"Northern Forest."
In less than two weeks, the name spread through King's Landing like wildfire.
It began quietly—just a few noblewomen, old friends of Lady Catelyn Stark, mentioning it in whispers over tea. They laughed about the North's "new little trinket" and dabbed the cool, sharp perfume onto their wrists.
Then came the gifts—private exchanges among the court's glittering flock. When Sansa and Arya "reluctantly" gave away a few bottles to their closest companions, the spark became a blaze.
By the time the first official sale closed at the staggering price of ten gold dragons a bottle, the wildfire could no longer be contained.
Lynn's first shipment—fifty bottles of perfume, a hundred sachets—sold out in three days.
The scent of pine and snow swept from the Red Keep's private salons to the luxury stalls along Silk Street. Even the visiting Tyrells requested samples for their gardenside villa.
By Lady Catelyn's careful tally, after subtracting materials and transport, the net profit still came to over four hundred gold dragons—nearly the annual income of a small keep.
In the Tower of the Hand, Ned Stark stared down at the ledger, brow furrowed, eyes unreadable.
"Four hundred gold dragons?" he murmured. "From flowers and glass bottles?"
"And a name," said Lynn. "The North. That—and noblewomen's ambition never to be out‑gilded by their peers."
Across from them, Catelyn rolled one of the empty vials between her fingers. For the past week she'd personally overseen "sales" in her own quiet, diplomatic way—hosting teas, dropping hints, politely declining direct purchases while accepting "tokens of gratitude."
Scarcity became luxury. Dignity sold itself.
"Success," Catelyn said at last, "breeds expectation. Lady Margaery Tyrell has already asked if there will be other scents. She calls 'Northern Forest' exquisite—but more suited to daylight. She wants something darker… more alluring."
Sansa's eyes lit with excitement.
She'd followed her mother into halls and salons, watching noblewomen whisper and barter for the faintest drop of fragrance. She'd seen how quickly desire could turn into power.
She had learned the game was not only fought in council chambers and battlefields—but also in parlors steeped in perfume.
"Lynn said perfumes are like songs," Sansa began eagerly. "They need variety and harmony. We have 'Northern Forest'—that's pine and frost, a winter morning. But what about a summer scent? Use marsh lilies, peppermint, and a touch of honey. Or something autumnal—oak moss, dried fruit, a hint of smoke."
Ned turned to study her. There was a spark there he hadn't seen before—part innocence, part steel.
She blushed beneath his gaze but went on, stronger this time.
"I've noticed the ladies here. The younger ones like freshness—the older prefer depth. Some crave exotic spice, something foreign. We could make collections. Spring Blossom. Autumn Smoke. Even Eastern Spice. And for the sachets—different fabrics, silk or velvet, with embroidery or small pearls—each one its own luxury."
Lynn listened, a smile slowly curling across his face. He'd underestimated her—a girl who once dreamed only of songs and knights now speaking the language of commerce with poise.
She understood the court's one true currency: attention.
"You're right," he admitted. "But we don't have enough raw material or skilled perfumers."
"But King's Landing does," said Catelyn, cutting in. "The Spice Street traders import oils and resins from across Essos—Qarth, Braavos, even Asshai. And as for perfumers—there are widows and fallen noblewomen who know the craft, if one knows where to look."
Ned sat in silence, fingers tapping the desk. Finally, he sighed. "So, another investment."
"The first profits, once we've secured enough grain and supplies, can go straight into expansion," Lynn explained. "New varieties, better packaging—and a discreet workshop here in the capital. Small, private, loyal."
"I'll run it," Sansa said suddenly.
Every head turned toward her.
Lynn blinked, startled at her certainty. The lovestruck girl has grown teeth, he thought.
Sansa's face flushed pink, but her voice stayed firm. "Mother is busy with Father's duties and all the endless visits. Arya—well, Arya won't care. But I can. I'll learn. I can record the formulas, speak to the perfumers, manage the deliveries."
Catelyn opened her mouth to object, but Ned lifted his hand.
"This isn't court nicety, Sansa. It's business. You'll deal with craftsmen, traders, liars. There will be greed. And failure."
"I know," she said, trembling slightly. Then softly but with conviction, "But I'm a Stark. And you taught us—Starks do not flee from hardship."
Her blue eyes shifted toward Lynn. "And he has to return north. Someone must stay and keep it running."
The room fell still.
At length, Ned nodded. "You may try. But your mother oversees all spending, and no meeting with strangers without guards present. One error, and it ends."
Sansa's smile shone like sunrise—the pride of the trusted.
The plan unfolded smoothly.
Through Catelyn's contacts, they found a widow of forty—Lady Elane Redwyne, a noblewoman fallen on hard fortune yet renowned for her understanding of herbs and oils. Refinement without scandal: the perfect mask.
Under Sansa's supervision, a small studio opened on the edge of the artisan quarter. She kept meticulous notes, sketched designs for bottles and packaging, even drew a neat little sigil: the direwolf crowned with vines.
When the first shipment of northern grain reached Winterfell, Robb's letter followed close behind. His handwriting had grown strong and confident:
"Eight hundred Free Folk settled near Oakshield. Another caravan prepares for departure. The food your coin bought saved lives. The Watch and the Free Folk work side by side rebuilding the Deep Lake holdfast. Rodrik calls it the largest project in a century—and, perhaps, the first where all hands moved as one. You've done what even my father never could, Lynn."
He added a note about the Manderlys of White Harbor: they'd offered winter clothing at low cost, requesting trade priority for their merchant ships. Robb had agreed.
The wheel had begun to turn.
Perfume begot gold.
Gold bought food.
Food kept peace.
And peace gave the North a future.
Back in King's Landing, Sansa stood before the window of her new workshop, where glass bottles sparkled in the afternoon sun and air swirled with the mingled scent of pine, lilies, and honey.
Behind her, Arya complained loudly as she stitched sachets under protest. "It's stupid! I should be training with real needles, not sewing ones."
"You're helping save the North, Arya," Sansa said gently.
Her sister rolled her eyes—yet her small, calloused hands never stopped stitching.
Lynn leaned against the doorframe, smiling to himself. Three fools, the court might call them—a northern girl learning trade, a tomboy sewing like a lady, and a foreign dreamer with ideas that smelled of pine.
But fools or not, they were changing the game.
And in King's Landing, that was far more dangerous than any sword.
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