Eddard Karstark stood by the window of the Great Keep, looking out at the sprawling courtyards of Winterfell. He felt, more acutely than ever, that the North was a land destined for tragedy. It wasn't just the climate, the biting wind that felt like a thousand tiny needles against the skin but the sheer vulnerability of its position. If the Wall ever fell, whether to the Free Folk or the Others, the North would be the first to be consumed, a cold appetizer for a darkness that intended to feast on the world.
He looked at his cousin, the King in the North, who was staring at a map with the intensity of a man trying to hold back a flood with his bare hands. Down south, the fools in King's Landing, Highgarden, and Sunspear were still clawing at each other over a throne made of melted swords. They fought for power, for prestige, for the right to rule a graveyard.
If I could, Eddard thought with a cynical edge, I would open a straight road for the Others. I'd let a few through just to see Cersei's face when she realizes a golden crown can't stop a dead man.
But he didn't have that power. Not yet. He could only strengthen his own base, piece by bloody piece. In the original timeline, Stannis Baratheon would eventually flee to the Wall and subdue the Free Folk after losing the Blackwater. If Stannis could do it, Eddard knew he could do it better and sooner.
"Robb," Eddard said, his voice cutting through the crackle of the hearth. "What are your thoughts on the Others?"
Robb blinked, looking up from the map. He looked bewildered, as if Eddard had asked for his opinion on grumkins and snarks. "My thoughts? They're legends, Ned. Maester Luwin told me they haven't existed for eight thousand years. No living man has seen one since the Age of Heroes."
Eddard shrugged, leaning against the cold stone. "Perhaps. Or perhaps every living man who saw them died before they could tell the tale. We call a man 'mad' for seeing things in the dark, yet your own father beheaded a deserter who swore he saw them. Was the man crazy? Or was he just the only one fast enough to run?"
Eddard reached out and picked up a grotesque, obsidian-colored chess piece from the table. He placed it near the mark for the Fist of the First Men.
"The Wall was built to keep things out, Robb. Ancient spells are woven into its ice. We know it, and the Free Folk know it too. Why do you think Mance Rayder has gathered a hundred thousand people at the Milkwater? Are they coming to loot your wheat? Or are they running from something that doesn't need to eat?"
Robb's blue eyes widened. He stared at the piece on the map, his face pale in the firelight. The logic hit him like a physical blow. A hundred thousand people didn't move as a single nation just for the sake of a raid. They moved for survival.
"Gods," Robb whispered, his hand trembling as he reached for the back of a chair. He sat down by the fire, extending his palms toward the flames as if he could feel the cold of the far North reaching for him. "If this is true... then the winter ahead is more than just snow. It's a massacre."
"It's already happening," Eddard said, moving to the liquor cabinet. He found two cups and a pot of mulled wine heating by the fire. He sniffed it, cloves, nutmeg, and the sharp scent of heated grapes. He hated the taste. He set it aside and found a bottle of cold, sharp brandy instead. He needed something that burned.
He handed a cup of the mulled wine to Robb and sat opposite him. "Going to the Wall isn't just about killing raiders, Robb. With your permission, I'll lead my contingent north. Between my elite guards and the Night's Watch veterans, we can hold the gates. But we need a better plan than just 'killing them all'."
Robb took a sip of the wine, the warmth returning some color to his cheeks. "Supplies won't be an issue. I'll have Ser Rodrik prepare grain and salted meat. The Umbers are close; they'll support you. But Eddard... you said 'kill them all' isn't the plan. What is?"
Robb leaned in, his voice fierce. "Mormont says they are coming to destroy my people. Why should I show them anything but the edge of a sword?"
Eddard took a long pull of the brandy, feeling the liquid snake through his chest. "If the Others can reanimate the dead, Robb, then every Free Folk you kill today is a soldier for the enemy tomorrow. You aren't thinning their ranks; you're providing them with fresh recruits."
"Gods," Robb groaned, rubbing his forehead. "You always think of the worst-case scenario."
"I think of the winning scenario," Eddard corrected. "Robb, have you thought about subduing the Free Folk? Not as subjects, but as a workforce. As an army."
"Subdue them?" Robb shook his head, a look of pure skepticism on his face. "They are called 'Free Folk' for a reason. They don't kneel. They don't follow laws. They raid Bear Island and the Last Hearth for sport. My lords would never accept them as neighbors."
"I don't need them to kneel," Eddard said, his eyes narrowing like a fox's. "I only need them to fight. And I have the perfect payment for their service."
"What payment?"
"The Dreadfort."
The silence in the room became absolute. The only sound was the popping of the peat in the hearth.
"Roose Bolton is a tumor, Robb," Eddard said, his voice cold and clinical. "He's treacherous, he's cruel, and he's already sold you to Tywin once. If we hire the Free Folk, the hardiest survivors in the world to clear out the Dreadfort, we solve two problems at once. We settle them on Bolton land, far from the Umbers and Mormonts. We give them a fortress and a stake in the North's survival. If they want to keep their new home, they'll have to fight the Others to protect it."
Robb's eyes lit up with a sudden, sharp interest. He began to trace the lines around the Dreadfort and the Lonely Hills. It was a radical, terrifying idea, but it was strategically brilliant. Replacing a disloyal vassal with a wild but dependent nation.
"The lords will still hate it," Robb mused. "Jon Umber will scream 'treason' until he's purple."
"Let him scream. You're the King," Eddard said. "And the main problem isn't the lords. It's the food. Winterfell can't feed a hundred thousand extra mouths."
"Exactly," Robb said. "We'd be inviting a famine."
Eddard smiled, a genuine, predatory grin. "No, we wouldn't. I left Abel in charge of the trade at the Twins. The first shipment of Lannister grain from Gulltown should be arriving at White Harbor within the week. It's part of the Tarly ransom. We aren't feeding the Wildlings with Northern grain, Robb. We're feeding them with Tywin Lannister's gold."
Robb stared at Eddard, a look of profound relief and awe crossing his face. He realized then that Eddard hadn't just been haggling with Tyrion for the sake of greed; he had been building the foundations for the North's survival.
"You thought of everything," Robb said, a tired laugh escaping his lips. "One matter, one master. I'll leave the Free Folk to you, Ned. But the Night's Watch? They won't let a hundred thousand 'savages' through the gate just because you have a bag of grain."
"Mormont is dead, Robb," Eddard reminded him. "The Watch is leaderless and terrified. Your brother Jon is there. He's seen the dead. He knows the truth. If I can get Jon into the Lord Commander's chair, he'll open those gates for us. And if anyone else tries to stop me?"
Eddard's expression turned into a mask of Karstark iron. "I've already beheaded six lords this month. I don't mind making it seven if a black-cloak gets in the way of the North's survival."
Robb nodded, trusting his Hand's ruthlessness. "Go then. Go to the Wall. Save the North, Ned. I'll stay here and make sure the 'Lion' doesn't find his way through the Neck."
Eddard stood up, the brandy warming his blood. He had a path now.
[System Notification: Strategy 'The Wildling Migration' accepted.]
[New Objective: Reach Castle Black.]
[New Objective: Influence the Lord Commander Election.]
[Soul Power Gained (Strategic Breakthrough): 200 SP.]
"Winter is coming, Robb," Eddard said, heading for the door. "But this time, we're the ones bringing the storm."
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