Narrator POV
The sky was pale with the fading edge of dawn as four Northmen made their way along the rough track that wound through the crags of Cape Kraken. Wind snapped at their cloaks, and gulls wheeled overhead with thin, mocking cries. The cliffs jutted out into the sea like shattered teeth, their faces slick with salt and old lichen. It was a lonely place—forgotten by most, remembered only by ravens and those tasked with watching the sea.
The men were quiet, save for the crunch of boots over gravel and the occasional grunt as they trudged uphill. Harran of the Rills led them, broad-shouldered and steady despite his age. Garet followed behind, muttering to himself about frozen toes and sour wine. Tommer, still full of the easy energy of youth, walked with a light step and a battered looking glass slung at his hip. Bannin, youngest of them all, brought up the rear, eyes wide as he scanned the jagged horizon.
They crested the last rise, and the watchtower came into view—stone-grey and squat, built into the cliff's edge like a barnacle clinging to a drowned hull. Smoke curled lazily from the chimney. The old guard was still there.
As they approached, the door opened with a creak. Four men stepped out, older and leaner, wrapped in fur and mail. One of them—thin, sharp-faced, and sunken-eyed—nodded at Harran.
"You're late," the man said, his voice rough with smoke and wind.
"Blame the snowstorm near Barrow's Hill," Harran replied. "Had to wait it out."
"You'll find the place in good shape," said the old watchman, whose name was Wyllen. "Stores are stocked, goats are fed. Firewood's low, but there's plenty in the shed, if you don't mind splitting it yourself."
The two groups eyed each other like ships passing in the dark. Harran stepped forward, clasped Wyllen's forearm.
"Anything to report?"
Wyllen shook his head. "Just gulls and sea wind. Two ships appeared on the horizon two days ago—low in the water, black sails. They didn't cross the mark, just turned south and vanished into the fog. Might've been fishermen... or not."
With little ceremony, the changing of the watch was done. Packs were exchanged, notes passed between Harran and Wyllen. The older men trudged off into the mist, their figures vanishing into the white haze like ghosts.
The tower was now theirs.
...............
Day One
As the sun climbed slowly through the haze, the men began to shed their winter cloaks and ease into the rhythm of the day. There was no immediate danger, no stormclouds, no ravens with black tidings—just the silence of the sea and the familiarity of men settling into their duty.
Tommer found a small wooden stool tucked in the corner of the watchtower and dragged it over to the hearth. "You know," he said casually as he warmed his hands, "if the gods were fair, we'd be doing this job from a hall in White Harbor. Heated floors, serving girls, and a view of the ocean without the howling wind."
"If the gods were fair," Garet said, rolling his shoulders, "you'd be back home cleaning pig pens like the farm boy you are."
Tommer grinned. "True. But at least my pigs didn't try to bite like your last lover."
"That woman was passionate," Garet said with mock pride. "A spirited soul."
"Aye," Harran muttered. "Spirited enough to break your nose when you insulted her brother."
The men chuckled. Even Bannin cracked a shy smile as he turned over a small wooden token in his hand—an old carving shaped like a leaf. He rubbed his thumb across it, almost absently.
"What's that from?" Tommer asked.
"My sister made it," Bannin said. "Before she married and left for Talltree. Said I should keep it to remember to come home."
"You close?"
"We were. She raised me, mostly. Father drank, Mother died birthing me. Nella kept food on the table."
A brief silence passed between them. Harran stood and walked to the window.
"Family matters," he said, not looking back. "Not just for them. For us too. Each post, each fire we light—it's so they have something to come back to."
Tommer leaned forward, elbows on knees. "I ever tell you I nearly became a singer?"
"No, but I've heard you sing, so I'm glad you didn't," Garet said.
"Harsh," Tommer laughed. "But it's true. My uncle played harp in Seagard. Took me in when my ma died. I used to sing ballads for coppers. Learned more from drunk sailors than others."
"What stopped you?"
"Winter." Voice cracked. "Had to take work swinging hammers instead of rhyming lines. Not much room for poets in a storm."
The fire crackled in the hearth. Harran finally turned and sat beside them.
