Northern Nobles

Clip-clop, clip-clop!

A cavalry troop bearing a banner of a standing merman holding a trident escorted an ornate passenger carriage and more than a dozen wagons. They were about to reach Winterfell's southern gate.

Count Rickard, who had received word in advance and was in charge of welcoming the arrivals, spotted the cavalry troop from a distance.

He rode out with his son and the welcoming party to meet them.

"Ha! Isn't that the carriage of Lord 'Too Fat to Ride a Horse'? Why don't you come out and greet an old friend?"

Count Rickard was frank and hearty by nature. As soon as he drew near the ornate passenger carriage, he shouted loudly.

"Stop!"

At the rough shout from outside, the person inside the carriage called for it to stop and opened the door.

Count Wyman, a portly, prosperous-looking nobleman dressed in brightly colored, expensive clothes, stepped down from the carriage.

He retorted irritably to Count Rickard, "Lord Robb put you, an ill-mannered barbarian, in charge of welcoming visitors to Winterfell. Aren't you afraid of offending every noble in the North?"

Hearing his old friend's familiar teasing, Count Rickard dismounted with a broad smile.

He strode forward, and the two men opened their arms and shared a hearty bear hug.

"Ha ha ha! You big fatso, it's been ages!"

"Indeed, you uncouth barbarian!"

After a manly reunion of punches and backslaps, Count Rickard simply had his son lead his warhorse, then comfortably climbed into Count Wyman's luxurious carriage to continue on into Winterfell.

"Fatso, White Harbor isn't all that far from Winterfell. Why did it take you so long to get here?"

Inside the carriage, Count Rickard unceremoniously picked up a bunch of grapes from a platter and ate as he asked.

Count Wyman didn't mind his old friend's rudeness at all. He replied with a chuckle, "I was waiting for the goods Lord Robb ordered—the things in the wagons behind us."

"Oh!"

"Huh? You're not curious at all about what they are?"

Seeing his old friend give such a perfunctory reply before focusing on his grapes, Count Wyman asked in surprise.

"Since I started following Lord Robb, I've learned to do more and ask less.

I don't want to know what he's planning."

Count Rickard shook his head as he answered, then set down the grapes and leaned closer to Count Wyman to speak in a low voice.

"He's nothing like Lord Eddard, who likes to fight head-on. Even Roose Bolton, a man so skilled at scheming, was outmaneuvered by him. Dreadfort fell, and Roose was taken prisoner.

"As an old friend, let me warn you: Winterfell is nothing like it used to be. Don't entertain any wild ambitions. Know your place!"

Count Wyman listened seriously, realizing that beneath his old friend's rough exterior lay a fairly sharp mind.

If even he was somewhat wary of the Young Wolf Lord, then Winterfell really had changed a great deal lately.

"Ha ha, don't you know me by now? I only want to do business peacefully."

"True. I know you're very loyal to Lord Eddard, you big fatso. You wouldn't harbor any wild ambitions."

"Of course. By the way, I heard both your sons are in the Wolf Guard and have become senior officers at Winterfell."

"Heh heh heh! You bet. Just look at who their father is!"

The two old friends chatted in the carriage as they gradually entered Winterfell.

With so many Northern noble counts and family representatives arriving lately, the guest rooms in the Main Keep were already full. Count Wyman's party was lodged in the guesthouse to the left of the Training Ground.

The guesthouse had been built specifically to accommodate large numbers of visitors. The whole building had enough rooms for everyone, though the accommodations were certainly not as good as those in the Main Keep.

Count Wyman knew Winterfell's arrangements well. Prepared in advance, he waved his hand, and a large group of servants carrying all kinds of things entered the rooms to set them up.

The servants carried all the things he'd prepared beforehand: fur rugs made from various animal hides, gold and silver lamps and tableware, fine wine, and delicious food.

In no time, they had transformed the rather plain guest rooms into luxurious, comfortable quarters.

Count Rickard, whose finances had never been particularly good, couldn't help feeling envious.

If Winterfell's servants hadn't come to tell them that the dinner was about to begin, he would have stayed in Count Wyman's room to enjoy the wine and food.

The banquet hall still had the decorations from the victory feast in place, so they could use them again this time.

When Counts Wyman and Rickard entered the banquet hall, they found the long tables filled with Northern nobles talking loudly.

Count Wyman spotted a few familiar faces, such as a middle-aged woman with gray hair who was short but sturdy. She was Maege Mormont, ruler of Bear Island, Captain of the Guards Daisy's mother.

A towering man nearly seven feet tall had thick muscles covering the parts of his body that showed.

He had a fearsome face, yet at that moment he was beaming as he loudly praised his son.

He was Jon Umber, Count of Last Hearth, known as Greatjon. He commanded Winterfell's cavalry and was Little Jon's father.

A little old man wore leather armor embroidered with the sigil of six thistles. His long hair was a mess, his face was deeply wrinkled, and his eyes were exceptionally sharp. He was the head of the Norrey Clan, Count Norrey, commander of Winterfell's infantry, and Owen's uncle.

After watching carefully, Count Wyman noticed something interesting.

Among the Northern nobles present, the only ones who had come in person were the rulers of territories whose children served as senior officers at Winterfell, and the Count of Seaworth City, Meach Seaworth, whose lands lay closest to Winterfell, only half a day's ride away.

The other Northern noble houses had mostly sent representatives.

From one perspective, this showed that some Northern noble houses still had many doubts about the Young Wolf Lord's capture of Dreadfort and imprisonment of Roose Bolton.

Before Count Wyman could think further, Count Rickard pulled him over and squeezed him onto a bench at one of the long tables.

As Count Wyman chatted with Count Seaworth, a courteous man with a kindly face, the banquet was about to begin.

On the raised platform at the end of the banquet hall, Lady Catelyn appeared with Brandon and Rickon, who were being carried by others.

"Noble lords loyal to House Stark, on behalf of House Stark, I warmly welcome you all.

"The banquet was arranged by Robb Stark, the acting lord, but he is at the military camp outside the city preparing for tomorrow's military review, so he could not attend. I offer my sincerest apologies.

"But that won't stop us from drinking fine wine and enjoying a hearty feast tonight.

"The banquet is now open!"

As Lady Catelyn finished speaking, the doors to the banquet hall opened, and rows of servants came in carrying unfamiliar dishes.

Count Wyman was still thinking about the "military review" Lady Catelyn had just mentioned, but in the blink of an eye, the novel dishes on the table captured his attention.

The feast made Count Wyman, who had sampled cuisines from all over, redefine what delicious food meant.

There was a whole chicken wrapped in clay, its aroma rising as soon as it was opened, and pork slices covered in chili peppers and finished with hot oil.

There was also a strange hotpot, in which all sorts of ingredients were cooked in a pot right at the table, leaving everyone sweating as they ate.

Count Rickard, who was wolfing down his food, mumbled that all of it had been invented by Lord Robb.

Count Wyman, his own mouth just as full, thought that Winterfell really had changed a lot!