in his eyes.
"Jon! Jon!" Joanna tugged at his sleeve. "If you're a raven, can you fly too?"
"Only when I fall," Jon said seriously. "But it's very brief, and the landing is terrible."
She laughed, a bright sound that drew smiles from everyone in earshot. Even Benjen's scarred face softened.
"Come," Ned said, gesturing toward the Great Keep. "Let's get you settled. The ride from Barrowton must have been tiring."
As they walked, Jon fell into step beside Arthur. The younger boy was watching everything—how the servants reacted to his father, the way Lady Stark emerged from the keep with a big welcoming smile, how Robb bounded down the steps to greet his cousins.
"You watch people," Jon observed quietly. "Like your mother does."
Arthur shot him a sharp look. "So do you. I remember from when I was younger, during the rebellion. You were always watching, even when you pretended not to be."
"It's a useful skill," Jon said. "Understanding people helps you help them better."
"Jon!" Arya came racing down the corridor, skidding to a halt just before crashing into the group. "Is it true? Did you really climb the Broken Tower backwards yesterday?"
"Sideways, actually," Jon corrected. "Backwards would be showing off."
"Everything you do is showing off," Arya said, but she was grinning. She noticed Arthur and Joanna. "Oh! Cousins! Arthur, do you still have that wooden sword Uncle Benjen made you?"
"It's in the wagon," Arthur said.
"Brilliant! We can spar later. I've gotten much better. I can almost beat Bran now, and he's only five, but he's really good for five, so it counts."
"Arya," Catelyn's voice carried from behind her, firm and disapproving. "You will not be sparring with anyone. You'll be spending time with Joanna and Sansa, learning proper needlework."
"Mother, no!" Arya's face fell dramatically. "Arthur and I were going to—"
"Arthur will be busy with Robb and Bran," Catelyn interrupted. "And you, young lady, have neglected your embroidery lessons for far too long. Lady Barbrey and I were just discussing how Joanna has already mastered her first sampler at only four years old."
Joanna beamed proudly while Arya looked horrified.
"But Mother—"
"No arguments, Arya. It's time you spent more time with girls your own age, learning appropriate skills." Catelyn's tone brooked no disagreement. "Septa Mordane is expecting you this afternoon."
Arya shot Jon a desperate look, as if he might somehow save her from this terrible fate. Jon gave her a sympathetic shrug but knew better than to interfere with Lady Stark's parenting decisions.
"This is completely unfair," Arya muttered under her breath, just loud enough for Jon to hear.
"Come now," Catelyn said, sounding like a proper lady, though Jon could see she was annoyed she had to do this in front of guests. She turned to Lady Barbrey. "Your usual chambers have been prepared. I have already ordered hot water to be prepared for your chambers,"
"That is appreciated," Barbrey replied formally.
As the group dispersed to their various chambers, Jon caught Benjen's arm gently. His uncle turned, one eyebrow raised in question.
"It's good to see you, Uncle," Jon said simply.
Benjen's scarred throat worked for a moment before he managed, "You too... wolf pup." The old nickname was rougher now. "We should... talk. Later. About... your ventures, Ned...mentioned some...thing in his...letter....Ice Houses?"
"Yes," Jon guessed. "I have proposals that might interest you and Lady Dustin."
"Always working... an angle," Benjen rasped, but there was pride in his damaged voice. "Your... grandmother's... influence."
"Among others," Jon agreed. "But family first, always. The North remembers, but the North also helps its own."
Benjen squeezed his shoulder once, firmly, then followed his wife up the stairs. Arthur lingered a moment, looking back at Jon.
"The climbing," he said quietly. "Were you serious about teaching me?"
"Tomorrow morning," Jon promised. "Before the sun's fully up. Meet me by the Hunter's Gate—hardly anyone uses it, and there's a good practice wall there."
Arthur nodded once, then hurried after his parents. But Joanna had managed to escape her nurse and came running back to Jon.
"You promised!" she said, grabbing his hand with both of her small ones. "You promised to teach me to be a raven!"
