??? - Spring 226 AC

  Hullen

  Hullen awoke to darkness, the kind that clung to the edges of the world like a living thing, heavy and suffocating. His head throbbed, a dull ache pulsing behind his eyes, and his mouth tasted of sour ale and something faintly metallic. The air was cold against his skin—too cold—and as his senses crept back to him, he realized with a jolt that he wore nothing at all. His wrists and ankles burned where coarse rope bit into them, binding him spread-eagled to a wooden rack. He tugged weakly, but the restraints held fast, the wood beneath him creaking ominously.

  The room was dim, lit only by a single flickering torch set into the far wall. Its feeble light cast long shadows that danced across the stone floor, slick with dampness and streaked with stains he dared not ponder. Around him hung strange shapes, draped over hooks or pinned to the walls like trophies. At first, he thought them animal pelts—oddly shaped, perhaps from some beast of the Wolfswood he’d never hunted. But there was something wrong about them, something that gnawed at the edge of his understanding. The shapes were too… precise. Too human in their contours.

  He tried to piece together how he’d come to be here, but his mind was a fog. His last memory was the tavern—the warmth of the hearth, the laughter of men, the weight of a pouch of silver in his hand. He’d drunk deeply that night, celebrating a job well done, though the details of it were hazy now. The ale had been bitter, but he’d thought nothing of it. Now, as he lay shivering in this shadowed place, a tingle of fear began to bloom in his gut, sharp and cold as a winter frost.

  The silence was shattered by the groan of hinges. A door he hadn’t noticed—set into the far wall—swung open with a slow, deliberate scrape. A man stepped through, and the torchlight seemed to shrink from him, as if unwilling to touch the pale expanse of his skin. Lord Roderic Bolton, master of the Dreadfort, stood framed in the doorway, his presence filling the room like a storm cloud rolling over the horizon. He was tall and lean, his frame corded with muscle beneath a black doublet trimmed with crimson. His hair was thinning, a greasy crown of brown fading to grey at the temples, and his eyes… gods, his eyes were bleak as a frozen pond, dead and unfeeling, yet they pinned Hullen to the rack as surely as the ropes did.

  Hullen’s gaze darted back to the shapes on the walls, and this time, he saw them for what they were. Not pelts. Not animals. The torchlight caught the edge of one, revealing the faint curve of a ribcage, the hollow where a face might have been. Flayed skin. Human skin. The realization hit him like a hammer, and his breath caught in his throat, his heart slamming against his ribs. He was in the Dreadfort, he knew it now—the Boltons’ seat, whispered of in terror across the North. And these were their trophies, their victims, stripped of flesh and dignity alike.

  Lord Roderic said nothing at first. He simply stood there, perfectly at ease among the gruesome decorations, his dead eyes studying Hullen with the dispassion of a butcher appraising a hog. The silence stretched, taut as a bowstring, and Hullen’s fear coiled tighter with every passing heartbeat. He wanted to speak, to demand answers, but his tongue felt leaden in his mouth, and the lord’s presence seemed to press the air from his lungs.

  Finally, Roderic broke the silence, his voice low and smooth, like the rasp of a blade being sharpened. “Why is the Stark boy still alive?”

  Hullen blinked, confusion warring with his terror. The Stark boy. Edwyle Stark. The heir to Winterfell. The memory came flooding back now—the job, the silver, the task he’d carried out within the walls of Winterfell itself. With most of the Stark men gone north to answer Lord William’s call against the wildlings, the castle had been near-empty, its household thin and distracted. It had been easy to slip into the kitchens, to pour the vial of poison into the cask of ale meant for young Edwyle’s supper, served by his own unsuspecting servants. “I… I did as you asked, m’lord,” he stammered, his voice hoarse. “I poisoned the ale in Winterfell’s own halls. It went to his table—I made sure of it.”

  Roderic’s expression did not change, but he reached into his doublet and withdrew a folded parchment, its wax seal broken but still bearing the unmistakable direwolf of House Stark. “Did you now?” He unfolded the letter with deliberate care and held it up, the words scrawled in a bold hand catching the torchlight. “This arrived at dawn. From Edwyle Stark himself. Summoning me to Winterfell to swear fealty, now that his father has fallen to the wildlings. A curious thing, for a dead boy to write letters.”

  Hullen’s stomach plummeted. “I… I don’t know how he survived, m’lord!” His voice cracked, panic clawing its way up his throat. “I swear it, I did as you asked! The poison was in the cask—I saw it sent to his table; I swear it by the Old Gods!”

  Roderic tilted his head slightly, as if considering a mildly interesting puzzle. Then, with the same deliberate calm, he drew a knife from his belt—a wickedly sharp blade, its edge gleaming with a cruel promise. He turned it over in his hand, the steel catching the light, and took a slow step toward the rack. Hullen’s breath came in ragged gasps now, his limbs straining against the ropes until the coarse fibers drew blood.

