The Feast

3 Months Later

In the evening, the sound of galloping horses and a rolling cart reached the ears of Winterfell's guards. They watched as a group of men approached, led by a brown-haired man. Their eyes were drawn to the Stark banner he carried.

"OPEN THE GATES!" a guard yelled below. "And someone go quickly inform Lord Stark that his brother has arrived!" he continued.

The gates swung open. Torrhen rode through, crossing the bridge between the two gates and heading towards the courtyard.

As he approached, Torrhen saw Eddard and his wife, Catelyn Stark née Tully. Torrhen and his men halted in the courtyard. He dismounted, arms spread wide as he moved towards Eddard.

"Ned!" he greeted him, embracing his brother.

"You've gotten taller, Torrhen," Ned remarked. The two men now stood nearly at the same height.

"And you've grown a beard," Torrhen observed.

Turning to Catelyn, he said, "This must be your lady wife."

"My brother certainly got lucky, my lady," he added, eliciting a polite smile from Catelyn.

"Ned did say you were a charmer, my lord," she replied.

"Please, call me Torrhen. You're like a sister to me," Torrhen insisted. "Now, where is that son of yours? Robb, was it?"

"He's currently sleeping, Torrhen," Eddard explained. "Let's go to the hall first and get you and your men fed and rested."

They proceeded to the great hall, where food awaited them. As they ate, they engaged in conversations about Torrhen's activities and his ambitions for Moat Cailin.

As evening gave way to night, Torrhen walked towards his temporary chambers. Suddenly, he was ambushed by a blue-haired woman.

"Lya!" he exclaimed in surprise as she hugged him.

"Hello there, Torr," she spoke with a mischievous tone. "Miss me yet?" she teased.

"Yeah, yeah, I missed you," he replied, returning her embrace. "How have you been?" he asked.

"Good enough," she said, releasing him from the hug. "Did you bring something for me?" she inquired.

"Maybe," he replied mysteriously. 

"What's with the mystery? It doesn't suit you," she quipped.

Ignoring her remark, he asked, "How's Jon?"

Lyanna's face softened at the mention of her son. "He's growing so fast," she said, a mix of pride and melancholy in her voice. "He looks more like... well, you know... every day."

Torrhen nodded, understanding the unspoken reference to Rhaegar Targaryen. "And how are you handling that?" he asked gently.

Lyanna sighed, her earlier playfulness fading. "It's... complicated. But he's my son, Torr. No matter what, he's my son."

Torrhen squeezed her shoulder comfortingly. "Of course he is. And he's lucky to have you as his mother."

They walked together towards Torrhen's chambers, their conversation turning to lighter topics.

As they reached his door, Torrhen paused. "I do have something for you, by the way," he said, a smile playing at his lips. "But you'll have to wait until tomorrow. It's a surprise."

Lyanna's eyes lit up with curiosity. "Oh, come on! You can't just say that and not tell me!"

"Watch me," Torrhen teased, opening his door. "Goodnight, Lya. It's good to see you."

As he closed the door on Lyanna's mock-indignant protests, Torrhen couldn't help but rub his cheeks from smiling . It was exhausting to act like this, even if just for a short while.

Timeskip a week. 

After Torrhen's warm reunion with Eddard and Lyanna, the days in Winterfell passed in a blur of activity and anticipation. The crisp autumn air brought with it the promise of a grand celebration, and Winterfell's halls and courtyards were abuzz with preparations.

Servants and craftsmen worked tirelessly, transforming the Great Hall into a vibrant tableau of banners and festoons.

The feast, set to mark Torrhen's nameday and showcase the unity of the North's greatest houses, was mere days away.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows over the ancient stones, the excitement in the air grew palpable. Torrhen found himself deeply immersed in the intricacies of the event, ensuring every detail was attended to, from the arrangement of the seating to the selection of the finest wines and dishes.

The days leading up to the feast were filled with meetings, negotiations, and the occasional quiet moment of reflection on what the celebration meant for the future of Moat Cailin and the North. 