"I promised to teach you to climb," Jon corrected, letting her pull him toward the courtyard. "Being a raven takes years of practice and eating lots of old bread."
"I like bread," Joanna said seriously. "Especially with honey."
"Then you're halfway there already."
He lifted her up onto a low wall, keeping his hands on her waist for safety. "Now, the first rule of climbing is never letting go with both hands at the same time."
"That makes sense," she said, placing her small hands on the stone. "What's the second rule?"
"Always know your next move before you make it," Jon said, guiding her along the wall. "And the third rule?"
"What?" she asked, concentration furrowing her little brow.
"If someone asks if you can fly, the answer is always no."
She giggled again.
From an upper window, he caught a glimpse of Lady Barbrey watching them. Her expression was one of worry, but she didn't call Joanna away.
"Jon?" Joanna asked. "Why do you help everyone? The servants all smile when they talk about you."
It was an unexpectedly perceptive question from a four-year-old. Jon considered how to answer.
"Because when you help people, they remember," he said finally. "And when winter comes, we all need people who remember us kindly."
"Winter is coming," Joanna said solemnly, the Stark words sounding oddly profound in her small voice.
"Yes," Jon agreed, looking north toward the Wall that waited in the distance. "It always is."
The abandoned tower room that Jon had claimed as his workshop sat in the oldest part of Winterfell, accessible only through a narrow servant's stair that most people had forgotten existed. Jon led Arthur and Robb up the winding steps, their footsteps echoing off ancient stone that predated even Brandon the Builder's oldest walls.
"Watch your head here," Jon warned, ducking under a low beam that had caught Robb more than once over the years. "The builders didn't expect people to grow as tall as we northerners do now."
"Ow, fuck!" Robb cursed, rubbing his forehead where he'd clipped the beam anyway. "Every bloody time. You'd think I'd learn."
Arthur ducked carefully, his eyes taking in the defensive advantages of the narrow stairway. "Good position," he observed. "One man could hold this against twenty."
"That's what I thought too," Jon agreed, pushing open the heavy oak door at the top. "Plus, nobody bothers climbing all these stairs just to snoop."
The workshop beyond was Jon's domain entirely. Tables lined the walls, covered with various projects in different stages of completion. Sunlight streamed through a single window that overlooked the godswood, and the air smelled of beeswax, tallow, and the sharp scent of metal oils.
"Seven hells, Jon," Robb said, moving to examine a collection of candles arranged by color and size. "You've been busy since last week. Are these the new ones with the berry wax?"
"Blackberry and bayberry mixed with regular beeswax," Jon confirmed, lighting one with a taper. "Burns forty percent longer than standard candles, and the smoke actually smells pleasant. The brothels in Wintertown are already asking for them exclusively."
Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Brothels?"
"They're my best customers for innovation," Jon said with a shrug. "They pay premium for ambiance. Ross says—" He caught himself, glancing at Robb who was trying not to grin. "The proprietor says atmosphere is half of what they're selling."
"Ross," Arthur repeated, his mother's calculating look appearing on his young face. "You're on first-name basis with a brothel owner?"
"I'm on first-name basis with half the merchants in Wintertown," Jon deflected smoothly. "It's good business."
Robb snorted. "Is that what we're calling it now?"
Jon ignored him, moving to another table where he'd been experimenting with different wick materials. "The real breakthrough is using braided cotton instead of rush pith. It burns more evenly and doesn't need constant trimming."
Arthur picked up one of the experimental candles, examining it with genuine interest. "Mother would be interested in this. She complains constantly about the smoke from regular candles damaging her books."
"I'll send some back with you," Jon offered. "The recipe too, if she wants her own chandler to make them."
"Generous," Arthur noted, and Jon could hear the unspoken question—what's the catch?
"Family helping family," Jon said simply, then grinned. "Plus, if Lady Dustin likes them, every noble house in the North will want them. Sometimes the best advertising is giving away samples to the right people."
"Clever," Arthur said. He wandered to another table where Jon had various tools laid out. "What's this?"
Jon hesitated for a moment. The leather bracer lay innocuously among other leatherworking projects, but Arthur had already noticed the unusual metal fixtures.
