Six moons passed since the heavy Northern carracks dropped anchor in the ruined bay of Hardhome.
In the North, those moons were measured in the steady ring of hammers, the firing of glass kilns, and the relentless stockpiling of dragonglass. But south of the Neck, where the true threat of the Long Night was nothing more than a nursery tale, those six moons were measured in ravens, whispers, and mounting paranoia.
The South did not know about the white shadows in the deep woods. They did not know about the dead men walking in the snow.
They only heard one explosive truth: Ned Stark is trading with the wildlings.
To the lords of the summer lands, this was not strategy. It was a combination of madness, treason, and unchecked ambition.
The small council chamber in the Red Keep was stiflingly warm, the air thick with the smell of beeswax candles and spilled wine. King Robert Baratheon sat at the head of the heavy oak table, a half-empty flagon in his hand, looking supremely bored.
Around him, his council was in an uproar.
"It is verified by three separate merchant captains out of Braavos and Gulltown, Your Grace," Lord Varys said, his powdered hands folded neatly in the wide sleeves of his silk robes. "Lord Stark's ships did not simply sail past the Wall to hunt. They anchored at Hardhome. They are trading food and weapons with wildlings."
"Weapons," Petyr Baelish murmured, leaning forward, his grey-green eyes glinting with calculated concern. "The Warden of the North is actively arming tens of thousands of savages beyond the Wall. He is building supply lines entirely independent of the Crown. One must ask, Your Grace, to what end?"
"To the end of treason, obviously," Grand Maester Pycelle croaked, his heavy chain of office clinking as he shook his head. "The Starks have always been proud, but this... this is consorting with the absolute enemies of the realm. It is madness. They say he is building a wildling army."
Robert took a deep pull from his flagon, wiping his beard with the back of his hand. He looked at his councilors, his blue eyes bloodshot but sharp.
And then, the King threw his head back and let out a booming, roaring laugh that shook the dust from the rafters.
"Madness?" Robert bellowed, slamming his cup down on the table. "Trading with wildlings? By the Gods, next you'll tell me he's married one!"
"Your Grace, this is no laughing matter," Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King, interjected gently, though his own weathered face showed deep lines of worry. "The wildlings have raided our northern shores for thousands of years. They steal women, they slaughter farmers. To give them steel—"
"Ned doesn't do anything without a reason, Jon, you know that better than anyone," Robert interrupted, waving a dismissive hand. "If he's giving them axes, it's probably so they can chop their own bloody firewood and stop bothering the Night's Watch."
Renly Baratheon, sitting near the foot of the table in a pristine velvet doublet, scoffed. "Wildlings are raiders, Robert. They are murderers. You don't trade with them. You kill them. Half the lords in the Stormlands are demanding sanctions. The Crown must intervene. We cannot allow a Warden to operate an independent kingdom that allies with savages."
Robert's amusement vanished in an instant. The jovial King was replaced by the hardened warrior who had smashed the Targaryen dynasty. He leaned forward, his massive frame casting a long shadow over the table.
"You listen to me, all of you," Robert growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "I trust ned with my life in the heat of battle. I know the man's heart. He doesn't have a treasonous bone in his body. I trust him with my back. If he says he needs to trade with a few shivering fools in the snow to keep his borders quiet, then let him."
"But Your Grace, the precedent—" Littlefinger began.
"Fuck off with your sanctions!" Robert roared, slamming his fist onto the wood so hard the inkpots rattled. "And tell the lords of the Stormlands to fuck off, too! The North pays its taxes. The North sends us their cursed smoked spirits that half of you are drinking right now. I will not hear another word of Ned Stark plotting a rebellion. The matter is closed."
Robert stood up, kicking his chair back, and stormed out of the council chambers, leaving a heavy, tense silence in his wake.
Varys looked at Baelish. Baelish looked at the door. The King had spoken, but in the game of thrones, a King's blind trust was merely an obstacle to be navigated, not a final answer.
"The King is loyal to his friend," Littlefinger noted quietly, adjusting his cuffs. "But the rumors will not be so easily commanded. They say the Wall has been compromised. They say the North no longer obeys the Iron Throne. The realm will demand answers, even if the King does not."
Further south, within the thick, storm-battered walls of Storm's End, the reaction was devoid of the King's blustering affection.
Stannis Baratheon stood rigidly by the heavy oak table in the Round Hall, a crushed parchment clenched in his fist. He ground his teeth, the sound audible in the quiet room.
"He arms savages," Stannis said, his voice hard as iron. "It is a direct violation of the King's peace. A Warden does not have the authority to treat with invaders."
His wife, Catelyn Baratheon, stood near the hearth, the flickering firelight catching her auburn hair. She had learned the measure of her rigid husband over the years. "Eddard Stark is known for his honor, my lord. If he is trading with wildlings, perhaps there is a threat in the deep woods we do not see."
Stannis turned his severe blue eyes upon her. "Honor does not excuse breaking the law, Catelyn. Robert waves it away because he loves the man. But love is not justice. If Stark is building a wildling army, he bypasses the Crown. He breeds instability. It must be answered for."
Far to the west, high atop the unyielding stone of Casterly Rock, Tywin Lannister stood before the massive window of his solar, looking out over the Sunset Sea.
The Lord of the Westerlands did not yell. He did not laugh. When his brother, Kevan Lannister, finished reading the compiled reports from their spies in White Harbor and the Riverlands, Tywin simply remained perfectly still.
"The rumors are wild, Tywin," Kevan said, rolling up the parchment. "They say the old gods are rising again. That Stark has bound the wildlings to his will using dark magic and is preparing to march on the south."