The Great Hall of Winterfell buzzed with activity as servants scurried about, hanging banners and arranging tables for the impending feast. Torrhen Stark stood in the center, overseeing the preparations with a keen eye. His nameday celebration was a week away, and lords from across the North would soon converge on Winterfell to pay their respects.

The first to arrive was the Greatjon Umber, his voice heard from afar. Torrhen and Eddard stood side by side.

"Lord Starks! Haha. Been a while, hasn't it!?"

"That it has been," Eddard replied politely.

"I hope the journey to Winterfell was pleasant?" Torrhen asked.

"As pleasant as this cold can be. But leave that aside! Look at you! The last time I saw you, you only reached my waist, and now you're a man grown!" he spoke loudly.

"Time has quite an effect on all of us. The last time I saw you, you drank enough for ten men easily. Can you still hold true to that?" Torrhen asked in a friendly, challenging tone, something right up the Greatjon's alley. Umber laughed loudly at that.

Eddard and Torrhen remained to greet various guests. Among the notable houses arriving were the Manderlys, Forresters, and Dustins, especially notable to Torrhen.

At the end of the day, Eddard and Torrhen sat together in Eddard's solace.

"A raven from the Dreadfort," Eddard said, his face calm. "Roose Bolton sends his regrets. He will not be attending the feast."

Torrhen's jaw clenched at Bolton's refusal to come to his overlord's first feast.

"Of course he won't. The man's as slippery as an eel and twice as venomous."

"Mind your words, brother," Eddard cautioned. "Bolton is still a powerful bannerman."

"A powerful bannerman who consistently finds reasons to avoid face-to-face meetings,"

Torrhen retorted. "But no matter. We'll make do without his charming presence."

In the three days leading up to the feast, Torrhen worked hard to endear himself to the lords and ladies gathered, mingling with them while maintaining a certain distance.

He approached Gregor Forrester, who was watching his son, Rodrik Forrester, spar with the guards.

"Lord Forrester," Torrhen greeted him cordially.

Gregor Forrester turned towards Torrhen, his expression shifting from the intensity of watching the sparring match to a warm, respectful smile. "Lord Torrhen," he responded, bowing slightly. "It's been too long. I see Moat Cailin's Lord has grown into a fine man."

Torrhen smiled at the compliment. "Time does that to all of us, Lord Forrester. I've heard much about Rodrik's skill with the sword. He fights well."

Gregor's chest swelled with pride as he glanced back at his son. "Rodrik's been training tirelessly. He'll make a fine warrior one day, maybe even better than me," he said with a chuckle.

Torrhen watched as Rodrik landed a particularly sharp strike on his opponent, disarming him with a swift motion. "It seems like he's well on his way to surpassing his father."

Gregor nodded in agreement, the proud gleam in his eyes clear. "How are things at Moat Cailin, my lord? I've heard you've made significant strides in your lands."

Torrhen nodded thoughtfully. "Aye, we've reclaimed much of the land around the Moat. The cloth merchantry is thriving, and with the new methods I've introduced, the harvest has been better than expected."

Gregor raised an eyebrow in interest. "New methods, you say?"

Torrhen smiled slightly, his voice steady, not giving any information away, "Just some taken inspiration from inventions of old Ghiscari empire. They've transformed the productivity of the land. The North is full of potential, if properly harnessed."

"Ambitious," Gregor said, clearly impressed. "You've done well for yourself, Torrhen. Your father would be proud."

Torrhen's expression flickered at the mention of their father, but he quickly masked it. "Thank you, Gregor. I've had good guidance."

As the two continued to talk, the rhythmic clang of swords echoed through the courtyard. Torrhen's eyes occasionally drifted to Rodrik, who was now instructing a younger guard on form and technique.

"You've raised a fine heir," Torrhen remarked, his tone more casual now. "Rodrik will make House Forrester proud."

Gregor chuckled. "And you, Torrhen? Any plans to settle down? The North could use more Starks."

Torrhen's lips quirked into a half-smile. "Perhaps one day, but for now, there 's still work to be done."

"How's the situation regarding the Ironwood, Lord Forrester?", Torrhen asked.

Gregor sighed, "Few houses are buying ironwood shields now and even fewer buying it outright."