"Something I've been working on," Jon said carefully. "A bit more... martial than candles."
Robb perked up immediately. "Is this the thing you wouldn't show me last week? You said it wasn't ready."
"It's ready now." Jon picked up the bracer, strapping it to his left forearm. It looked like a slightly bulky archer's guard, well-made but unremarkable. "Though I'm not sure how practical it really is."
"What does it do?" Arthur asked, leaning closer.
Jon flexed his wrist in a specific way, tensing particular muscles in his forearm. With a soft snick, a blade shot out from beneath his wrist, extending about six inches past his closed fist. The metal gleamed wickedly sharp.
Arthur's eyes went wide. "That's so amazing!!. How does it work?"
"Spring-loaded mechanism," Jon explained, demonstrating the release again. "The trigger is pressure-based—you have to flex your arm just right." He showed them the underside of the bracer where thin metal plates lay flush against the leather. "Press here and here simultaneously while pulling these tendons tight, and..."
The blade shot out again.
"The idea came from watching how a cat's claws work," Jon continued, warming to the subject. "Hidden until needed, then deployed instantly."
"Can I try?" Robb asked eagerly.
"Let Arthur first," Jon said, unstrapping the device. "He's got smaller wrists—it'll fit better."
Arthur took the bracer with reverent care, examining the mechanism before strapping it on. It took him three tries to get the activation right, but when the blade finally deployed, his face lit up like a candle.
"This is incredible," Arthur said, experimenting with the trigger mechanism. "But what about reliability? Springs can break, especially small ones under tension."
"Good question," Jon admitted. "That's why I've been testing it daily for a month. So far it's deployed successfully..." He checked a small notebook on the table, "two hundred and thirty-seven times without failure."
"What about in combat?" Arthur pressed. "If you're grappling, or if blood gets in the mechanism?"
"Haven't tested that yet," Jon said. "Though I did submerge it in water and mud. The blade still deployed, though it was slower."
"Show us on something," Robb suggested, gesturing to the practice dummy in the corner—a stuffed leather torso Jon used for testing throwing knives.
Jon strapped the bracer back on and approached the dummy. He threw a few practice punches first, getting a feel for the weight, then activated the mechanism mid-swing. The blade punched into the leather, penetrating about three inches.
"The angle's tricky," Jon admitted, working the blade free. "It's not like a regular knife where you can adjust your grip. You have to commit to the thrust."
"Still," Arthur said, "in close quarters, when someone thinks you're unarmed..."
"Exactly," Jon agreed. "It's not meant to replace a sword. It's for those moments when a hidden advantage could save your life."
"Or end someone else's," Arthur observed quietly.
"Have you ever..." Arthur started, then stopped himself.
"Killed someone?" Jon finished. "Not with this. But yes." He thought of the wildling woman, of the cold satisfaction he'd felt watching her die. "Sometimes killing is necessary."
Arthur nodded slowly. "Mother says killing is just another tool. The key is knowing when to use it and when to set it aside."
"Your mother is wise," Jon said, then lightened his tone deliberately. "Though I'd rather she didn't know about this particular tool. She'd probably have insights I haven't thought of, and that's terrifying."
The door burst open. Joanna stood there in a new dress—green wool with silver embroidery that brought out the Stark grey in her eyes. Her dark curls were tied back with a matching ribbon, and she'd clearly escaped from whatever formal occasion she was supposed to be attending.
"Arthur!" she announced, spreading her skirts wide. "Look! Mother made me wear this for the feast tonight. Do I look pretty?"
Arthur's serious demeanor softened immediately. "You look like a princess, Jo."
She giggled, spinning in a circle that made the skirts bell out. "Really? Not like a lady?"
"Definitely a princess," Arthur assured her. "The kind from stories who secretly knows how to use a sword."
"Yes!" Joanna exclaimed. "Exactly that kind!" She noticed the bracer on Jon's arm. "What's that?"
"Just a leather guard," Jon said quickly, triggering the mechanism to retract the blade before she could see it. "For archery."