  “You know,” Roderic said, his tone almost conversational, as if they were sharing a cup of wine rather than standing amidst a gallery of horrors, “my father once told me something. ‘A naked man has few secrets,’ he said.” He paused, his lips curling into the faintest of smiles, a gesture devoid of warmth. “‘But a flayed man has none.’”

  The knife gleamed as he raised it, and Hullen’s scream echoed off the cold stone walls, swallowed by the darkness of the Dreadfort.

  Jack

  The fire crackled loudly in the Great hall’s hearths, the only source of sound in the cavernous room. I could still feel Artos’ flinty eyes boring into me even after he had strode away. “Those eyes again—like he’s waiting for me to trip over my own boots. Sorry, uncle, I’m all I’ve got.” Alysanne slipped away after him, muttering about tending William’s body—her regal mask crumbling under the full force of her grief. “Strong woman, holding it together ‘til now” I thought as the door thudded shut.

  I slumped in the high seat, Ice propped beside me, a sliver of its dark, smoky metal peeking out from the plain leather sheath. Those carved wolves glared down from their columns, judging me, daring me to pick it up again. Eight days as “Edwyle,” and I still felt like a desk jockey playing dress-up. My eyes fell on Ice, and I couldn’t resist. I stood, grabbed the hilt—its leather soft and worn—and pulled the blade free. Valyrian steel shimmered in the torchlight, lighter than it had any right to be for six feet of death. I swung it, its blade razor-sharp—sharp enough to split hairs or heads—and three thumps echoed through my mind and the phantom scent of copper stinging my nose. I shook it off and my wrists fumbled another swing, unpracticed, as Artos’ words rattled around my skull: Wildlings, Boltons, and stubborn Lords. War’s coming—whether I want it or not. “What’d I expect from this damn world—a medieval farming simulator?” I muttered, returning the ancestral blade to its sheath. “First the fields and treasury—but Alysanne’s right, Steel’s just as important as bread here.”

  My mind churned— “Gunpowder’s unrealistic, but crossbows? Weren’t those mentioned in the books? That could be a counter for knights,” My boots tapped a steady rhythm as I paced the hall's stone floor. “Better quality steel could give us an edge, I didn’t notice any bellows in Torhen’s forge, that’d be a good start.” A grizzled guard stepped in, bowing quickly. “M’lord, Cerwyn banners approach the gate.” My eyes snapped to him. “Cerwyn? Rodrick said they’re closest—answering my summons then,” I hooked Ice to my belt, its weight slapping my thigh like an awkward sidekick. “Inform my uncle and have him meet me in the bailey,” I rasped, Voice steady despite the nervous bubble in my gut.

  “How do you even greet a vassal?” I thought, heading out. If I wanted change, I needed a good first impression—smooth over my “modern” ideas. I gave a humorless chuckle—“Like a new appointee at the USDA—baffle ‘em with numbers and bullshit, or they cut your funding. Here, they’d cut my neck.” Artos’s steel gaze flashed. “Yeah, he’ll need a lot of bullshit.” First, Lord Cerwyn—hopefully Artos knew the protocol, ‘cause I sure didn’t. “Something with salt, right?”

  I stood in the bailey, mud sucking at my boots, and let out a huff. “This mud’s eating me alive—how hard’s it to make concrete?” I wondered. Beside me Artos loomed, he swapped his armor for a clean doublet and hose much like my own. Jocelyn slouched on my other side, toying with a loose string on her dress, stealing glances—her eyes running a gamut of emotions: grief, anger, and… curiosity? “I think I’d rather she yelled—less guessing.” Just then the gate opened, and a small retinue rode in, the Cerwyn banners—black axe on a silver field—snapped in the late morning air. Lord Medger Cerwyn, broad and grizzled, reined up first—face like weathered oak, eyes sharp under a fur hood. A younger man, early 20s, all eager muscle, swung down beside him, smirking like he owned the place. “A cocky one huh?” I thought, before a girl—not a day over 16—slid off her horse, demure, with dark hair tucked in a hood, but her face screamed she’d rather be anywhere else.

  If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  A servant stepped up with bread and salt. The Cerwyns each dipped and ate a piece. “Good call Artos—I’d have botched that,” I thought, resisting a facepalm. “Lord Stark,” Medger called, voice rough as gravel, striding over to size me up before bowing. I straightened, wolf-pelt cloak heavy, and nodded back. “Lord Cerwyn—you made good time.” Short, clipped—keep it steady, Jack.

