Chapter 49 - Conspiracies
"Time truly flies," Ned Stark murmured, his eyes tracking the flickering hearth fire.
"It does when we have a purpose," I replied, leaning back. "When focus consumes us, days vanish. Otherwise, time simply passes us by."
Ned nodded slowly. "Very well. I will summon the Council of the North. However, it will take at least two to three weeks. The more distant lords, like the Umbers, require around fifteen days just to reach Winterfell."
"That is fine," I said. "But do not limit the summons to the lords. You must also invite the leaders of the Free Folk."
Ned's brow furrowed, his temper almost flaring, "Why would we call the Free Folk to a council of lords?"
"Because they are part of the North now, Lord Stark," I countered softly.
"This is the Council of the North and they deserve a voice. At the very least, they must know what is happening if we are to build trust between us. Including them in the North's activities will slowly diminish the thousands of years of hatred between the lords and the wildlings. Exclusion will only breed the old friction continuously. If we marginalise them, they will remain outsiders."
"Let them feel they belong to the living North, not just as temporary guests. Witnessing this unity might even encourage them to settle in our towns and cities instead of wandering as nomads."
Ned stared at me, the heavy silence stretching between us. Finally, a weary sigh escaped his lips.
"You speak the truth, Matt. Sometimes, prejudice and the heavy fog of history clouds our eyes from a simple reality that we are all inhabitants of the North now. Very well. I will send for them."
"Thank you," I said, pausing before pushing further. "But I have one more request."
Ned raised an eyebrow, a faint, amused smirk playing on his face. "Another one? Let's hear it, then."
"Ask the lords to bring their maesters with them to Winterfell."
The amusement vanished instantly from Ned's face, replaced by sharp alertness.
"Why do you want the maesters here, Matt? And do not tell me it is to include them like the Free Folk. You have an ulterior motive."
For a second, I was tempted. I considered deflecting, crafting a polite lie or even dodging the question entirely. But looking at the profound trust in Ned's grey eyes, I couldn't bring myself to deceive him.
I let out a long breath. "Have you ever wondered, Lord Stark, why the North forgot so much of the lore and traditions of the First Men?"
"Speak plainly, Matt," Ned warned, his voice dropping an octave. "Do not speak to me in riddles."
"Fine," I said, squaring my shoulders.
"I do not believe the maesters are as impartial as the realm believes. The Citadel has an agenda. They do not exist simply to serve. They exist to guide the lords of Westeros toward a world built according to their own image."
"This is madness," Ned scoffed, shaking his head. "The maesters have served us for centuries. They manage our keeps, heal our sick, and preserve our history. They have made life better."
"I am not denying their service, Ned," I said, stepping closer.
"But they are men. Men who serve entire life selflessly are saints. While saints exist, they cannot manufactured in large numbers, at the Citadel or anywhere, to be distributed to every castle in the realm. A few are genuinely impartial, true. But most of them are not. And you have an example of their influence right here in Winterfell's history."
Ned's gaze turned icy. "Are you accusing Maester Luwin? Because he has served my family faithfully for-"
"Not Luwin," I interrupted cleanly. "Think back, Ned. The maester who served your father, Rickard Stark. The one who had his ear before the rebellion."
Ned sat down with a heavy, hollow thump, the colour draining from his face.
"Have you ever wondered," I pressed, keeping my voice low but steady, "why your father, Lord Rickard, sent you to be fostered in the Vale instead of a great northern house? The Starks have never been close allies of the Arryns. For thousands of years, no heir or son of Winterfell was ever fostered south of the Neck."
Ned opened his mouth to speak, but I held up a hand.
"And do not tell me he simply wanted to build alliances. One southern match would suffice for that. Yet, Lord Rickard wanted all his children wed to the South. Brandon was betrothed to Catelyn Tully. You were sent to Jon Arryn. Lyanna was promised to Robert Baratheon. A kingdom of the First Men, the last of its kind and nearly every child of its ruler was being bartered away to the Andals who worship the Seven. What precedent does that set for the North?"
Ned had no reply. He leaned back in his heavy oak chair, crossing his fingers, his jaw set in a tight, troubled line.
"Who do you think implanted that idea in your father's head?" I asked quietly.
"A maester doesn't need to forge a letter or poison a cup to betray his lord. He does it silently, subtly, over five years, ten years or decades. They whisper, they advise and they slowly strip away your identity until you forget who you are."
Ned closed his eyes, tilting his head back toward the ceiling. I knew what he was thinking. The previous maester, Walys, had birthed Ned and all his siblings. How could a man who held you as a newborn be a snake in the grass? Yet, the logic was unyielding.
"Fostering is meant to build loyalty between your own bannermen," I continued.
"You could have been sent to the Manderlys, the Umbers, or even the Karstarks, a cadet branch of your own blood. Instead, the northern lords were bypassed."
"If you think that is just politics or my logic being flawed, then look at history. Look at the Targaryens. From the moment the Citadel began managing the royal dragons, the creatures diminished. Generation after generation, they grew smaller and weaker until the last one died, no larger than a cat. Do you truly believe the Dragonlords, who ruled the skies for thousands of years, suddenly forgot how to raise their own dragons? Or was the knowledge systematically sabotaged?"
Ned looked at me, shell-shocked. The implication hung heavily in the crisp air of the solar. I paused, closing my eyes for a brief second to extend my senses, ensuring no ears were pressed to the heavy oak door or hidden behind the tapestries. Satisfied that only the distant guards stood watch, I stepped closer.
"And what of the war that killed your father and brother?" I whispered. "You were at the Tower of Joy, Ned. You heard Lyanna's final breaths. What did she name her son?"
Ned flinched, his eyes darkening with a sudden, protective panic. "We should not speak of this, Matt. Never."
"We must," I insisted. "Answer me, Lord Stark."
He let out a ragged breath, the weight of a decade-old secret crushing his shoulders. "She named him Aegon Targaryen."
"Targaryen," I repeated. "Not Snow. Not Waters or any other bastard surname. A trueborn name. That means Lyanna and Rhaegar were wed before a septon or a maester. But the realm was never told. If even a minor lord had been informed, the Rebellion could have been averted. And even if not averted, many deaths could have been prevented. The war reeks of orchestration. Someone wanted a wart and they hid the one truth that could have stopped the slaughter."
Ned buried his face in his hands, trembling under the sudden clarity of a terrifying new perspective. After a long, agonizing silence, he stood up and walked to the window, staring out over the sprawling winter town and the dark expanse of the Wolfswood.
"Very well," Ned said, his back still turned. "The lords will bring their maesters. But do you have proof of this sabotage?"
"I have no proof," I admitted. "But I have a way to ensure they never betray the North again."
Ned turned around, his brow furrowed in deep doubt. "How can you guarantee that?"
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End of Chapter 49 - Conspiracies