"I had three brothers," he said. "All dead now. Two in the rebellion. One from fever. I'm the last Rills blood in my line. I don't talk much about it because talking won't bring them back. But I light fires for them too. For the ones who didn't make it."
Bannin's voice was soft. "Does it help?"
"No. But it's something."
They fell into a kind of comfortable silence. The kind only strangers-turned-comrades can share. That night, long before the true threat crested the sea, they played a round of dice, swapped tales of foolery and misfortune, and sat close to the fire as the wind howled beyond the stone walls. Each man in that tower carried his ghosts, but for a night at least, they had each other.Harran took to checking the supplies first. He moved like a man who had done this for years, pulling open barrels, sniffing salted meat, testing the grain for mold. Bannin followed him, scribbling notes on a bit of rough parchment.
"This one's leaking," Harran muttered, pointing at a cask of oats. "Patch it tomorrow."
Meanwhile, Garet and Tommer claimed their bunks on the second floor, throwing off travel cloaks and shaking off snow.
"If that bed has lice, I'm feeding your boots to the goats," Tommer said.
"If it's lice, they'll be the warmest thing in this damned tower," Garet grunted.
Later, after the hearth fire was built up again and the room warmed, the men sat down to a modest meal—cheese, oatcakes, and some thin ale.
"So," Tommer said, chewing, "what did the last lot leave us? Any letters? Secrets? Smuggled Arbor Gold?"
"A broken axe handle and a prayer to the Drowned God carved under the table," Garet said, holding up a scrap of wood with a crude symbol on it.
"Charming," Harran muttered.
Bannin was quiet. He spent the evening patching a rip in his sleeve, though he kept glancing toward the narrow windows.
"Expecting ghosts?" Tommer asked.
"Just thinking," Bannin said. "About the sea."
"It's always out there," Harran said. "Don't stare too long. Makes you see things."
That night, they took shifts on watch. The top level of the tower had arrow slits facing every direction. Garet took the first, leaning against the stone wall, peering out into the dark. Mist rolled over the water like smoke. Nothing moved. Still, he kept a hand near the axe.
...............
Day Two
Morning came slow and grey. Tommer lit the fire, while Harran and Garet checked the fishing lines strung in the pools below the cliffs. Bannin milked the goats, whispering to them like they were old friends.
He stroked one of the older nanny goats, a speckled thing with a torn ear, and murmured, "You keeping the others in line, Bristle? Don't let that brown one get all the feed again." The goat bleated and flicked its ears, and Bannin chuckled. "Yeah, yeah, I know. You want a treat. Maybe if there's leftover oats."
The youngest goat nuzzled at his hand. "You're too soft," he said gently, scratching its head. "You'll end up spoiled, and then they'll blame me."
He worked quickly but carefully, pausing now and then to whisper some nonsense or offer a soft word of comfort. The goats responded with gentle nudges and the occasional stubborn twist, but they stayed calm around Bannin. They always had.
When Harran passed by, he gave the boy a sideways look. "Talking to goats again?"
"They listen better than men do," Bannin replied with a grin.
"They don't talk back. That's the trick," Harran said, nodding as he moved on.
After hauling in a string of wriggling crabs and two fish barely longer than a dagger, Harran and Garet made their way back to the tower with their catch wrapped in canvas. Bannin had already placed buckets of milk near the kitchen hearth, and Tommer was humming tunelessly as he boiled seaweed in a battered pot.
"You're going to poison us with that," Garet muttered, eyeing the green mess.
"Better than starving," Tommer replied. "Besides, it's good for your teeth. Or so i heard a maester say."
They ate quickly and divided tasks for the rest of the day. Harran took charge of chopping firewood behind the shed. Garet and Tommer dug into the old storage bins in the cellar, checking for leaks and pest damage. Bannin swept out the upper level of the tower and polished the lens of the looking glass.
Midday passed with the sky thick and low, light struggling through the clouded veil. At one point, Bannin called down from the tower top, "Three ships looks merchant and a fishing boat from the south. Nothing more."
Tommer called back, "Tell them we're out of wine and patience."
Later, as the winds picked up, the men worked on reinforcing the tower's shuttered windows with planks. Harran had them line the lower walls with fresh moss to keep out the damp, a trick he'd learned years ago during a long post near the Rills.
