Game Of Thrones : Merchant of Two Worlds

To say the noble lords of the North didn't feel troubled in their hearts would be a lie.

Fortunately, the Citadel, home to the Maesters, has sworn an oath of eternal neutrality, promising never to interfere in political struggles between territories.

This means that Maesters sent by the Citadel only serve the lord of the castle they are assigned to. Whoever inherits the title of the castle becomes their new master, and they serve them dutifully. They don't involve themselves in family disputes or fights over power. They simply stay in their towers, waiting to see who wins the throne, and then pledge loyalty to whoever emerges victorious.

This is the life of the Maesters—a role defined by service to the lord of a castle, not their family.

But principles, as solid as they seem, are cold and rigid rules, while humans are complex creatures driven by emotions and desires. It's impossible for everyone to strictly follow such lifeless guidelines.

Many Maesters develop deep emotional bonds with the families they serve for decades. These bonds often lead them to take sides during conflicts. Instead of staying neutral as their oath demands, they choose to support the family they've come to see as their own.

The great houses of Westeros are well aware of this reality, yet they rarely call it out. They turn a blind eye to the Maesters breaking Citadel rules, as it benefits them. A loyal Maester is easier to trust, and such trust strengthens their influence within their strongholds.

In this way, rules remain rules on paper, but in practice, they are often broken.

After receiving a raven from Winterfell, bearing a letter from Lord Stark, the northern lords wasted no time preparing for the journey. They loaded their carriages, gathered this year's taxes—grains, livestock, and other goods—and armed their guards for the trip.

For those like the Umbers of Last Hearth, the farthest from Winterfell, the journey required setting off half a month early to ensure they arrived on time. This meant missing their own harvest festival, but duty to Winterfell came first.

Closer houses, like the Cerwyns of Cerwyn Castle and the Tallharts of Torrhen's Square, could reach Winterfell in just a few days. Some could even arrive in a single day if they traveled by horseback without heavy carts.

As the day of the great banquet drew nearer, the roads to Winterfell grew busier than usual. Villagers who lived near these paths often stopped to watch as noble families passed by, their banners fluttering in the cold northern wind.

For a time, the quiet and sparsely populated northern trails became lively, filled with the sound of horses' hooves, creaking wheels, and chatter.

On the King's Road, the convoy of House Umber moved southward. Their banner, depicting a giant breaking free from silver chains, flapped fiercely in the wind.

At the front of the convoy, Jon Umber—known as "Little Jon" despite his massive size—was patrolling ahead. When he spotted something, he quickly turned his horse and rode back to his father, Greatjon Umber.

Greatjon was a towering figure, nearly two meters tall, with thick gray hair and a wild beard covering his chin and cheeks. His muscular frame and fierce appearance made him look like a giant among men. The Umbers were said to carry the blood of giants, which explained their extraordinary height and strength.

Greatjon sat on a sturdy horse, though even it seemed small beneath his massive frame.

"Father!" Little Jon called out as he rode up. "I spotted the Bolton banner up ahead, about three kilometers away. It looks like their convoy is on the same road. Should we speed up and catch up with them to travel together to Winterfell?"

Greatjon's face darkened at the mention of House Bolton. His deep, rumbling voice carried his displeasure. "Damn it! I left a day earlier to avoid running into that old skinner, and here we are."

Little Jon knew exactly who his father was talking about—Roose Bolton, the Lord of the Dreadfort, notorious for his cruel practice of skinning his enemies. Like his father, Little Jon despised the Boltons and their methods.

Still, Little Jon was practical. "Father, even if you don't want to travel with them, we should at least greet them. We're neighbors, after all. It would be rude to ignore them."

Greatjon grumbled but nodded. He raised his chin slightly and gave his orders. "Fine. Go and greet Lord Bolton. Tell him we're moving slowly and don't want to delay them, so they can go ahead of us."

Little Jon nodded, turned his horse, and rode off with two guards to deliver the message.

As he watched his son leave, Greatjon couldn't help but picture Roose Bolton's pale, beardless face. It was a face that seemed calm and composed but hid a sinister and calculating nature. The thought of that face made Greatjon feel sick.

Greatjon hated men like Roose Bolton—schemers who relied on tricks and cruelty rather than courage and strength. He decided he wanted nothing to do with the Boltons on this journey.

"Set up camp here for the night!" Greatjon barked to his men. "We're not moving any further today."

His guards quickly relayed the order. The Umber convoy came to a halt, and the soldiers, grooms, and servants began preparing a campsite.

Meanwhile, Little Jon reached the Bolton convoy, where he was greeted by Roose Bolton himself.

Roose was of medium build, pale, and clean-shaven, with calm, pale eyes. At first glance, he seemed gentle and unassuming, but those who knew him understood the cold cruelty that lay beneath his exterior.Even Little Jon, despite his size and strength, felt uneasy under Roose's calm gaze.

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