"Oh." She looked disappointed. "I thought it might be something exciting." Her attention shifted to the candles. "These are pretty! Can I have one for my room? The red one?"
"That one's made with dragon pepper oil," Jon warned. "It gets very hot. How about this blue one instead? It smells like winter roses."
"Mother's favorite flower," Joanna said, accepting the candle carefully. "She has a pressed one from when she was young. She won't tell me where it came from, but sometimes she looks sad when she sees it."
"Are you coming to the feast?" Joanna asked Jon. "Father says you sing better than anyone in Winterfell."
"Uncle Benjen is too kind," Jon deflected. "His voice before..." He trailed off, not wanting to mention the injury in front of Joanna.
"Before the bad men hurt him," Joanna said matter-of-factly. "I know about that. Mother says they tried to kill Uncle Ned but got Father instead because they were stupid."
"Jo," Arthur said warningly.
"What? It's true." She turned back to Jon. "Will you sing 'The Bear and the Maiden Fair'? It makes Father smile."
"Maybe something more appropriate for a formal feast," Jon suggested.
"Boring," Joanna pronounced. "Formal feasts are boring. Everyone sits still and uses too many forks and talks about things that don't matter."
"Like what?" Robb asked, amused.
"Like grain prices and bridge repairs and who married who," Joanna listed, clearly parroting conversations she'd overheard. "Why do adults care so much about bridges?"
"Because they help people get places," Arthur explained patiently.
"Boats are better," Joanna declared. "Or climbing, like Jon does. Did you see him earlier? He was on the tower like a spider!"
"We saw," Arthur said. "And no, I'm not teaching you to climb like that."
"Jon will," Joanna said confidently. "Won't you, Jon?"
"Basic climbing," Jon clarified. "On very low walls. With lots of supervision."
"That's what you say now," Joanna grinned. "But I'm very persistent. Father says I could wear down stone with asking."
"I believe it," Jon muttered.
A bell tolled somewhere in the castle, and Joanna's eyes widened. "Oh no! I'm supposed to be at lessons! Septa Mordane will be furious!" She grabbed her skirts and ran for the door, then paused. "Don't tell Mother you saw me!"
She was gone before any of them could respond, her footsteps pattering down the stairs like a tiny storm.
"She's going to be trouble when she's older," Robb observed.
"She's trouble now," Arthur said with clear affection. "Last month she convinced three stable boys to help her build a siege weapon out of kitchen spoons and leather strips. It actually worked—launched apples clear across the courtyard."
"Brilliant," Jon laughed. "What did Lady Dustin say?"
"She made Joanna calculate the exact angle and force needed for maximum distance," Arthur said. "Then made her write an essay about the principles involved. Jo loved every minute of it."
"Your mother turns everything into a lesson," Robb said.
"Everything IS a lesson," Arthur replied. "That's what she says, anyway."
Jon moved to put away the hidden blade bracer, wrapping it carefully in oiled cloth. "Your mother's right, as usual. Even this conversation is teaching us something."
"What?" Robb asked.
"That Joanna's going to be running the North in twenty years if we're not careful," Jon said with a grin.
Arthur's smile appeared again. "Mother says the same thing. Usually while holding her head like it hurts."
They spent another hour in the workshop, Jon showing them various other projects—improved arrow designs, a water clock he was trying to perfect, and his failed attempts at making glass clear enough for proper windows.
Three Days Later
Jon stood before the heavy oak door of Lord Stark's solar, his arms full of rolled parchments and his mind running through the presentation one more time. He'd spent three days preparing these plans, double-checking every calculation with Maester Luwin and refining his cost estimates until they were razor-sharp.
Don't oversell it, he reminded himself. Let the numbers speak.
The door opened, and he found himself facing a formidable collection of northern authority. Father sat behind his desk, fingers steepled, with Lyarra seated to his right in a high-backed chair that made her look like a queen holding court rather than a grandmother. Benjen and Lady Barbrey occupied the chairs opposite, while Maester Luwin stood near a side table with his own collection of documents.
"Jon," Ned said warmly. "Come, show us these ice houses that have Luwin so excited."