"Doesn't seem like much," Bannin observed.
"It's not," Harran said. "But it's enough to keep your bones from aching worse than they should."
As dusk fell, the men gathered again around the fire. This time, there was fish roasted over the coals, paired with crumbling bread and weak ale. The warmth of the food and the crackle of the fire loosened their tongues.
"You know," Tommer began, "my cousin once swore he met a selkie. Said she came out of the waves, naked as the day she was born, but not like any woman you or I would know. Skin pale like moonlit glass, eyes black and endless like deep water. He said she moved like wind over the tide, and her voice... he couldn't describe it. Said it wasn't words, but something older. She looked at him—really looked—and offered him a crown of coral and bone. Told him he could leave the world behind and reign beneath the sea.
"He turned her down, of course. Ran back to the village in his smallclothes, shaking like a drunk after a battle. Swore she'd follow him in dreams, and sometimes he'd wake with sand in his bed, or seaweed across the sill—though all the windows were shut."
Tommer paused, voice low.
"They say selkies are spirits of the deep. Some say they're half-drowned lovers, cursed to live between tide and moon. Others say they're not of this world at all. Just visitors... watching. Waiting."
The fire popped. Even Garet said nothing for a while.
After supper, Tommer pulled out the cyvasse board again. He set it on a barrel lid between them, brushing crumbs from the surface and arranging the lacquered pieces with an unnecessary flair. The rook. The catapult. The spearmen. The dragon.
Harran joined him reluctantly, arms crossed at first as he watched. "Still think this is folly," he muttered as he sat down. "But if it keeps you quiet, I'll play."
Tommer smirked. "It's not just a game. It teaches you to think. Anticipate. Like war."
"Then teach me to cheat like you do."
They laughed, the tension between them softening like snow under sun. Bannin knelt nearby, watching intently. Garet slouched on a bench, finishing the last dregs of ale. A lantern burned softly overhead, and the scent of sea salt mingled with smoke from the hearth.
As the first game played out, Bannin asked, "Where'd you learn it?"
Tommer didn't look up. "An Essosi merchant taught me. Traded spices and strange toys. Stayed at my uncle's inn for a winter. Played every night by the fire. Said it kept his mind sharper than his blade."
"What happened to him?" Bannin asked.
"Died on a ship back to Lys. Storm took him." Tommer shrugged. "But he said if I ever won ten games in a row, I could call myself a commander. Still only made it to eight."
Harran shifted a piece and snapped Tommer's spearman in a trap.
Tommer sighed. "Seven now."
Garet chuckled. "I'll have a go. Bet I can beat this commander of spice and ghosts."
He took Harran's seat, cracking his knuckles. Tommer reset the board with flair.
This game went faster. Garet played like he fought—with brute force. He pushed his dragon forward recklessly, laid siege with his catapult, and sacrificed his fortress in a bid to corner Tommer's prince.
Somehow, it worked.
Garet roared. "Strategic genius! Gods, fetch me a banner. I'll march straight to Pyke and win the war myself."
Tommer tossed a piece at him. "Beginner's luck."
Bannin leaned forward. "Can I try?"
The room went quiet for a beat, then Tommer grinned and handed him the black pieces. "Let's see if the goats taught you tactics."
They reset. Bannin's hands were careful but unsure.
"Dragon's too close," Garet warned.
"He knows," Harran said. "Let him learn."
The game unfolded slowly. Bannin surprised them—he defended well, thinking two steps ahead. When he sacrificed his rook to trap Tommer's fortress, Garet leaned forward.
"You little fox," he said.
They rotated through game after game. Harran won one more. Tommer won three. Bannin beat Garet twice, though Garet insisted he was tired and blamed his poor play on the ale. Through it all, one man always stayed near the top stair, taking turns on lookout.
They spoke in between games—about old commanders, strange victories, stupid mistakes in real battles and on the board alike.
"We should teach the goats to play," Bannin joked.
"They'd beat Garet," Tommer added.
"They'd cheat worse than he does," Harran muttered.
Night deepened around them, the fire growing low. A wind swept against the shuttered windows. Still, they lingered—men who would never be lords, sitting in a ruined tower by a stormy sea, playing a foreign game by firelight.
