The plan was in motion.
The first spark of trade in the frozen North had finally found a flame.
Rodrik Cassel studied the two young men before him—Robb Stark and Lynn Auger—and finally nodded.
"Then so be it," he said. "Try your venture. But remember—this cannot distract from the defense of the Wall or the North. And don't let the South hear that the Starks and the Night's Watch have turned merchants. They'd laugh themselves hoarse."
Robb's jaw tightened. "Let them laugh. Once their wives and daughters are wearing the North's perfume, we'll see who's laughing."
The council ended.
That night, back in his makeshift workshop under the fort, Lynn found Ygritte waiting by the table, idly turning bottles of herbs in her hands. The air smelled of mint and smoke and snow‑pine.
"You're done talking with the lords?" she asked. "Those little bottles will really buy food?"
"I hope so," he said, gathering his notes.
Ygritte watched him for a long moment before saying softly, "You've got a strange mind. You fight, you speak, you make… scented water. What are you, really?"
Lynn stopped writing and looked up at her. The torchlight caught her eyes, bright and curious, unyielding as ever.
"A man who wants to live," he said quietly. "And wants others to live, too."
Ygritte blinked, then smiled faintly. Picking up one of the rough sachets, she began to stitch the cloth with clumsy fingers—not a direwolf this time, but the shape of a bird in mid‑flight.
"The Free Folk's sign," she explained. "If you mean to sell these to the South, they should know they're made by more than just Northerners. They're made by free people."
For a moment, Lynn said nothing. Then he smiled. Maybe this was what true peace looked like—not giving, not taking, but creating something new together.
Far to the south, the wind off the Blackwater Bay carried a different aroma—wine, perfume, and deceit. Firelight glittered on marble floors and gold‑leaf ceilings.
Lady Sansa Stark sat in her chamber within the Red Keep, her quill scratching across parchment. Her letters home were growing longer each week—pages of court gossip, fashions, and the endless rivalries of courtiers wrapped in silks and smiles.
She did not know it yet, but she was about to become the North's first merchant envoy, carrying a vial of forest‑scented perfume that would charm the snakes of King's Landing more effectively than most swords.
Two weeks later, dust and sunlight rose together as Lynn rode through the capital gates.
King's Landing was everything the songs promised—beautiful, crowded, and stinking of money and rot in equal measure.
The Stark household lodged in the Tower of the Hand within the Red Keep. Polished stone, woven carpets, narrow windows—it was elegance bound in chains.
The moment he stepped into the hall, a blur of movement struck him.
"Lynn!"
Arya Stark hit him like a gust of snow, nearly knocking him over. "I didn't think you'd get here so soon! Robb's letter said you were coming, but I thought it'd take a moon's turn."
She'd grown taller, her face thinner, sharper. The southern gown she wore could not quite hide the wolf beneath; her belt still held the slender blade he'd forged for her.
Sansa followed at a more graceful pace, dressed in silk the color of pale sky, her auburn hair braided in the southern fashion. But when she saw him, the ladyly poise cracked enough to reveal honest relief.
"To see a friendly face," she said softly, "is a blessing here. Everyone smiles in this city… and none of them mean it."
Then down the stairs came Lady Catelyn Stark.
She was slimmer than he remembered, the sea voyage and southern air having carved fine lines at the corners of her eyes. But her posture was still that of Winterfell's matriarch—straight, proud.
"Lynn," she greeted, taking his arm warmly. "The road was kind to you, I hope? Tell me—how fare my children in the North?"
Dinner in the Tower of the Hand could not have been more different from the feasts of Winterfell. The table gleamed with silver and blue porcelain; the servants poured wine that smelled of oranges.
The Starks gathered quietly around the long, candlelit table.
"The cooks here make better cakes," Arya whispered to him, carving a slice of lamb, "but they drown the meat in spice. You can't even taste the hunt!"
Lady Catelyn barely touched her plate. Her questions came steady and precise: Robb's health, Rodrik's duties, Bran's moods, even Rickon's dreams.
When Lynn mentioned the wildlings' migration south, her expression darkened.
"Mance Rayder," she murmured. "I know that name—a deserter of the Watch."
"Robb's still young," she said, voice low and troubled. "He trusts too easily. What happens when ten thousand wildlings stand inside our borders? When one disobeys?"
"Robb has done well, my lady," Lynn said earnestly. "He listens, he weighs, and he leads with honor. And more than that—the true threat is not the Free Folk."
He told her of the wights, the Others, the frozen dead that stalked the woods beyond the Wall.
When he finished, her face had gone pale. Arya leaned forward, bright‑eyed and hungry for every detail.
The door opened then, and the room changed.
Eddard Stark entered.
For a moment, Lynn almost didn't recognize him. In mere months, age and worry had carved deep lines into the lord's face. His back was straight as ever, but his eyes held the exhaustion of a man carrying a crumbling kingdom on his shoulders.
"Father!" the girls cried.