Jon moved to the large table Ned had cleared for this purpose, spreading out his largest drawing first—a cross-section view of the proposed structure. He noticed Lady Barbrey lean forward immediately.
"The basic principle is simple," Jon began, his voice steady despite the scrutiny. "We dig down twelve feet, line the pit with stones and mortar, then build up walls of double thickness with dead air between them for insulation."
"Dead air?" Benjen rasped.
"Air that doesn't move," Jon explained, pointing to the gap in his drawing. "Moving air carries heat away. Still air acts like a barrier. We pack the space with dried sawdust or straw for extra insulation."
"Where did you learn this?" Lyarra asked.
"From thinking about why snow keeps things cold even when it's not actively freezing," Jon said, meeting his grandmother's gaze. "And from talking to hunters who've found perfectly preserved animals in glacier ice. Cold wants to stay cold—we just have to stop heat from getting in."
Lady Barbrey picked up one of his detail drawings. "This drainage system seems elaborate."
"It has to be," Jon said, feeling better the more he talked. "The biggest enemy isn't actually heat—it's water. When ice melts, even slowly, the water has to go somewhere. If it pools, it creates rot and ruins everything." He traced the drainage channels with his finger. "These lead to a gravel sump that feeds into the regular castle drainage. The ice stays dry, the melt water goes away, everyone wins."
"And the cost?" Lady Barbrey asked, cutting straight to the painful bit.
Jon pulled out another parchment covered in neat columns of figures. "Initial construction for a structure this size—enough to serve Winterfell's needs—would be about three hundred gold dragons. That includes labor, materials, and the initial ice harvest."
Benjen made a choking sound that might have been shock. Three hundred gold dragons was serious money.
"However," Jon continued quickly, "the savings begin immediately. Right now, Winterfell loses approximately eight hundred dragons worth of food to spoilage every year, especially during the long summers when preservation is hardest."
"Eight hundred?" Ned frowned. "That seems high."
Maester Luwin cleared his throat. "I've verified Jon's calculations, my lord. Between meat that goes bad, milk that sours, vegetables that rot, and the cost of extra salt and smoking wood for preservation, the figure is actually conservative."
"So it pays for itself in six months," Lady Barbrey observed, her tone suggesting she'd already done the math in her head.
"It will save money during Summer, and save lives during Winter," Jon corrected. "But that's just Winterfell. The real opportunity is broader implementation." He unrolled another drawing—a map of the North with strategic locations marked. "Ice houses in every major holdfast and town. Shared facilities that multiple families can use. Imagine if every fishing village could keep their catch fresh for weeks instead of days."
"Ambitious," Lyarra murmured.
"The North has two resources in abundance," Jon said, allowing passion to enter his voice. "Cold and community. We should use both."
"Pretty words," Lady Barbrey said. "But Barrowton sits farther south than Winterfell. Will these ice houses work where winters are milder?"
Jon had been waiting for this question. "Barrowton has something Winterfell doesn't—the Barrowlands themselves. Natural caves that stay cool year-round. You wouldn't need to dig; you'd just need to modify existing caverns. Cheaper and more efficient."
He saw the spark of interest in her eyes and pressed on. "Plus, Barrowton has the best fishing lakes in the North. Salmon, trout, pike—all of which taste better fresh than smoked."
"Which brings us to the proposal," Ned said, leaning back in his chair. "Jon has suggested a specific arrangement with House Dustin."
Jon took a breath. "House Dustin receives complete plans and technical assistance for building ice houses, at a thirty percent reduction from what I'd charge other houses."
"Generous," Lady Barbrey said dryly. "What do you want in return?"
"A trade." Jon met her eyes directly. "House Dustin commits to sending fifty barrels of preserved fish monthly to Castle Black. Preserved in ice, not salt, so the Night's Watch gets fresh food even in winter."
The room went quiet. Benjen tried to speak, his scarred throat working, but only managed a wheeze. Lady Barbrey touched his arm gently and spoke for him.
"My husband would like to know why you care so much about the Wall."