Outside, the sea was still. But not for long.
...............
Day Three
The next morning broke with a breathless stillness. The wind had calmed, and the mist hung low like a heavy veil over the sea. Harran was first to rise, stepping out onto the narrow balcony on the tower's seaward side. He didn't like the silence. It felt too deliberate, like the world was holding its breath. The sky was pale but clear, with soft bands of sunlight slanting through thinning clouds—an unusual sight after so many days of fog and wind.
He sipped slowly and narrowed his eyes toward the horizon. "Still too quiet," he muttered. "But clearer skies might help us, at least."
By the time Tommer and Bannin stirred, Garet had already gone out to check the nets. Harran had his arms crossed over the stone edge of the parapet, looking south.
"Still dreaming of something dumb?" Tommer called, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
"No," Harran replied. "Something feels wrong today. The weather's starting to clear, though—should make our job easier."
They ate quickly—bread gone hard, and a little goat milk. Tommer took the looking glass and ascended the tower's top level. He scanned the sea lazily at first, eyes half-lidded against the glare. Then his breath caught.
"Harran," he called. "You need to see this."
The older man climbed up beside him. Tommer handed him the looking glass without a word.
What Harran saw stopped his breath. The horizon, once flat and featureless, now rippled with movement. Sails. A forest of them—black and sharp against the greying sky. They rose and dipped with the swells like vultures circling a corpse. Not two, not ten. Harran stopped counting at two hundred. They were spread in loose wings, advancing slowly, confidently, like they owned the sea.
"Ironborn," Tommer whispered again, but there was no need to say it. The shape of the sails, the darkness of the hulls, all of it spoke to old stories. And old blood.
Bannin clambered up next, breathless. "What is it?"
"See for yourself," Harran said, passing the glass. Bannin's hands trembled slightly as he raised it to his eye. His breath hissed through his teeth.
"There's… so many."
Garet stormed up, half-dressed, still chewing a hunk of jerky. "What's with the shouting?"
Harran handed him the glass. Garet squinted, then frowned deeply. "That's the Kraken. The Ironborn. Gods damn them to the deeps."
For a moment, no one spoke. The reality was heavier than the wind, louder than the gulls.
Then Harran spoke, sharp and steady. "We don't have time to stare. Tommer, Garet—pack what we can carry. Bannin, you're with me. We light the fires."
The tower burst into motion. Tommer and Garet bounded down the stairs, already shouting to one another. Knives, cloaks, maps, dried meat, the ironwood box with Lords seal—essentials, nothing more. Garet kicked over a bucket in his haste, cursing as he snatched up the spare scrolls and jammed them into a satchel.
Tommer ran to the goat pen and tried to chase the beasts into the shelter, more from habit than reason. They scattered in panic. He gave up.
Meanwhile, Harran and Bannin sprinted up the slope. The firehill loomed ahead, black and wind-blasted. Their boots slipped on damp moss and loose gravel. Bannin carried the clay jar of lamp oil, clutched tight to his chest.
The pyre was old but well-laid—dried pine branches, tufts of grass, bundles of straw wrapped in sailcloth. Bannin poured the oil while Harran struck flint.
The first spark died. The second caught.
Flame licked up through the bundle like a serpent. In seconds, the signal fire roared to life. Smoke billowed upward, thick and black, curling into the sky like a cry for help.
"That'll wake the hills," Harran said.
Back at the tower, Tommer and Garet were already waiting, packs over their shoulders. They didn't speak. They didn't need to. The smoke told the tale.
The goats were left behind. The tower abandoned.
They ran east, toward the nearest branch of the old track that led through the rocky uplands and toward Flint's Finger. After only a few minutes, Bannin looked once. A second fire had begun—Blazewater's hill had answered.
The chain had started.
They ran in silence, breath huffing from their lungs, boots pounding over stone and frozen grass. Their pace was swift —they knew the terrain well. The trail wound between outcrops of rock and scraggly pines, passing over frost-hardened soil where no cart could travel, only men or horses. The sun had climbed high enough to burn the mist, casting their shadows long behind them. Still, the air clung to the chill of dawn.