Ned smiled faintly, placing a hand on each of their heads before turning to Lynn. "So it's true. Robb's letter said you were coming south. I expected another fortnight at least."
He clasped Lynn's shoulder with steady strength. "It's good to see a Northerner who still prefers sense over politics."
Conversation turned to the North—Wall defenses, trade, the Free Folk settlement. When Lynn finished recounting the negotiations, a glimmer of respect softened Lord Eddard's gray eyes.
"You've done what no knight's sword could," he said quietly. "You used your mind to solve what war could not."
"Steel can't fight hunger, my lord," Lynn replied simply.
Ned nodded. "No, it can't."
As wine was poured, his tone became low and weary. "This city… every word here hides a blade. Smiles wound deeper than swords. I miss the air of Winterfell—where you can say 'yes' or 'no' and mean it."
Catelyn laid her hand on his. It was comfort more than counsel.
After dessert, Lynn reached into his satchel and withdrew a small, polished wooden box—the first shipment of "Northern Fragrance."
Under candlelight, ten thumb‑sized glass vials gleamed like amber. Silk and linen sachets lay beside them, embroidered with stitch‑work finer than he'd left in the North.
Arya picked one up instantly. "What is it?"
"The scent of the North," Lynn said. "Perfume made from our forests—pine, spruce, snow grass, and meadow flowers."
As he explained the process and his hopes for trade, Eddard listened, brows furrowed in thought.
Catelyn opened one vial, inhaled, and stilled.
"It smells like the godswood after snowfall," she said softly. "Like cold air on stone and moss."
Sansa's eyes brightened as she tried another, the floral one with a hint of honey. "This could change everything," she said. "Southern ladies adore novelty. No one's ever worn a 'Northern Forest.'"
Arya wrinkled her nose but laughed. "It's strong! But my friends at lessons can't stop talking about scents like this. If it's rare, they'll beg for it."
Lynn smiled, relief warming him.
"We need introductions to merchants, my lady," he said. "Or to noble households that could start the trend."
Catelyn and her husband exchanged a knowing look.
"I can arrange that," said Catelyn. "I know a few women of the court—wives of traders who owe favors to House Stark. We'll send some bottles as gifts. If they talk…"
"We'll do the rest," Sansa said quickly, spark flashing in her eyes. "Arya and I can show them off discreetly at our gatherings. Not selling—just using. Here, everyone wants what others cannot have."
Arya grinned. "Exactly. We pretend it's rare. They'll want it more."
Lynn looked at both girls in surprise. The little wolves of Winterfell were learning the art of survival in their own ways—Sansa through courtly grace, Arya through cunning instinct.
Eddard finally spoke, voice measured. "House Stark cannot appear in business deals. The Hand meddling in trade would invite mockery—and worse."
He met Lynn's eyes. "You'll act under your own name. My family will help… quietly. For profit and discretion—half and half."
"That's fair," Lynn said. "I'll bear the costs and risks. But your connections will open doors I never could."
Ned's intense gaze softened. "You bargain well, son. Half and half, then. But there's one thing," he added firmly. "No one connects this to the wildlings or the Watch. These are Northern goods, nothing more."
"Understood."
Catelyn began listing names of potential patrons. The girls whispered strategies for their upcoming luncheons. Ned simply sat, watching them, the faintest trace of a smile ghosting across his tired face.
When night fell, he knocked quietly on Lynn's chamber door. A cup of dark wine in his hand.
"There's something I didn't write in letters," he said in a low voice. "Jon Arryn's death—it wasn't illness. I have proof of foul play." His eyes flickered toward the shuttered windows. "It may touch the queen's kin."
Lynn felt a chill. "Then the danger's real. You must be careful, my lord. The Lannisters don't forgive—and they never forget."
"I know." Ned's tone was quiet as falling snow. "But Robert's my brother. And Jon Arryn was my teacher. Some truths can't be buried."
He set down the empty cup. "If anything happens to me, tell Robb this—don't march south. Guard the North. Protect his sisters and his brothers."
The words sounded like a farewell.
Lynn bowed his head. "I'll tell him. But you must live to tell him yourself, my lord."
Ned half‑smiled, weary and proud. "The North needs men who think beyond the sword. You've done more for it than you know."
He left as quietly as he came.
At the window, Lynn uncorked a vial and let the faintest trace of pine and frost fill the warm southern air.
Below, King's Landing glowed gold and red against the night—beautiful and rotting, a serpent coiled in silk.
His perfume might make ripples here, enough to buy food, tools, time.
But the storm gathering underneath this city—the one playing out in hidden halls and northern snows—smelled of something stronger than perfume.
He looked down at the golden liquid in the bottle, whispering to himself, "Let's see how far one drop of the North can reach."
Somewhere beyond the Narrow Sea, a silver‑haired girl with violet eyes looked toward the same stars.
Lynn didn't know it yet—but soon, their paths would ignite.
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