  “Aye, when a Stark calls, Cerwyn answers,” he said, clapping a fist to his chest. “We heard o’ your father’s fall—a sorry day for the North.” A genuine look of grief softened his face, “This is my heir, Jonos.” The kid stepped up, smirking wider, giving me a nod like we were pals. “Maybe we were? Hell, if I know.” Medger went on, voice shifting—too smooth now “And my daughter, Cynthea,” Jocelyn’s eyes narrowed beside me—not at me for once. “A lass o’ true Northern grit, sharp as an axe, a true beauty to behold.” He nudged her forward, her hood slipping back—pale cheeks flushed, eyes flicking to the ground, then me, quick and uneasy.

  I blinked—what’s with the sales pitch? —“Uh, good to meet you—Jonos, Cynthea,” I said, keeping it neutral, palms sweaty under my gloves. Jonos snorted and Cynthea fidgeted—hands twisting her cloak. A sudden realization hit me like a brick. Holy shit, is this what I think it is? My gut dropped, fighting a laugh that’d sound unhinged. Christ, these medieval bastards don’t mess around. I never married back home—just never found the one, too busy with Iraq, then my career—hadn’t even crossed my mind ‘til now—marriage secured allies and resources here, which means I gotta tie the knot sometime, but this? She’s half my age—in my head—and lordly duty or not, I ain’t some cradle-robber. “I needed allies, sure, but marrying a minor? Ain’t no way in hell.”

  “Uh, I will… take you at your word,” I managed, voice catching—stupid, but it was out. Words felt like mud—slippery and useless. Cynthea’s blush deepened, Medger’s eyes glinted—amused or satisfied, hard to tell. “Aye, I speak true,” he said, clapping her shoulder. “She would make a fine match for any lord, if I say so.” Jonos smirked wider— “Seriously, what’s this guy's deal?” Cynthea twisted her cloak harder— “She’s a deer in a wolf pen, poor thing.” I forced a grin, throat tight—dodge, Jack, dodge. “Uh, she’s a prize, no doubt—,” I said lamely, and turned to Artos, praying he’d bail me out. He didn’t—just stared, a faint smile tugging his lips— “Bastard’s enjoying this.” “—but I’m afraid my mind’s too focused on laying my father to rest to think of marriage,” I deflected. Jocelyn’s glare snapped back to me— “like I’d spit on the grave.” Ignoring it, I pressed on before Medger could jump in, “Come, you’re tired from the road—let’s get you some rooms,” gesturing at the servant with the bread and salt.

  I lingered in the bailey. “Hopefully not every lord will be trying to push their minor daughter at me,” I thought, shoving down the doubt prickling at the back of my mind. Artos stood a pace off, his steel gaze flicking to Ice strapped at my belt. That damn sword again. He stared, silent, judging me like always, then turned to stalk off. “Meet me in the yard tomorrow at noon,” he said over his shoulder, voice rough as gravel. “We’ll see if you remember how to swing a blade.” My gut twisted. Shit. Edwyle might’ve danced with steel, but me? I’d look like a damn fool. I caught Jocelyn watching from the corner of my eye, her grey eyes sharp with curiosity. I turned to meet her stare, and she spun away, cold shoulder cutting me off clean. “Great, one wants my head, the other looks at me like I personally killed her father,” I thought, exasperation boiling. Then heavy boots thudded closer. Torhen loomed into view, five scruffy figures trailing him, their hands and faces stained with soot. “M’lord,” he said, voice thick with forge smoke. “These’re the lads I told ye bout. The ones who make charcoal.”

  My mind latched onto the distraction. Marriage talks and swordplay could be future me’s problem. “Just keep moving, Jack,” I told myself, sizing them up. Five roughnecks, cloaks patched, eyes wary but steady. Not much to look at, but then again the North didn’t abide weakness. Plus these men might be the key to solving some of our troubles. “Torhen tells me you all make charcoal?” I asked, stepping closer, mud squishing under my boots.

  “Aye, Lord Stark, tis true,” the tallest one answered, a grizzled lump with a scarred cheek. “Not a lot, but we make ‘nuff to trade in town.” Behind him, the others nodded, a quiet ripple of agreement.

  I crossed my arms, leaning in. “How do you do it? Pile it up and burn it?” My brain was already churning—how could I improve their process? The North’s bleeding resources, importing charcoal like fools when the Wolfswood’s right there. “If there’s one thing we have in abundance it's lumber.” More fuel, better steel, maybe even trade south. Scar-cheek scratched his jaw, voice low. “Cut what we can, mostly just gather fallen limbs, M’lord. Stack it’n cover with sod after we light it. If’n the wind don’t ruin it, the pile burn fer a day or two.” A shorter one, wiry with a patchy beard, chimed in. “Most is lost to ash, m’lord. Or left half chared”

  I nodded, picturing it. “How much you get from a stack?” I asked, keeping my tone even. Scar-cheek shrugged. “Fifty pounds, M’lord. Less if’n the snows’re heavy.” Fifty pounds. “Hell Torhen’s Forge probably uses that much in a few days.” I thought. If I wanted to supply a Keep the size of winterfell, let alone a trade caravan south, we would need way more than that. Still, they’ve got the foundation for it. We just need to scale it up.