About halfway down the trail, Garet pointed to a low grove nestled at the base of a ridge. "There! That's where we left the horses."
Indeed, tied beneath the sparse shelter of wind-stunted birches, four shaggy mountain horses waited. They stamped and snorted at their approach, catching their scent. The animals had been left with full water skins and forage netted over tree limbs. Harran had insisted they be kept out of sight—too many watch posts had ended up with throats slit and stables burned.
They untied them quickly. Harran checked his gelding's girth and hooves with practiced hands. Tommer whispered softly to his roan mare, who tossed her head at the rising scent of smoke still clinging to their clothes.
"They know something's wrong," Bannin murmured, hoisting his small pack and swinging into the saddle with more speed than grace.
"Good," Harran said, mounting. "Let them run like they mean it."
Moments later, they were galloping over the broken track, hooves pounding against earth and stone. The cold wind whipped their cloaks behind them. They didn't look back. Not at the smoke curling over the hills. Not at the tower fading behind them. The road ahead led to Flint's Finger—and to war.
Harran's thoughts spun as they moved. The signal would travel fast, fire to fire, post to post. By midday, the watch at Flint's Finger would know. The lord of the keep would send word by raven, and faster still by rider. The North would rouse.
Hornwood. Tallhart. Dustin. Stout. Every house with a coastline would be warned.
And Winterfell.
The warning had gone out. The kraken had come. But this time, the North would be ready.
Narrator POV
The boy stirred before the hearth embers had lost their glow. The cold of dawn clung to the stone floor, and the thatch above still wept from the night frost, dripping soft as breath against the shuttered window. He blinked the sleep from his eyes and curled his toes before daring to swing his feet from the blanket. The room was small, the ceiling low, the fire little more than a hopeful memory—but to him, it was home.
He was no older than ten, a sharp-faced child with brown curls and a nose that twitched at every smell. He had no sigil, no family words. Just "Bob," as simple as they came, and he liked it that way.
From the other room came the familiar clatter of wooden shelves and the dull hum of a woman at her morning chores. Bob shuffled across the uneven floor, his blanket dragging behind him like a cloak, and pushed aside the curtain that hung in place of a proper door.
His mother was already dressed, binding her sleeves tight around her forearms, her hair gathered into a scarf to keep it from the dyes and wool fibers she'd be working with soon. A simple dress of thick wool hugged her form, patched and stained with color and wear, but well-kept.
"Morning, Ma," Bob said, his voice still raspy with sleep.
She turned with a smile, her face tired but kind. "There's my little crow. Come on, love. Wash up, and I'll get your bite ready."
Bob padded over to the basin and splashed water over his face with a soft gasp. The cold hit him like a slap from a snow drift.
His mother, Linna, had already ladled some barley mash into a clay bowl and placed a thick slice of last night's bread beside it. She set it down on the rough-hewn table and watched him with a faint smile.
"I warmed the bread on the coals," she said. "Eat before it cools again."
He sat down, dug into his food with both hands, and asked through a mouthful, "You working at the guild again today?"
"Aye," she said, reaching for her woolen cloak. "They've got us starting early. Some big order came in from the lords up by the barrow hills. Capes, banners, wool-dyed cloaks. A whole convoy's due before tomorrow."
Bob swallowed hard and nodded. "So you'll be late?"
She sighed, tying her belt. "I will. Don't wait for me to start your supper. I've left the root stew on the shelf. Just warm it proper."
"I'll be at the soup kitchen most of the day," Bob said brightly. "Uncle Tobby said I could help serve again."
"That so?" Linna turned and crouched by his stool, brushing the crumbs from his chin with her thumb. "You're a good boy. But mind yourself today, hear? More folk have come through town than usual. Nobles and their men, most of them strangers. I don't want you wandering too far."
Bob nodded solemnly. "I won't. Pa already left too?"
"Aye. Earlier than he should've. Something stirring at the gates, or so he said. Took his spear and cloak and didn't even finish his tea."
Bob frowned but didn't ask more. He could tell from her tone she wasn't sure what it meant either.
Linna stood again, gathered her bag, and leaned down to kiss the top of his head. "Be smart. Be kind. Don't run if you don't have to. And if you see a horse with too many guards, go the other way."
