"Thank you for coming so far. I have received Lord Eddard's orders and will set out for Winterfell today. In the meantime, I ask you to rest in our village. The hunters have just brought back some deer; please try our stew."
Harwin said as he folded the letter carefully and turned to Harris Moran and Hill.
"We serve Lord Eddard, so this journey is our duty. But thank you for the invitation. Frankly, the road from Winterfell to your village has exhausted us," Harris said with a polite smile.
Hill, the younger of the two, nodded. "And if we could find some ale, that would be excellent. Our horses need good feed, too."
Harwin's lips curved into a faint, calculating smile. "Don't worry. There's enough ale and provisions for all." He gestured to Jon. "Let's make our guests comfortable. I'll ensure everything is suitable for their needs."
He directed Little Johnny with precision. "Tell your mother to prepare food and ale for our guests. And take these horses to the stable. Feed them well, and mine too—give them all grain. We wouldn't want our honored visitors to think the Village of Rams unprepared."
The boy nodded like a small general and hurried off, leaving Harwin to guide Harris and Hill into the longhouse.
Inside, he subtly repositioned himself and Jon to make the guests sit where he could easily observe them, noting reactions, stature, and any signs of weakness. Harwin's mind was already ticking—every gesture, every glance from the Stark men could be leveraged later.
Soon, the cook arrived with steaming stew and black bread. Harwin poured the ale for the guests with exaggerated care, letting them feel the comfort and hospitality—an indirect statement: this village is organized, disciplined, and well-led.
"Please, help yourselves," he said, raising his mug with a casual charm that drew the two guardsmen into a sense of ease.
While the guests ate, Harwin mentally reviewed his assets: the village men, his boats, his stockpiled goods.
Everything could be used to curry favor or negotiate influence.
"This afternoon," he said, watching their satisfaction carefully, "two of our boats, laden with goods, will sail down Long Lake and White Knife to White Harbor. If you wish, we can travel together. The current will carry us near Winterfell by noon tomorrow. From there, the castle is just over a day's ride."
Harris's eyes lit up. "Perfect. Some proper rest onboard before we report to Lord Eddard will be welcome."
Harwin allowed a small, knowing smile. Perfect. A controlled journey. No wasted energy, no surprises. I set the pace, I choose the conditions.
"Rest, then. My men will continue loading, and I will prepare gifts for Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn," he said, pointing to the benches along the walls. Every word served to subtly reinforce his authority.
The benches themselves were Viking-style multifunctions: for seating, for sleeping, for demonstration of his control over space. Harwin moved with purpose, taking in everything as if already inspecting the castle he would soon serve.
He packed his two prized pelts—a massive bearskin and a shadow lynx hide—carefully, not just as gifts but as calculated tools.
He knew what impression they would leave: skill, strength, and precision without equal.
"Harwin, should I accompany you?" Jon asked.
"No. Supervise the village. In my absence, all is under your command," he said, voice calm but commanding. Every sentence reinforced his control, even over his closest companion.
Once the goods were loaded, Harwin supervised the placement of men on three boats.
Shields were hung along the sides, making the flotilla look like a small military detachment. The fourth boat carried provisions, horses, and the carefully prepared gifts.
As the flotilla drifted with the current, Harwin used the downtime to observe: river speed, wind direction, and patrol routes—mental notes for potential strategic advantage in the future.
Every glance at his companions, every calculation of cargo weight or boat stability, was recorded in his mind. Everything is a lesson, and every advantage counts.
By midday the next day, they reached the bend of the river closest to Winterfell. Harwin disembarked, taking dried meat, water, and gear. His mind raced ahead, already considering guard rotations, castle layout, and the people he would need to influence first.
By evening, they reached a small village en route.
Harwin paid two silver deer for a hearty dinner and breakfast, deliberately observing the locals, learning their routines.
Even minor observations could be leveraged later—alliances, favors, or simply information.
Finally, on the third day, Winterfell's towers rose before him. Harwin's eyes gleamed, calculating everything he could use: the height of the walls, guard patterns, and how best to maneuver once inside. Opportunities abound. All that remains is for me to claim them.