The King in the North

Henry stumbled through Winter Town's crowded streets, his legs shaking with each step. The weight of his own body felt like a burden after weeks of barely eating. His once-sturdy leather apron, a gift from his father, hung in tatters around his waist, the leather cracked and stained from months of harsh travel. The smell of fresh bread wafting through the air made his stomach clench painfully, reminding him of mornings spent helping his father in their forge.

The memories flashed unbidden - the clash of steel, screams piercing the night, his mother's final words telling him to run. The smoke from his village still seemed to cling to his clothes, though months had passed since the ironborn raiders had destroyed everything he'd ever known. He could still feel the heat of the flames on his face as he'd fled into the darkness, the sound of his father's sword meeting raiders' steel echoing in his ears.

"Watch where you're going, boy!" A merchant shoved past him, nearly knocking Henry to the ground. His usually quick reflexes had dulled from exhaustion and hunger.

He'd tried everything - offering to help at farms, cleaning stables, even attempted to use his blacksmith skills learned at his father's side. But who would trust work to a half-starved boy who looked more corpse than human? The copper coins he'd begged for had barely kept him alive, each one spent with growing desperation on crusts of bread that did little to fill his hollow stomach.

Then he'd heard the whispers in front of a tavern - tales of a place in Winter Town where anyone could get a hot meal, no questions asked. He'd thought it too good to be true, but desperation drove him to follow a merchant's wagon train north, sleeping in ditches and surviving on whatever he could forage along the way.

Now he stood before a large stone building, warm light spilling from its windows like beacon in the growing dusk. A steady stream of people flowed in and out of the wide oak doors, their voices carrying hints of hope rather than despair. Above them hung a wooden sign: "Winter's Kitchen."

Henry's throat tightened as he watched a group of children emerge, clutching steaming bowls. Their clothes were worn but their faces were bright, lacking the haunted look he saw in his own reflection whenever he caught sight of himself in still water. His feet refused to move forward, shame warring with hunger. What right did he have to ask for help when he couldn't even save his own family? His father had always taught him to stand on his own two feet.

But then the smell of stew drifted out again, rich with the promise of meat and vegetables, and his stomach growled loud enough to draw stares from passing townspeople. Henry took a shaky breath and forced himself to take the first step toward the doors, his mother's voice in his head reminding him that sometimes the bravest thing someone could do was ask for help.

Henry stepped through the doorway, warmth washing over him like a wave. The sight before him stole his breath - long wooden tables filled with people eating and talking, flames dancing in stone hearths along the walls, steam rising from bowls that didn't look half-empty. His legs refused to move, frozen in place as his mind struggled to process the scene of comfort before him.

"Come, boy. There's room here." An old man with kind eyes and a grey beard waved from a nearby table. Henry's feet carried him forward without conscious thought. "I know that look in your eyes. Had it myself once, long ago. Sit."

Henry sank onto the wooden bench, his hands trembling as they gripped the edge of the table.

"First time's the hardest," the old man said softly. "But you're among friends now."

A woman in a simple brown dress approached their table, her eyes taking in Henry's ragged state. Her face softened with understanding.

"Oh, you poor dear." She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Let me fetch you something warm to fill your belly. Just stay right here."

Before Henry could protest, she disappeared into the bustle of the kitchen. The old man nodded approvingly, and Henry found himself relaxing slightly in the peaceful atmosphere.

The woman returned carrying a steaming bowl of thick stew and a chunk of fresh bread. The rich aroma made Henry's eyes water.

"Take your time with it," she said, setting the food before him. "Let yourself warm up properly. Once you're done, I'll take you to see Goodwife Maerie - she's our healer. She'll make sure you're properly looked after."

Henry scraped the last bits of stew from his bowl with the bread crust, savoring each bite of the rich, hearty meal. The meat was tender, and the vegetables had been cooked to perfection. The worker returned with a kind smile, beckoning him to follow her through a weathered side door into a small room where an older woman with silver-streaked hair pulled back in a neat braid waited.

"I'm Maerie." She said, gesturing for him to sit on a worn wooden stool that creaked beneath his weight. Her weathered hands were gentle as she examined hm, turning him this way and that in the warm light from the window. "You're lucky, boy. No serious injuries here - just need some meat back on those bones. These few scratches will heal quick enough with my salve."

She applied a cooling paste to the worst of his cuts while explaining which herbs she used, her practiced movements speaking of years of experience. The familiar scent of yarrow mixed with other herbs reminded Henry of his mother's garden back home, making his chest tighten with an ache that had nothing to do with his injuries.

The worker reappeared with a carefully folded bundle of clothing, the fabric clean and well-maintained. "Here, these should fit you well enough. Good wool, barely worn. Lord Stark's men donated them last month when they got their new gear."

Henry changed behind a wooden screen, marveling at the warmth of the thick fabric against his skin. His old clothes, threadbare and torn, were of no comparison. When he returned to the main hall, the old man still sat at their table, nursing a steaming cup of tea between his weathered hands.

