The snow had been falling since yesterday morning and showed no sign of stopping, blanketing the North in a thick white sheet. Driven by relentless winds, the flakes stung the skin like knives, and the air grew more frigid with each passing hour.
Inside the great Banquet Hall, however, warmth prevailed. The orange-red flames of the massive fireplace roared, and torches lined along the stone walls crackled with fire, sending curls of black smoke into the rafters. The light from the flames reflected off goblets, pitchers, and polished shields, throwing sparks of color into the shadows. The lively noise of laughter, chatter, and song almost drowned out the storm beyond.
Guests of every rank and house gathered to celebrate the wedding feast. Long tables groaned beneath the weight of roasted boar, venison, goose, and freshly baked bread. Spiced wine and honeyed mead flowed as freely as the snow outside.
On the high dais sat Eddard Karstark, the groom, his glass raised as he clinked it gently against that of his bride. Sansa Stark, face glowing with a mixture of wine and shyness, returned his smile, lowering her eyes before daring another glance at the crowded hall.
Eddard's gaze lingered on her for a heartbeat longer than necessary before shifting to the revelry below. The hall was alive with noise. Greatjon Umber, red-faced and boisterous, slammed his goblet onto the table and bellowed, "Rickard! Your son is wed today. You'll drink till your belly bursts, or I'll call you a coward!"
Wine spilled down his beard as he laughed, and Rickard Karstark, no less drunk, roared in return. Their cheer was contagious; men around them pounded the tables in rhythm, demanding more drink.
At another table, Harrion Karstark had been caught in a contest of drinking by several members of House Manderly. His resistance, while noble, was short-lived. Before long, he slumped forward in unconscious surrender, face planted on the table. The Manderlys, all large men with equally large appetites, turned their attention toward young Bran Stark, who sat quietly by the fireplace.
Yet before they could drag him into their game, Daisy Mormont and Robert Glover stepped in, their presence enough to scatter the fat men's intentions. Bran, recognizing the gesture, smiled and raised his cup in good humor, taking a delicate sip. For a boy, that was bravery enough.
Lady Maege Mormont and Lady Barbrey Dustin shared a quieter corner, their voices hushed, their faces softened with rare smiles. The contentment between them seemed at odds with the storm outside and the clamor of the feast, but no one intruded upon their conversation.
A group of bards, brought in especially for the occasion, sat clustered in the corner with lutes, pipes, and drums, filling the hall with bright melodies. Their cheerful tunes kept the energy high and the mood celebratory.
"Your Majesty, may your marriage shine as brilliantly as the stars," said Earl Jason Mallister, bowing as he approached the high table with a goblet in hand. His voice carried seven parts warmth, three parts diplomacy.
"Thank you," Sansa replied, her voice soft but clear. She lifted her glass and sipped lightly. Though the fruit wine was sweet and fragrant, she restrained herself. There were too many toasts to endure, and she could not afford to falter.
Eddard, by contrast, rose and drained his cup without hesitation. His frame was sturdy enough that even if he drank with every man in the hall, the worst consequence would be a few more visits to the privy.
Earl Jason lingered after his toast, steering the conversation toward the subject on every Riverlord's mind—the coming winter.
"My Lord," he said cautiously, "before long, snow may blanket even the Riverlands. I would ask, if it pleases you, that the greenhouse craft now practiced in Twin River City be taught to the craftsmen of Seagard. With it, our people may endure the long winter. Name your price."
The greenhouse—an innovation Eddard had introduced—was nothing more than a heated brick bed adapted from northern practices. It burned branches, straw, or even coal to provide warmth for plants through the frost. Eddard had once sketched its workings for Maester Bennet, who quickly grasped the principle. From there, the idea had spread more swiftly than he anticipated.
"That is no trouble," Eddard answered with a smile. "Compared to the friendship of Houses Manderly and Karstark, it is but a small matter."
Jason's eyes gleamed with satisfaction. His request had been as much a test of allegiance as a practical plea, and Eddard had answered generously.
Soon after, the next lord stepped forward—Wyman Manderly, vast of girth and red of face, squeezing awkwardly from between benches. Sweat glistened on his brow despite the cold, and his broad smile seemed tinged with sorrow.
"To your union, Lord Eddard, Lady Sansa. May it be blessed with many strong sons." He raised his goblet with solemn cheer.
"Thank you." Eddard stood and drank with him.
But like Jason, Lord Wyman did not leave after the toast. His voice dropped low, weighted with grief. "My Lord, King Robb's murder by the Ironborn remains a wound in all our hearts. I begged that we build a fleet to avenge him, to strengthen the North's sea power. Yet my pleas found no answer. Now you are both Karstark and Stark by marriage. Will you persuade King Bran and Lady Catelyn to support this cause? With funds, I can raise a fleet within two years—enough to challenge the Iron Islands."
Eddard rubbed his temple, exhaling slowly. Must politics intrude even on his wedding night? He had no wish to play Hand of the King. Yet he could hardly refuse.
"Do not worry," he said at last. "I will speak with Bran."
Satisfied, Lord Wyman returned to his seat, leaving Eddard silently lamenting that lords seemed to see him less as groom and more as messenger or minister.
Throughout the evening, more nobles came with smiles, gifts, and blessings, though many hid sharp requests beneath their words. By the time dusk fell, the feast was at its height.
Greatjon Umber, flushed with wine, burst into a bawdy song, his deep voice booming across the hall. The guests roared in laughter, pounding the tables to join in. Soon the melody shifted to cruder verses—songs every soldier knew but few noblewomen approved of.
Then came the chant: "Tease the bridal chamber! Tease the bridal chamber!" Their voices merged into a thunderous rhythm.
Eddard grimaced inwardly. He had no intention of allowing Sansa to be paraded or mocked. The custom was old, but cruel. Rising, he raised his hands for silence.
"My lords, my ladies," he proclaimed, his voice carrying over the din. "Tonight is a rare and joyous night. We have drunk our fill and laughed enough. To honor the union of House Stark and House Karstark, I propose a wrestling contest—here and now! First place, ten thousand gold dragons. Second, five thousand. Third, one thousand. And King Bran himself shall present the prize."
For a heartbeat, the hall was silent. Then it erupted.
"Wrestling!"
"For Stark!"
"For the King!"
Tables were shoved aside, a wide space cleared in the center. Greatjon tore off his shirt with a roar, scars crisscrossing his massive chest. "Those ten thousand dragons are mine! Who dares?"
Robin Flint leapt in, grinning. "I'll take you on!"
The hall cheered, the bards struck up a pounding rhythm, and Maester Luwin, clutching a horn, tried in vain to shout the rules above the din.
As the crowd's focus shifted, Eddard leaned close to Sansa. Without drawing notice, he took her hand, guiding her quietly toward a side door. Behind them, the wrestling contest raged into the night, the laughter and shouts masking their escape.
For once, the storm outside seemed gentler than the storm within.
---
Full book àvàilàble óñ pàtreøn (Gk31)