"Ignore the magic. Focus on the logistics," Tywin commanded, his voice cold, precise, and entirely devoid of emotion. He turned away from the window, walking over to his immaculate desk.
"Stark has spent the last decade turning the North from a frozen wasteland into an industrial fortress," Tywin stated, steepling his fingers. "He broke the Myrish monopoly on glass. He created a luxury trade in spirits that drains gold from Lannisport and Highgarden. He paved his roads. He built a fleet that outclasses the Ironborn. And now, instead of wasting his strength fighting wildling raiders, he has turned them into trading partners."
Kevan frowned. "You believe he is planning a rebellion?"
"I believe a lord who feeds his enemies today may march with them tomorrow," Tywin said flatly. "And the Faith is beginning to howl about it."
Tywin's pale green eyes gleamed with cold calculation. "Let the sparrows chirp. Religious fervor is a cheap, expendable weapon. If the High Septon turns the realm's anger against the North, we will not need to spend our own gold or spill Lannister blood to break Stark's power. We will let the zealots test the wolf's teeth first. Double the production of our iron mines, and quietly outfit three dozen new galleys. If the North bleeds the Faith, we will be ready to step in as the saviors."
In the lush, sun-drenched gardens of Highgarden, the reaction mirrored the Westerlands, masked only by the scent of roses.
Lord Mace Tyrell paced the manicured pathways, his face flushed, blustering loudly about the audacity of the North. "It is an insult to civilized men! Trading with wildlings! The man has clearly taken leave of his senses. We should restrict all grain shipments to the North until he ceases this madness."
Sitting beneath a shaded pavilion, sipping a cup of iced arbor gold, Olenna Tyrell watched her son with a mixture of exasperation and pity.
"Oh, do sit down, Mace, you are making the roses dizzy," Olenna snapped, waving a wrinkled hand.
Mace huffed but obediently took a seat. "You cannot deny it is a foolish move, Mother. The High Septon is already preaching against them."
"I deny that it is a foolish man making the move," Olenna corrected sharply. "Ned Stark does not act without calculation. If he is handing priceless weapons to savages, he expects a return on his investment. As for the High Septon... it is a predictable tantrum. But a useful one."
Mace frowned. "Useful? They are reforming the Poor Fellows in the streets!"
"Exactly," Olenna said, her sharp eyes narrowing. "The Faith Militant is a blunt instrument. Let Tywin Lannister try to point the zealots at the North to do his dirty work. We will supply the grain to the faithful, smile piously, and watch the Lannisters and Starks bleed each other dry. Keep our trade lines open. Whatever storm the Lord of Winterfell is preparing for, I prefer Highgarden to be safely inside the castle walls, profiting off the panic."
While the high lords of the realm viewed the events through the lens of military strategy and gold, the true explosion of outrage occurred in the streets.
The Faith of the Seven did not care about logistics or trade routes. They cared about religious purity. For years, the Faith had watched the North with growing resentment. The North worshipped the Old Gods, yet this heathen kingdom was growing incredibly wealthy and independent. To the High Septon, it looked like a rival civilization rising inside Westeros.
The news of the wildling alliance was the spark that ignited the dry powder of religious zealotry.
In the Great Sept of Baelor, the High Septon stood before a massive congregation. "We are witnessing the corruption of the soul of Westeros!" his voice boomed, echoing off the high vaulted ceilings. "In the frozen North, the light of the Seven is being extinguished! They turn their backs on the Father's justice! They consort with savages who murder the faithful!"
The rhetoric was dangerous. In the alleys of King's Landing and the market squares of the Riverlands, the fervor of the Faith of the Seven was slowly starting to rise. Rumors flew from town to town.
Stark is breeding an army of monsters. The Wall has fallen.
The zealots had not yet taken up arms, but the quiet whispers of holy war were spreading like wildfire among the common folk.
Far removed from the rising zealots and the plotting lords, Ned Stark stood in the quiet sanctuary of his solar in Winterfell.
He stood before his heavy oak desk, tracing the edge of a map of the North. Ashara stood beside him, her violet eyes scanning the latest cyphered reports from their caravans. Elia Martell sat in a chair near the fire, her hands steepled.
"They have been calling you a traitor in the capital for four moons," Ashara said softly, her voice calm despite the storm gathering in the South. "My spies report that the Faith of the Seven is slowly starting to rise in the streets. The High Septon is calling it a holy obligation to cleanse the North, and the rumors grow wilder by the day."
"The South is playing their games," Elia added, her tone dry and calculating. "The High Septon screams of gods, but Tywin Lannister and Olenna Tyrell will use this religious fervor to their advantage. They will not stop the Faith. They will quietly encourage the zealots to march north to test your strength, hoping you crush each other."
Ned did not look away from the map. He didn't care about the quiet whispers or Tywin's galleys.
"Let them play their games," Ned said, his voice dropping to a low, iron-hard pitch. "Let Lannister scheme and the High Septon preach. They are arguing over who gets to command a sinking vessel. The real war is in the deep woods."
Ashara stepped closer, placing a hand on his arm. "We need the proof, Ned. The King will not hold back his lords and the Faith forever. The realm will turn on us."
Ned looked up, meeting his wife's eyes. The burden of his foresight was a heavy weight upon his shoulders.
"Capturing a wight takes time," Ned said quietly. "They do not travel alone. They come with the cold and the dark. Mance must find one, trap it, and survive the encounter. It is an agonizing task, and we cannot rush it."
He turned toward the heavy glass window, looking out toward the northern horizon, where the sky was perpetually grey.
"Until Mance lights the fire on the Fist of the First Men, we hold the line," Ned commanded. "We fortify the keeps. We forge the glass. And we let the South whisper."