Chapter 6-Gold and Grain!

Chapter 6

CREGAN STARK

Cregan had not missed the little game of Varys. He had made an effort to avoid the man deliberately over the years for to this day he knew not where his loyalties lay. He had his hands in too many pots, and his web spun far and wide that was why Cregan thought it best to avoid him.

And yet while he was apathetic to the bald Master of Whisperers, he absolutely loathed the Master of Coin, Lord Petyr Baelish. Just one look, one look at the man's disappointed face upon seeing him, had told him all he had needed to know of the man, and Cregan had made an active effort to avoid the man at all costs, something he was only middlingly successful given that his education was mainly under Lord Jon Arryn who thought very highly of the man.

Though thankfully, a few moons into his stay, the man had become disinterested in him given his lack of ambition and quiet nature, and though the man may have been done with him, Cregan was not.

It took him years to understand the Master of Coin's little ploys, understanding how the man stole from the Crown and lined his own pockets. He did not keep much gold, and he invested it readily. Yet he did keep a substantial amount saved up in a rather non-conspicuous building in the Street of Silk, one which had a secret entrance through the tunnels that elapsed the underbelly of the city.

And so, Cregan had decided to get a little revenge on the man and had simply done to him what he had done to the Crown and had stolen from him a rather substantial amount of gold. And had he not planned for it for years, he would have been caught.

But while not the smartest, Cregan was meticulous and cautious, and both of these qualities had served him well. And as he rode through the wide cobbled streets of White Harbor he found himself relaxing for the first time in years as the cold chill of North welcomed him back home.

"Your city is beautiful," Cregan complimented, as the giant man riding beside him laughed.

"It is generous of you, young lord. But I doubt it compares to the splendor of the Capital," and he was the heir to these lands, the son of the man who ruled over White Harbor and the Castle they rode towards, Ser Wylis Maderly.

Lord Wyman's son was fat, and yet his father was said to be fatter. And though the man was jolly enough, the man had a sharp mind one he was said to have inherited from his father whom Cregan hoped to engage in a cautionary venture.

"I would say that White Harbor is better," Cregan added and saw the man raise a brow.

"It may be smaller, but it is more comely, and most of all, it does not smell of shit," and the man laughed at that.

"Ah, I have heard of it. They say that one smells the Capital before he sees it," and that was indeed true.

"Aye, and you smell of it for days after living in it for years," and with that they rode through the gates of the castle that looked over the city and its ports from the hill, its gates and walls manned by men bearing tridents, and the Manderly sigil on their plate.

And as the gates opened, he saw the man himself. Lord Wyman Manderly standing there alongwith a small retinue to welcome him. Cregan jumped off the horse as the man walked forward.

"It has been years since a Stark has graced these lands," he added with a booming laugh as a girl not much older than him stepped forward, carrying a basked of bread and salt, as Cregan tore off a piece and ate it.

"It is good to see you again, Lord Manderly," Cregan greeted the man before he turned to the girl who had presented him with the bread and salt.

"You as well, Lady Wynafryd," and she was the man's granddaughter, daughter of Wylis Manderly.

"It is good to see you as well, my lord," she greeted him back, as Lord Manderly.

"Welcome to New Castle, young Lord Cregan. My granddaughter shall lead you to your quarters, I have prepared feast in your honor," and that was just the Manderly way.

Cregan was not blind to the man's little ploys and how he wished to win over his favor and, subsequently, his hand for his granddaughter. The Manderleys were the richest House in the North and were not shy to show off their wealth.

Given the sheer amount of power they had, one should be careful of them. But they were fiercely loyal to the Starks, and so one could hardly ask for a better ally than them.

"There was no need for it, my lord," Cregan added softly.

"Of course, there was my lord," Wynafryd, the brown-haired girl, added.

"It is not every day that a Stark graces us with his presence," she added.

"I am but a second son," he retorted.

"You are a Stark," she added, and Cregan nodded as he turned towards the bulky man.

