RODRICK’S COUNSEL - SPRING 226 AC
Jack Carter
I stepped into the hall, the sable cloak heavy on my shoulders, its wolf-pelt collar brushing my neck like a damn taxidermy project. The grey doublet’s direwolf sigil stared back from my chest—at least I looked the part now. Rodrick waited ahead, his chain clinking faintly, flanked by those two grizzled guards—these men were veterans, their hard eyed stare the same as the soldiers I served with. The assistant trailed behind, a scrawny kid clutching a satchel, herbs poking out like he’d raided a garden. “This way, my lord,” Rodrick said, soft but firm, turning down the stone corridor. I motioned him to lead—hell if I knew where anything was in this maze.
The walls loomed, cold and grey, torchlight flickering off damp patches like the whole place was sweating out last night’s frost. My boots thudded on the floor—two boots, still a mind-bender—and every step echoed, bouncing off arches that’d seen centuries I hadn’t. “Always wanted to live in a castle—wish I didn’t have to die to do it,” I muttered, trying to shake off the flashes of poor Shirley’s face in my mind’s eye. The two guards trailed behind me, my own personal shadows. Is this what it felt like to be the president? “Except instead of suits, mine wear chainmail. This’ll take some getting used to,” I chuckled mirthlessly, hands fidgeting with the wide leather belt I wore. The throbbing at my temple was sharp—the retort of gunfire ringing in my ears. “Just keep moving, Jack,” I told myself—the same mantra I used back in Iraq. It served me well there, and it should work here too.
We hit a stout door—more iron bands, like everything here was built to take a beating. I suppose given the kind of world this was, that is probably true. Rodrick stood aside, allowing me to enter first, and I pushed it open to reveal the lord’s office—Solar, why did they even call it that anyways? The solar was all function—no gold-plated baubles or ostentatious decor—which fit well with what I remembered about the Starks from the book. A white banner with a howling direwolf hung on the back wall, glaring down at an ironwood desk that looked like it’d outlast me. The high-backed chair I sat in—beautifully carved with scrolling knotwork and wolves—was uncomfortable as hell, the small cushion not helping in the slightest. “Probably some subtle reminder that a ruler shouldn’t be comfortable—Well, message received,” I thought, fighting a grimace. I felt the weight of expectation heavily on my shoulders, as if all of the past Starks watched me, judging me. “Would they find me lacking?”
The room was sparse but packed with purpose. A giant parchment map sprawled on one wall—Northern keeps and villages marked with banners: a chained giant, a mailed fist, a moose, but plenty were also blank. My eyes caught on one in particular, a flayed man surrounded by blood. “Now that’s not ominous,” I thought, like before there was a niggling feeling at the back of my head. “Feels like there’s something important I should know about this one.” A single window cut the opposite wall, flanked by oak bookcases stuffed with tomes—some crumbling, some new. Across from me, a fireplace smoldered, embers fading—empty hooks above the mantle caught my eye. “Didn’t the Starks have a Valyrian steel sword—Frost? Snow? something like that” I mused—then another thought struck: “They’ll expect me to swing it.” I was no stranger to war, hell I even lost my leg in one, but with guns—not swords. At sixteen, Edwyle’d have a decade with a blade—I’ve got zip. “I’ve gotta learn fast—hopefully without looking a fool,” I decided, shoving the thought aside—another task for the pile.
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I waved Rodrick to a chair across the desk—he’d been standing, patient, while I gawked like a tourist. He sat, chain clinking, and cut straight to it. “What matters do you wish to discuss, my Lord Stark?” No fluff—good man. “Many things,” I said, leaning my arms against the stout desk, “But first, get me up to speed on the North.”
Rodrick blinked, bushy brows twitching—my odd phrasing threw him, but he puzzled it out quickly, then answered, “If I grasp your meaning, my lord, there’s much needing your eye—graver now with your father’s passing.” His ink-stained fingers worried a bronze link, shoulders sagging as he sighed. “Lord William crushed Raymund Redbeard’s raiders—a decisive blow—but the scars’ll linger. Umber lands and the mountain clans took the brunt—torched villages and slaughtered smallfolk.”
He paused, eyes dimming. “The timing of these raids was dreadful—white ravens marked spring six moons back, but many a field has been left fallow. Your lord father left men to sow, but the Wildling host demanded more. This last winter has left our stores bled dry. If we send aid north, we might not refill them before the next freeze.” Another sigh. “The Treasury’s stretched thin as well—Importing more grain’ll drain us, my lord, and your vassals won’t stomach tax hikes without a fight.”
I leaned back, chair creaking—wooden direwolves digging into my spine—taking it in. The aftermath of the Wildling raid was concerning, especially with food short and gold shorter—though this seemed to be par for the course here in the North. Still, un-planted fields were an opening—heavy plows, crop rotation, and seed drills. “An opportunity for new tricks,” I thought. The politics could get messy though, juggling vassals—like lobbyists, jockeying for position and favor—but willing to stick you with a sword if they don't get their way. “The fields first,” I decided. Starving folk can’t build shit, and starving smallfolk lead to dead lords—which was me. I stood, pacing to the map—the Northern land was expansive, with so much land being unworked. “When’s the last time this had been updated? Better yet—when was the last census?” I asked, glancing at Rodrick.
He shifted. “The map’s five years old, my lord—and the census, ten, from the last summer’s start under your father.” I frowned. “Way too old. Commission a new one—here I’ll list what I need.” Quill in hand, I scratched out questions on thick, yellowed paper—sex, age, household members, children alive and deceased, how much land they farmed, what was grown, type and number of animals, can they read and write, do they know their sums, occupation, any other goods produced—fighting its rough grain. “Maybe I could find a way to improve it? It might be a way to raise more money for the treasury,” I mused, handing it over. Regardless, with the data from a census I can better manage these lands, and if what he says about our stores is true I'll need to leverage every thing I can.
As Rodrick’s eyes skimmed my list—his brows shot up, nearly kissing his hairline. “This… it’s extensive, my lord,” he said, voice tight. “Ink and paper alone’ll cost a fortune—time even more.”
“You have objections?” I prodded, leaning on the desk. He hesitated. “I simply worry that our treasury will not support this and our normal grain imports,” he admitted. “Let me worry about that,” I said, tone firm—the dismissal clear. “For now, hire scribes and get started.” He bowed, turning to go, but my voice stopped him. “Rodrick—please send the steward with the ledgers.”
“As you wish, my lord,” he said, bowing again—leaving me with a throbbing head and a mess to fix.