"Because the Wall protects us all," he said simply. "Not from wildlings—they're just people trying to survive. But from whatever made the Wall necessary in the first place. Eight thousand years ago, something scared men badly enough that they built a wall of ice seven hundred feet high and three hundred miles long. That kind of fear doesn't come from nothing."
He looked at each of them in turn. "The Night's Watch is down to less than a thousand men. They're forgotten, underfunded, treated like a dumping ground for criminals and third sons. But when winter comes—real winter, not just cold and snow—they're all that stands between the North and whatever lives beyond the Wall."
"Ghost stories," Lady Barbrey said dismissively.
"Maybe," Jon agreed. "But even if you don't believe in Others or wights or any of that, consider this: a thousand men can't hold three hundred miles of Wall. If they're weak, if they're hungry, if they feel abandoned, what stops them from just... leaving? Opening the gates and letting whatever's out there come through?"
Benjen made another attempt to speak, "Brothers... before... strangers."
"Exactly," Jon said, grateful for his uncle's support. "The Night's Watch aren't our burden—they're our brothers. Feeding them costs us almost nothing with proper preservation, but it reminds them that the North remembers. That they matter."
Lyarra had been silent throughout, watching Jon with an expression he couldn't read. Now she spoke.
"You speak passionately about the Watch, grandson. Such passion for an institution most lords view as a frozen prison."
Jon felt the weight of her stare—not quite suspicious, but certainly evaluating. She was testing him somehow, though he wasn't sure for what.
"Grandfather Flint told me once that the strongest walls aren't made of stone or ice—they're made of loyalty," Jon said, meeting her gaze steadily. "Every barrel of fish we send to the Wall builds that loyalty. Every brother who eats fresh food instead of salt beef remembers that the North cares."
He spread his hands. "And selfishly? When I inherit Breakstone Hill, I'll be one of the lords closest to the Wall. If trouble comes from the Wildlings, I'd rather have a thousand grateful brothers at my back than a thousand bitter, forgotten men who might just step aside and let that trouble through."
"A practical view. Very... forward-thinking for one so young."
The room fell silent. Jon could hear his own heartbeat, wondering if he'd said too much or too little. Then Benjen started laughing—a horrible, raspy sound that was nonetheless genuine.
"Ned," he wheezed, "boy... thinks... like... mother."
Lyarra's lips curved slightly. "He does at that. Though perhaps with more... ambition."
The way she said 'ambition' made Jon wonder what she really meant, but before he could dwell on it, Lady Barbrey and Benjen exchanged a long look, conducting one of those silent conversations that long-married couples perfect. Finally, she nodded.
"Your terms are acceptable," Lady Barbrey said. "House Dustin will provide fifty barrels of fish monthly to the Wall, preserved in ice once the ice houses are operational. In exchange, we receive the plans and your personal assistance in the initial construction."
"Agreed," Jon said, trying not to let his relief show.
Ned stood, and everyone else rose with him. "Then let's make it formal."
They arranged themselves in a circle, and Ned spoke the traditional words: "Before the old gods and the new, let this compact be sealed. House Stark witnesses the agreement between House Flint and House Dustin, for the good of the North."
They clasped hands—first Jon and Benjen, the rasp of his uncle's calluses familiar from childhood hugs. Then Jon and Lady Barbrey, her grip surprisingly strong. Finally, a round of handshakes among all present, sealing the deal with personal honor as much as formal words.
As they filed out of the solar later, Lyarra caught Jon's arm, holding him back. When they were alone, she studied his face with those grey eyes that seemed to see through steel and stone alike.
"You remind me of someone," she said quietly. "Always three steps ahead of where others think you are."
Jon met her gaze steadily. "I'm trying to make the North stronger, Grandmother. That's all."
"I'm sure you are." Her fingers tightened briefly on his arm. "Just remember, clever boy—the North has weathered eight thousand years of winter. Whatever games you're playing, make sure they serve the pack, not just the player."
"I'm not playing games," Jon said carefully.
"No?" She released his arm, something almost like amusement in her eyes. "Then you're the first person in history to gain power without them."
If you want to Read 8 More Chapters Right Now. Search 'patreon.com/Drinor' on Websearch