"I am grateful for your hospitality, my lord," and with that, some small talk was made as Cregan was led to his chambers by Lady Wynafryd.

"If there is anything you need, you can call on me, my lord," she said. She was a comely girl of middling height wearing a purple dress that complimented her hair, and Cregan nodded.

"I will, though could I perhaps trouble my lady to carry a message to Lord Manderly," he asked knowing that he did not have much time to spend here, and would need to depart to Winterfell soon.

"Of course," she said, her brows coming together in curiosity and attention.

"Tell him, that I wish to meet him in his solar," Cregan added, as he gulped down and wet his throat.

"Alone," and she seemed a bit taken aback by those words, and yet nodded nonetheless as she gave him a small bow.

"As you wish, my lord," and with that, the doors to the room closed, and he was left alone in those chambers, half of which was filled with his luggage.

Once the sound of footsteps vanished, Cregan walked to the door once more and locked it from the inside before he closed off the windows, covering them with the Myrish drapes. The room was now all dark except for the lamps and the candle that was lit on the desk.

Then he finally opened one of the trunks, this one filled with his own clothes and he removed them all, slowly and neatly as he piled them up on the bed until the trunk was all empty.

Or was it?

He then picked up his wooden cane, placed it in one of the corners, and pushed it down with all his weight.

THUNK!

The bottom lifted off, and he pushed it to the side to reveal tens of small bags stacked underneath. He whistled before he reached for one, loosened its strings, and emptied it into his hand.

First came dirt, which he had placed there to stop the rattling sounds, and then came the real thing—gold Coins.

"Thank you, Lord Baelish...." and with that, placed the fake bottom back in place, and that was the case with all his trunks, and this all was but half his fortune.

The other half was still in the capital, hidden away, in a place known only to two people, and would soon be on its way out of the city, all for one purpose—Death.

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The feast went according to his expectations. Exotic dishes were prepared in his honor, and the fat Lord Manderly toasted him. He was made to sit beside him, with his lovely granddaughter to his other side. The intentions of the old lord, not oblivious to him.

Cregan had dined at enough feasts not to embarrass himself, and yet, unlike in the capital where he could hide in obscurity, he could hardly do that here, given that all of it was arranged for him. And so, he dined, drank, and laughed with the Lord Manderly, regaling him with various tales of the capital.

And then they danced. Despite his reluctance, he could hardly refuse his hosts, especially one he wished to ask a great favor of, and so he bore the pain as he twirled his granddaughter to the tunes, followed by the second one, until he found himself settled in his seat once more besides the said lord.

"I hope it was not an imposition," he said as Cregan shook his head.

"Of course not. It was my honor to dance with the Lady Wynafryd and the Lady Wylla. Your granddaughters are quite lovely," Cregan buttered him, and the man laughed as he slapped his back.

"That they are, that they are," and then he saw those eyes narrow, those blue eyes that were more devious than jolly, for one did not gather such wealth and power without a sharp mind.

"I was told that you wished to see me," and Cregan nodded.

"I do, and I would prefer it if it was away from prying eyes and ears," and there was a sharp narrowing of that gaze before the man nodded.

"As you wish, I will send for you, young lord," and Cregan nodded and the festivities lasted late into the night, and as he retired, Cregan lay there on the bed, putting off the temptation to drown out the pain in his leg with a gulp of the milk of poppy, to not compromise himself for what was to come.

And then, late into the night, when the last of the whispers from the feast had been silenced, there was a knock on the door, and he opened it to find a guard outside.

"The Lord Manderley has called for you..."

And it was time...

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WYMAN MADERLY

Wyman Manderly was a fat man, with fat fingers and fat coffers, which made his walk slow, yet his mind was not so slow—not at all.

He had made the Manderly's richer than they had ever been and had seen his House to prosperity all because of his mind and the blessings of their liege Lord who had given their House this land and their trust.