"I will, Ma."
She opened the door and stepped out into the dim morning. The air was crisp, the kind of cold that bit through layers and turned ears red in moments. Bob watched her disappear down the narrow alley before he closed the door and began to get dressed.
Thick trousers, a too-big tunic, and a patched green cloak his mother had sewn for him two years. The cloak had been mended so many times the seams were more thread than fabric, but he wore it proudly.
Once ready, Bob tucked the last of his bread into his pocket and stepped outside. The smell of chimney smoke and snow greeted him, as familiar as any lullaby. Wintertown was beginning to stir. Merchants shoveled out their doorways. A blacksmith pounded something behind a shed. A pair of bundled children ran past, laughing, their cheeks red as apples.
Bob's path took him down the winding, uneven streets toward the northern edge of town. On the way, he passed old Marrin the cooper, who gave him a gruff nod while stacking barrels.
"Off to feed the hungry, are you, lad?"
"Yes, ser. Uncle Tobby says they're coming early these days."
"Aye. Snow's bad for the bones. Keep warm."
Bob waved and continued on.
At the corner near the weaver's hall, Mistress Della called to him from her stoop. She was mending a basket with raw red fingers.
"Tell that Marei I liked the bread yesterday," she said. "Had a crust on it like the old days."
"I will, Mistress!"
He skipped around a puddle and kept walking.
Near the square, he bumped into Garley, the one-legged beggar who always sat under the crooked tree.
"Got any stew yet, boy?"
"Not yet, but I'll save you a spot. You want a thick slice of bread today?"
"I'll take whatever the gods send through you."
Bob smiled and promised to come find him later.
Children passed him with wooden swords. A woman carrying firewood nearly lost a log, and Bob caught it before it hit the ground. She thanked him with a soft smile and a kiss on the cheek, and winked.
By the time he reached the soup kitchen, the sun had barely cleared the rooftops. The broad stone hall stood ready, smoke curling from its chimney and a painted sign over the door.
The sign read simply: SOUP, in big brown letters. Beneath it, a curious symbol had been carved and painted—a stylized eye within a ring. It had no name, but Bob always thought it looked like a silly face, like something drawn in the dirt for fun. He liked it.
They said a man called Lord Nhilux had built the place. No one knew who he really was. He wasn't a Stark, and he never wore the direwolf. But he walked freely near the keep, and even the guards bowed when he passed. Bob had seen him once, weeks ago—tall, wrapped in a strange black coat with silver lines and tight-fitting trousers unlike anything the he ever saw anyone wore. He had said nothing, just walked out the soup hall and down the street like a blur It was hard to forget.
Bob shook off the thought and pushed open the door. Warmth and steam greeted him like old friends.
Uncle Tobby was already at the long stone counter, sleeves rolled to the elbow, ladling something thick and brown into bowls. The scent of root vegetables and broth filled the air.
"Morning, lad," Tobby said without looking.
"Morning, Uncle. Ma said I can stay all day."
"Good. We've got a line already forming. Folk came early this morning. Must be the snow coming.....or the soldiers."
Bob fetched his apron from a peg near the door and tied it clumsily behind his back. He rolled up his sleeves and grabbed a towel to dry the bowls Tobby passed him.
"Watch your hands today," Tobby muttered. "Some of them are skittish. And don't let anyone grab two unless they look like they can't walk back again."
"I remember," Bob said with a grin.
The day had just begun.
The first guests trickled in slowly—a thin woman with hollow cheeks and a heavy-lidded man who smelled like boiled turnips. Bob greeted them both with a bright smile and a warm bowl.
"Morning, Mistress Brynn," he said as he handed her the bowl.
"Bless you, child," she rasped, clutching it tight.
Soon, the crowd began to swell. Men and women bundled in cloaks, children tugging at sleeves, old folk moving slow and steady like ice breaking on a stream. Bob recognized many faces from other days. There was Darnil the broom-seller, always with a missing button; old Harra, who never ate until her blind brother was fed; and young Calen, the stable boy with a crooked grin who always snuck a second piece of bread when he thought no one was looking.
"Back again, Calen?" Bob asked as he slid him a bowl.
