Chapter Eight
The Harvest Feast
The next morning, Winterfell's great hall was transformed.
Long tables stretched end to end, groaning under the weight of freshly baked bread, roasted meats, and bowls of vegetables that should not have grown in winter. Steam rose in curling tendrils from golden loaves, glinting off polished goblets. Candles flickered against high stone walls, their light catching on banners and armor alike, casting warm highlights over a hall that had felt cold and wary only hours before.
Elara had orchestrated it all. Not through magic alone — though that had helped — but through meticulous planning, her inexhaustible stamina, and careful timing. Every loaf baked to perfection, every vegetable chosen and arranged, every tray of meat cooked and seasoned precisely to highlight flavor.
The lords and ladies of the North, usually cautious, stiff-backed, and suspicious of strangers, gathered slowly. Some murmured under their breath, glancing at the bounty with disbelief. The maester muttered quietly about unnatural growth, shaking his head as if to argue with the very laws of winter. Smallfolk whispered blessings, cautious hope threading through their awe.
Jon stood beside her at the high table. Shoulder to shoulder, silent presence, eyes observing more than he spoke. He leaned close, voice low, almost private.
"You could make enemies very quickly," he murmured, gray eyes sharp.
Elara shrugged lightly, offering a faint smile. "Or friends."
She passed a bowl of rich stew to a grizzled northern soldier, his leather and mail streaked with soot and snow. He sniffed cautiously, suspicion written across his scarred features, before tasting it. A beat passed. Then another. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he devoured it in silence, nodding faintly with each bite.
Laughter began to thread its way through the hall, replacing the tension like sunlight breaking over frost. Stories grew louder, goblets clinked, children laughed and ran between tables. Elara moved among them, quiet but present, careful to maintain the delicate balance — power without arrogance, generosity without weakness. She noticed Jon watching her more than anyone else, tracking every gesture, every smile, every deliberate movement.
Afterward, when servants cleared the tables and the hall emptied of the crowd's hum, Jon drew her aside, toward the battlements. Snow drifted softly at their feet, the wind carrying a crisp edge, teasing strands of her hair.
"You did this," he said softly, voice carrying a quiet awe, "and yet you didn't make me look weak."
Elara allowed herself a faint smile. "I wasn't thinking about you. Only them."
"But you thought about me," he countered, eyes holding something unspoken, something raw and honest.
She felt her chest tighten, warmth spreading in a way the Northern chill could not touch.
"Yes," she admitted softly, voice barely above the whisper of snow against stone.
The wind drifted around them, carrying the scent of smoke and roasted meat, laughter and quiet hope. And in that quiet moment, beneath the banners of Winterfell, Elara realized that influence could be wielded gently, and power could be unspoken — but never unnoticed.