  “I had Torhen bring you here because I want to start producing our own charcoal,” I began, “I want you men to head this up. House Stark will provide you with the funds and materials you need, so what do you say?”

  I couldn’t tell if the shock on their faces was from my offer of patronage or the fact that I asked them instead or ordering them. “Wait until I tell them they’ll be paid for their work too.” I thought with an amused twitch of my lips. After a moment, and a few exchanged glances, one of them finally found their tongue, “Aye, Lord Stark, we would be honored,” then his eyes scrunched in worry, “But, M’lord, even with all of us I don’t think we will be able to provide much.”

  “I have a few ideas that may help with that. Come, follow me, we shall discuss this in my solar,” I said as I turned toward the keep.

  “Garth, fetch Henry, tell him to meet me in the solar,” at my command one of my shadows, who I finally learned the name of, peeled away, his armor clanking softly in the fading light.

  In the solar I took my seat and watched as the men all gawked, their eyes tracing the room in awe. “Probably haven’t been many smallfolk that’ve had the chance to see this room,” I mused, an amused huff escaping my lips.

  A knock on the door heralded Henry’s arrival. His stoic gaze briefly took in the soot covered men before he executed a sharp bow. “You wished to see me, My Lord?”

  “Yes, but before that,” I said before nodding to the other men, “I’m sorry, but I forgot to ask your names.”

  Scar-cheek cleared his throat, stepping forward. “I’m Bryce, m’lord.” The wiry one followed. “Tommen.” The others chimed in; voices gruff. “Luce.” “Walt.” “Edd.” I nodded, committing them to memory. Five men, five chances to make this work.

  “Right, Bryce, Tommen, Luce, Walt, Edd. You’re the start of something here,” I said, leaning back in my chair. “We’re forming a Burners Guild. House Stark’s backing you, but we need more than fifty pounds a stack. Henry, where’s our firewood come from?”

  Henry straightened; ledgers still tucked under his arm. “Wolfswood mostly, My lord. The Karstarks, Glovers, and Umber pay a portion of their taxes in firewood as well.” He paused, frowning. “If I may be so bold, my lord, if you mean to use our store of firewood for charcoal, it has been severely depleted from this last winter. I worry we won’t be able to save enough for the next one.”

  I waved that off, voice firm. “I hear your concerns Henry, but this must happen. A Quarter of all firewood will go to charcoal.” Henry’s frown deepened, his quill hovering. “Charcoal’s worth more than firewood anyways. If we make as much as I plan to, the gold we will bring in can supplement any shortfalls,” I said, locking eyes with him. “We’ve got lumber sitting idle while we buy southron scraps. Make it work.” He nodded once, scribbling fast. “As you say, My lord.”

  I didn’t mention it, but I wanted to introduce some sort of brazier or woodstove to use charcoal to heat homes. More efficient than fireplaces and will cut back on smoke inhalation. Before my mind could descend too far down that rabbit hole I turned to my newly minted guild members, motioning for them to come closer as I grabbed a fresh sheet of parchment. “I have an idea to produce more charcoal,” as I spoke, I drew rough sketches of a drying rack and a two chambered building. “First, we will dry the wood. Next, instead of mounds we will make a stone building, both the inside and outside covered in a layer of clay. Here in this smaller chamber is where you will make the fire, where the smoke will feed into this bigger chamber where all of the wood has been stacked tightly. The heat from the smoke should burn the wood without turning it to ash.” At least I hoped that's how it’d work, most of this was just what I remembered from some half-remembered YouTube video I watched on Japanese charcoal makers. We would have to use a lot of trial and error to get this right.

  “Questions?” I asked, my eyes flicking to each of the men. I could see that they didn’t seem sold on the idea. They fidgeted nervously, "smoke charrin' wood? Sounds queer," I heard Tommen mutter. Bryce scratched his jaw again. “I learned how’ta make charcoal from me pa, m’lord, ‘n he from his pa they ain’t ever used something like this.” I leaned forward. “Aye, I'm sure they didn’t, but we will. This’ll work you’ll see.” They nodded, wary but willing.

  “Find a suitable spot in the castle’s grounds to build this, Henry will make sure you have whatever you need to do it,” with a bow they all left, Henry muttering about numbers, boots scuffing the stone.

  I stood, stretching my legs, and walked over to the sole window in the solar. Outside the sun’s fading light dyed the sky a beautiful mix of oranges and reds. Despite the view my mind was focused inward, Artos’ judgement, Jocelyn’s fury, and Northern lords loomed heavy. “Just keep moving Jack,” I sighed, before turning to my desk. There was still plenty of work ahead of me.

  https://discord.gg/VgkNYyHx