"I'd never miss your stew," Calen said with a wink.
Bob laughed. "Well, don't try taking two today. Tobby's watching. And he's meaner before noon."
A grumble from behind the counter confirmed this, and both boys chuckled.
At one point, the bread basket ran low. Bob looked around and waved toward the kitchen door. A moment later, Marei—one of the older kitchen hands—came out carrying a fresh batch, warm and steaming in a deep wooden tray.
"Thank you!" Bob called.
"Keep those hands clean!" Marei shouted back with mock severity.
Time passed quickly. Bowl after bowl. Smile after smile. Sometimes the work blurred together, but Bob didn't mind. He liked seeing people's faces brighten, if only for a moment.
Then came a rougher sort. A man with thick shoulders and a torn cloak shoved his way to the front. Faded embroidery clung to the fabric near his shoulder—some kind of sigil or crest, half-scratched and barely visible. Another man just behind him had a cloak pin shaped like a half fish and half person. Bob didn't know what it meant, but they both had the look of men who belonged to some noble's retinue—one used to being served without question.
"Give me two," he said flatly.
Bob held his ground. "One bowl each. It's for everyone."
"I said two," the man growled, leaning in.
Bob's fingers tightened on the ladle, but he didn't waver. "Please, ser. Others are waiting. We don't want trouble."
A hush fell near the counter. The man stared at Bob for a long moment.
Then, a chair scraped. Tobby rose from his seat and stepped forward. He didn't speak—he just stared. And when that didn't work, one of the guards at the door stepped inside, hand on the hilt of his sword.
The man scowled, but backed down. He took his bowl and stalked off.
Bob let out a quiet breath.
The next in line, a small girl with chapped lips, gave him a shaky smile. Bob smiled back and handed her a fresh bowl with an extra chunk of bread.
The hall filled with the sounds of eating, talking, and laughter. Bob kept serving. Every face, every name he remembered, he greeted with cheer. And when the bread ran low again, another tray came in. When a man dropped his bowl, Bob helped him clean it.
When another woman wept as she ate, he placed a hand on her shoulder and offered her silence instead of questions.
By midday, the pot had been stirred empty three times.
The scent of root and barley soup and bread still clung to Bob's sleeves as he untied his apron and slipped out from behind the counter. The crowd had thinned, most of the guests seated now at the benches lining the long hall, hunched over steaming bowls. With the lull came break time, and Bob slipped through the rear doorway into the kitchen's back room.
The space was warmer than the main hall, with walls close together and a small table crowded by stools. Uncle Tobby was already seated, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve. Miss Marei was there too, wrapping a cloth over a covered basket of bread heels for the afternoon's second pot.
Three others sat nearby—Jonrik, the broad-shouldered bread-baker; Petyr, the lanky flour-dusted lad who worked the ovens; and old Janna, who managed spices and sometimes doled out sharp words to anyone slacking.
Bob sat in his usual spot near the corner, picking up a warm oat biscuit Marei handed him with a wink.
"You're still too fast for a boy that size," she said.
"He'll be cooking better than us in a few years," Petyr added, mouth already full.
Bob grinned shyly and bit into his biscuit.
Tobby leaned back with a long sigh. "Too many mouths today. Too many new cloaks in the line."
Jonrik grunted. "Some of them had noble marks. Didn't think this place was for lordlings."
"Some lordlings are worse off than they look," Marei said, though she didn't sound entirely convinced.
Tobby turned to Bob. "Your pa still working gatewatch?"
Bob nodded. "Aye. He left early again. Came back late last night. Didn't say much. Just went to sleep."
"Gate's been busy," said Janna. "Ain't seen this many riders pass through since the city..... well since about 8 years ago."
"You hear anything from him?" Marei asked Bob, her tone softer.
Bob shook his head. "He just looked tired. Didn't eat, just sat by the fire."
"Not like him," Tobby muttered. "Not for Darran."
There was a pause as they all ate quietly, chewing and thinking. Outside, a cart creaked down the alley, and snow began to patter against the shuttered window.
"Let's not borrow worry," Janna finally said. "We've stew to finish and mouths yet to feed."
Petyr stood with a groan. "Let's hope that pot doesn't run dry a fourth time."
