Chapter Seventeen
Uneasy Lords
Not all of Winterfell's lords were impressed by miracles. Some were afraid. Fear sharpened tongues and stiffened spines, twisting respect into suspicion and admiration into jealousy.
Elara had been summoned to a council meeting in the hall of the Northern lords. She entered to find frowns, murmurs, and eyes measuring her as if she were a threat rather than a guest. Stone walls echoed the quiet rustle of leather and steel as men leaned forward, eager to dissect her presence.
"Do you intend to replace the Stark lineage with… plants?" one lord demanded, voice dripping with scorn. His gaze swept over her as though she were a weed in a garden that needed pulling.
"I do not replace anyone," Elara said evenly, voice calm and steady. "I preserve life."
"By magic," another spat, leaning over the council table, face tight with distrust. "A woman who does not age, who heals with a single drink, who commands what should not grow in winter… How can we trust her?"
Jon stood beside her, presence silent but commanding. Protective, yes, but never possessive. "She has done nothing to betray trust," he said firmly, voice cutting through the tension. "And if you doubt her, you will see only that she acts for the North, not for herself."
The lords exchanged uncertain glances. Some shifted in their seats, reassured, while others remained embittered, lips pressed tight. Murmurs trailed like frost along the edges of the hall — some words respectful, others sharpened with fear or envy.
Elara watched quietly, noticing the subtle measurements of power at work. The whispered names, the glances flicking to Jon, the attempts to read her gestures, the unspoken efforts to undermine her presence. Here, unlike in Stardew Valley, influence had consequences beyond virtual success bars. A misstep could be deadly; a misjudged word could turn allies into enemies. She had farmed crops, healed with elixirs, and navigated algorithms where risk was resettable. Here, nothing reset. Every action, every choice, weighed on lives.
After the council dispersed, she and Jon lingered near a high window, snow drifting lazily across the courtyard below. She traced the patterns of frost with her finger, thoughtful. "They fear what they cannot control," she whispered.
"And you?" Jon asked, gray eyes searching hers.
She looked outward, watching the small figures of soldiers and servants below move through the snow. "I fear nothing I cannot manage," she said, voice firm. "But I am learning that managing people is… far more difficult than managing crops."
Jon smiled faintly, placing a steadying hand on her shoulder. "Then perhaps you should not do it alone."
Elara felt the weight of his words settle alongside the chill of the North wind. Leadership, she realized, was not simply power. It was trust, patience, vigilance, and alliance. And perhaps, for the first time since arriving in this world, she understood that influence without counsel was as brittle as ice — beautiful, dangerous, and impossible to hold for long.
The snow continued to fall, soft and relentless, outside the high window. Within the hall, tension lingered like frost on stone, and Elara's mind began plotting — not crops, not elixirs, but the careful cultivation of allies, of respect, of survival. A different kind of harvest, far more delicate than any she had ever known.