House Manderly was originally from the Reach, yet it was driven out of those lands a thousand years ago. In those perilous times, while being chased by enemies, the Starks had given them refuge, had offered them land in their kingdom, and for that, the Starks would find none more loyal to them than their House.

"What do you think of him?" Wyman asked his granddaughter Wynafryd, the one who had relayed to him the boy's message earlier for a private meeting.

"I can see why they call him the Quiet One, he is much quieter than the other boy's his age," and that was his own thought. However, the boy had always been as such, even years ago when he had first come to this castle while going to the capital for his fostering.

Not that Wynafryd would remember much from that time. But he remembered.

Other boys of this age would laugh and jape and boast, especially one who had fostered with the King himself. They would boast of bravery and try to take girls to their beds, yet the Stark boy's gaze hardly lingered, at least no more than it became impolite, as he talked and danced with perfect manners.

"That he is," but Wyman suspected much more. However, he would learn soon enough, as his door was knocked.

"Leave us," he said as his granddaughter left the room, only for the boy to enter the solar. He walked into the room and took a seat at his offering.

"You seem to be in pain," Wyman offered as he saw the boy's grimace.

"Should I call for the maester?" he asked, and the boy shook his head.

"There is no need. This pain is an old companion now," the boy said, and this was why he had been sent away.

The Crippled Wolf—that was what they called him both in the capital and here in the North. The Second Son of Lord Stark had injured his leg in a fall in his youth, forcing him to endure a constant pain upon running or even walking for extended periods of time.

The boy could walk easily enough for some time, but he could not run. That meant he could not fight, though neither could he, and yet Wyman knew a man scarce as dangerous as him in these lands.

For some reason, he suspected that the young Stark boy was the same.

"I was told that you wished to see me, and here I am. What can I do for you, young master Stark?" he asked, and the boy replied.

"I am thankful that you heeded my request, my lord. I have actually come here because I am in need of your service," and that made him frown.

Him. Not House Stark, but were they so different?

"And what would request would that be?" Wyman asked.

"I wish for you to buy and store grain for me...."

That was a surprising request, and as they talked more and more, Wyman Manderly found himself surprised and worried. Buying grain was not an absurd request; he bought it for many lords of the North for the Winter, but if the boy had approached him, then it could be only for a few reasons.

He had come from the capital and could have brokered a good deal through the merchants there or could have even asked his own Lord father for it. But no, the boy had come to him with probably his own coin, and there could be only two reasons for that.

Gold or War. And as he looked at the boy's eyes, Wyman feared that it was the latter, and he was much afraid for it.

Though the boy may have hidden his intentions well enough—presenting them as a business venture—he saw through them and saw what he was really trying to do.

The boy was preparing the North for conflict.

And as Wyman sat there, his fingers thrumming over the table, the boy watched him with those steely grey eyes, and he raised a brow.

"Does your father know of your plans, my lord?" he asked again, just to ask, and the boy shook his head as he had expected. This was an independent venture. But why? He thought, and he was tempted to even ask.

But he did not. For some reason, he knew it in his blood that he should not. And Wyman had grown fat, old and rich all because of his instincts, and so he chose to trust them once more.

"Not yet, though I doubt he would interfere much given that the Gold is mine own and I am but a second son," one who had fostered with the King for years and was now returning home again and preparing for conflict.

"That may be, but still. This is a big undertaking. I would much prefer it if your lord father knew of it," he had to try. For all his intelligence, he was still a boy. A young boy with aged eyes that narrowed at his intervention.

"My lord father will know of it soon enough, but I am afraid we cannot delay this venture any longer, for the price of grain is set to rise soon," and he frowned as the boy continued in an ominous tone. That was a lie, a ploy to misdirect him.

But still, he wondered what would drive the boy to ask this of him. Given what he judged of the boy, he would have known of the problems this would entail, and yet he had still come to him, despite the risks, and he even spoke of them.

"For Winter is Coming..."

And for the first time, he wondered what kind of winter the boy spoke of.

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