Tobby pushed himself up and nodded. "Break's done. Let's back to it."
Bob rose with them, wiping his hands on his tunic. The warmth of the break room faded as they filed back into the kitchen and toward the long counter. Outside the door, the line had begun to form again.
Time to serve once more.
—
By the time the sun had begun to dip toward the western sky, casting long shadows through the high windows of the soup hall, the work had slowed again. Most bellies were full, and the great room echoed only with the soft scrape of spoons and the hum of quiet conversation.
Bob wiped his hands on his apron and glanced toward the door.
"Hold up there," Uncle Tobby called, pulling off his gloves. "Don't forget your pay."
Bob blinked, then smiled. "Right! Miss Marei's got it, doesn't she?"
Tobby nodded. "Aye. Five coppers today. She's in the back."
Bob ducked into the back room where Marei was tidying up the bread bins.
"Uncle Tobby said…"
"Five coppers for our best helper," she said before he could finish, holding out her hand with the small stack of coins.
"Thank you!" Bob beamed as he took the coins and tucked them into the inner pocket of his cloak.
"Don't spend it all on sweets," she called after him.
"I won't!" he laughed as he made for the door.
Outside, the air was colder, the wind sharper. The streets of Wintertown were fuller now—families returning from market, laborers heading home, and the occasional guard in Stark grey moving among the crowds. Bob kept his head low and his steps quick.
He made his way through the winding streets, past the timber merchant and the tannery, until he reached the little house tucked near the palisade. Inside, the hearth was cold, and the quiet of home greeted him like a whisper.
Bob stepped into the small room he shared with his parents and went straight to the corner. Beneath a loose floorboard, wrapped in a scrap of cloth, he placed his five coppers alongside the others he had saved. When the time came, he told himself, he'd have enough to help Ma and Pa—not just with meals, but with new boots, maybe even a better roof.
With his treasure hidden, Bob slipped back outside.
The streets were still busy near the center of town, where the wooden buildings stood tighter together. Just beside the town square, built of solid grey stone with fresh plaster, stood the learning hall—a place for numbers, letters, and scrolls.
It had gone up two years ago, funded by the same strange man who built the soup kitchen. The stylized eye-in-a-ring was carved over the lintel. Some whispered it had magical meaning.
A group of children were already playing near the steps—chasing each other with sticks, making marks in the snow.
"There you are, Bob!" shouted Calen.
Bob ran to join them. They played for nearly three hours. Snowballs flew, games of pretend battles were fought, and pebbles were skipped across a frozen trough.
When the sky grew dark and the stars began to twinkle through the night's frost, the children scattered back to their homes one by one.
Bob returned home last, his cheeks red with cold, his boots soaked.
Inside, he lit a small lantern, then sat at the table with the little wooden book his father had given him. Its pages were old and inked with numbers, little problems he worked on with a stick of charcoal.
"One day," Bob whispered, glancing toward the fireless hearth, "I'll work at Winterfell. And Ma and Pa won't have to worry no more."
He leaned into his reading, lips moving as he traced each number slowly, his finger steady even as the wind howled softly against the shuttered window.
----------------
Author Thought's
So the greyjoy rebellion is coming closer!!!!!!
i was originally going to end volume 1 at around chapter 8. BUT i have decided to write a bit more.
maybe 1 or 2 or 3 more chapters, idk before ending this volume 1 and starting the next volume 2.
I do want volume 2 on focus more on the other kingdoms with Nhilux Traveling Westeros but i think i will combine that start of that VL-2 WITH VL-1 last few chapters.
I was originally going to do this next part differently as i wrote in my draft chapters. I wrote a battle scenes that were seemed a bit grim to me and it was not fitting very well with the style of writing i have done so far.
but i changed my mind, so had to scrap about 5 draft chapters and start from the beginning.
Remember the update schedule is anywhere from 2-6 days depending on how much free time i get to write.
I have Also realizes i SUCK at writing normal conversation with medieval people.
so that is the reason there is not a lot of talking, i like explain scenes like a summary way more than writing conversation.
But i am practicing in my free time to improve my conversation writing skill.
So PLs Gimme any tips you guys have!!!!