"Feel better, lad?" The man's eyes crinkled with genuine kindness.

Henry nodded, sinking back onto the smooth-worn bench. The weight of his situation pressed down on him again like a physical burden. "I... I don't know where to go after this. Haven't got coin for an inn."

"No family nearby?"

Henry shook his head, his voice barely a whisper in the busy hall. "Raiders took everything. Been walking north ever since, sleeping wherever I could find shelter - barns mostly, when I could find them."

The old man's face darkened with understanding, a shadow passing over his features. He leaned forward, keeping his voice low. "You've got nowhere to sleep tonight?"

"No, sir." Henry's fingers twisted nervously in the hem of his new shirt, the wool rough against his calloused fingers. "Was hoping to find work here in Winter Town, but..."

The old man thought for a little while before his eyes brightened. "Lady Sansa should still be here. She'll know what to do for you."

Henry's stomach clenched painfully, his calloused hands growing damp with sweat. "A lady? I couldn't possibly... I'm just a blacksmith's son."

"Nonsense. Come with me." The old man's grip was surprisingly firm on Henry's arm.

Henry followed through the bustling kitchen, his heart pounding against his ribs so hard he feared others might hear it. The smell of fresh bread and roasting meat made his empty stomach ache. They found Lady Sansa near the back of the hall, speaking with one of the kitchen workers, her slender fingers gesturing as she discussed something about the evening meal. Henry's breath caught in his throat. She stood tall and graceful, her auburn hair catching the firelight like burnished copper, reminding him of the precious metal his father once shaped into delicate chains. Her presence commanded attention without demanding it, and her blue eyes held a warmth that made his fears begin to melt away like spring snow.

He dropped his gaze to the floor, remembering bitter tales from travelers about the proud lords of the Reach who wouldn't spare a glance for common folk, who'd have servants whip beggars from their gates. But when Lady Sansa turned to him, her smile was genuine, touching her eyes in a way that couldn't be feigned.

"What's your name?" Her voice was gentle, encouraging, like his mother's had been when he was small.

"Henry, m'lady." His voice cracked embarrassingly. "I... I'm sorry to trouble you. I wouldn't normally dare..."

"You're no trouble at all. Please, tell me what brings you here."

As Henry recounted his problem, Lady Sansa listened intently, her expression showing real concern that reminded him painfully of home. She didn't interrupt or dismiss him, didn't wave away his words as beneath her notice like the people in Highgarden had. When he finished, she nodded thoughtfully, her fingers laced together in front of her.

"We can help you, Henry. I'll have someone arrange shelter for you tonight." She leaned forward slightly, her voice warm. "You've actually come at a fortunate time. Winter Town is growing - we're building new walls, new buildings and expanding roads. There's much work for those willing to take it. The pay is fair, and you can earn enough to afford a proper roof over your head. There's also the Northern army, if you'd prefer that path - they're taking on recruits now. My brother Robb leads them himself."

Henry stared at her, hardly daring to believe her words, his throat tight with emotion. "You'd... you'd do that for me, m'lady? Just like that?"

"Of course. Everyone deserves a chance to rebuild their life. The North remembers those who work hard and stay true."

Henry lay on the simple straw mattress, warmer and more comfortable than any place he'd slept in months. The shelter Lady Sansa had arranged sat near Winter's Kitchen, a modest but clean building where others like him found refuge. The blanket wrapped around him smelled of fresh hay and soap, so different from the musty earth and rotting leaves that had been his bed for so long.

His mind drifted to the construction he'd seen throughout Winter Town - new walls rising stone by stone, buildings taking shape under skilled hands. The work would suit him. His father had taught him well about materials and tools, about the satisfaction of creating something lasting with his own hands.

But then memories flooded back - his mother's garden ablaze, his father's forge ransacked, their peaceful life shattered in a single night of violence. The raiders had taken everything, leaving only ashes and grief behind. His hands clenched in the blanket as he remembered running through the darkness, the screams of his neighbors echoing in his ears.

The contrast between that horror and the kindness he'd found here in the North struck him deeply. Lady Sansa's gentle words, the old man's friendship, Goodwife Maerie's careful tending - they'd given him more than just food and shelter. They'd given him hope.

Henry rolled onto his side, watching moonlight filter through the window. He thought of other families like his, of other villages that might face raiders or bandits. The walls he could help build would protect Winter Town, yes, but walls alone couldn't stop determined attackers.

His father's voice seemed to whisper in his mind: "A man protects what he loves." Henry had failed to protect his family once. But now he had a chance to ensure others wouldn't suffer the same fate.

The decision crystallized in his mind, clear as steel from the forge. Tomorrow he would volunteer for the Northern army. He would learn to fight, to defend, to stand between the innocent and those who would harm them. What better way to honor his parents' memory than by protecting the kind of people who had saved him?