Torrhen spoke with a calculating look, "Ah, hard times befall on all of us, my lord. Tell you what, i will buy ironwood from you of 100,000 stones weigh."

Gregor Forrester's expression shifted, surprise evident in his eyes as Torrhen made his offer. "100,000 stone weight of ironwood? That's a generous offer, Lord Torrhen."

Torrhen nodded, his face calm and calculating, "Moat Cailin is expanding, and with winter approaching, we need to strengthen our defenses. Ironwood will serve well in fortifications, shields, and weapon handles. I can also help get your goods into the southern markets through White Harbor."

Gregor stroked his beard thoughtfully. "It would be a boon for House Forrester. But moving that much ironwood will take time and manpower."

"I'll provide carts and men for transport,"

Torrhen offered smoothly. "We can have the first shipment ready by the end of the month."

Forrester gave a low, appreciative chuckle.

"You've thought this through, haven't you?"

Torrhen smiled slightly,"The North prospers when its people do. You'll have your gold, and in return, I'll have the best ironwood in Westeros protecting Moat Cailin."

The two lords exchanged firm handshakes, sealing the deal. Torrhen's mind was already racing ahead, thinking of how the ironwood could be used to reinforce the defenses at Moat Cailin and further expand his influence in the North.

_

Next Day

As the feast went on, laugh and sound of talking could be heard everywhere. Some people were dancing while others weren't talking and drinking. 

Torrhen approached Barbrey Dustin, "may i have a dance, my lady?"

Lady Dustin looked at his hand with distaste, which didn't escape Torrhen's sight. She still took his hand, as torrhen lead her to the dance floor.

As Torrhen led Lady Barbrey Dustin onto the dance floor, he could feel the tension radiating from her. She held his hand delicately, almost as if touching him was a burden she tolerated out of politeness.

Her posture was rigid, her eyes betraying a flicker of contempt beneath the mask of courtly decorum. Torrhen had heard rumors of her lingering resentment towards the Starks, particularly over the death of her husband, Willam Dustin, who had died during Robert's Rebellion while riding with Eddard Stark.

They began to move in time with the music, Torrhen adopting a relaxed and fluid pace, while Lady Dustin seemed more mechanical in her movements. She met his eyes with a sharp, almost challenging gaze, as if daring him to speak first.

"Winterfell has not seen such a grand gathering in some time," Torrhen began casually, his tone light. "It's good to see the North's finest houses come together."

Lady Dustin offered a tight smile, her response clipped. "Yes, it's a rare occurrence, indeed." Her eyes scanned the room, clearly uninterested in the festivities.

Torrhen studied her as they danced, noting the subtle disdain in her tone, the way she distanced herself from the other guests. Her tension was palpable, and it became clear that her presence here was more about obligation than genuine interest.

"I noticed you arrived without an escort," Torrhen ventured, testing her reaction.

"Barrowton is a fair distance from Winterfell. I hope your journey was uneventful?"

Barbrey's eyes flicked toward him, her lips curling into a smirk, though there was little warmth in it. "Barrowton is quite capable of managing its own affairs, Lord Torrhen. We are not so dependent on others as some might assume."

Torrhen nodded, sensing the weight behind her words. There was no mistaking her veiled jab—Barrowton, under her control, prided itself on autonomy. Her distaste for the Starks was evident in the way she distanced her house from them and well, spoke of them. 

"Independence is a rare strength," Torrhen replied smoothly, his tone neutral but probing. "It's a quality I admire. Moat Cailin, too, thrives on its own foundations, though alliances can strengthen us all."

Alliances are between kin, and I thought of the North as kin, but it seems that isn't the case," she refuted any attempt at proper alliance. 

Torrhen hummed and smiled politely, finishing the customary two minutes of dance before leading her back to the chairs.

"Thank you for the dance, my lady," he said, to which Barbrey gave a curt nod.

"It seems I will need a third party to procure those horses for me so I can remain anonymous," Torrhen thought as he walked away.

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Leave a review and this is a 3rd person pov if you like it tell me, if you don't tell me either way.

And this in no way reflects what's going on in the minds of the characters.