In Planetos As Light Human

The great hall of Winterfell was alive with the low murmur of voices and the flicker of torchlight casting long shadows over the stone walls. Banners of the great northern houses hung from the rafters, with the direwolf of Stark at the epicenter. Lords, their bannermen, and sworn swords had gathered at the behest of Eddard Stark, but today, it was not the Warden of the North who commanded the room's attention it was Edric Stark.

Edric entered the hall with an air of quiet authority. Dressed in white, yellow Kimono and wolf-gray cloak embroidered with silver Direwolf, he moved with the confidence of a man who had faced both blade and fire. The northern lords, many of them grizzled veterans, studied him with wary curiosity. Rumors had preceded him tales of gold beyond counting, power beyond reason, and a presence that could silence even the most unruly hall.

Lord Eddard Stark stood at the high table, giving his son a nod of approval before taking his seat. Edric stepped forward, his cold gray eyes sweeping across the room before he spoke.

"Lords of the North," Edric began, his voice carrying with a clarity that silenced the remaining whispers. "You have been summoned here not just to witness a feast or civil banter. No, tonight marks the beginning of something far greater, an era where the North will rise not just as a bastion of honor and strength, but as a land of wealth, innovation, and unyielding resilience."

The hall was silent now, all eyes on him.

"For years, our people have endured harsh winters, famine, and isolation. We are warriors, yes but it is time we become something more. I have traveled far across the Narrow Sea, fight and crawled my ass off from ruins. I have learned, bartered, and fought to bring something back to our home - opportunity."

He let the weight of his words settle before continuing.

"The Stark Consortium is not merely a trade venture it is a vision. It will forge roads not just through snow and stone, but between hearts and minds. From the gold we have acquired, we will build granaries to ensure no child starves during winter. With the alliances we forge, we will see ships bearing northern goods sail from White Harbor to Essos. We will make the north self sufficient."

A ripple of murmurs spread across the hall, some skeptical, others intrigued.

"Some of you may think these are the dreams of a man who has spent too long in foreign lands, but I ask you this: Have we not spent long enough surviving? Is it not time we began thriving? This wealth, this plan it is not for me. It is for the North. For every farmer in the fields, every soldier on our walls, and every child who dreams of a better tomorrow. I didn't call you here thinking I needed you on the contrary its you who needs me that includes house stark"

Edric stepped closer to the center of the hall, his gaze locking with each lord who dared meet it.

Edric's expression hardened. "I like my plans to be perfectly executed, without opposition, distraction, or sabotage. That is why the Boltons, Ryswells, and—regrettably—the Dustins are not present here today. A mistake, perhaps, on my father's part, but a necessary exclusion on mine. If any among you feel inclined to share what transpires here with them, Feel free to do so but understand this: I have already accounted for every volatile element. Nothing spoken here will derail what I have set in motion."

"But make no mistake this will not be easy. It will require sacrifice, labor, and above all, trust. Trust in me, trust in my father, and trust in each other. If we stand together, if we build this vision brick by brick, then the North will not merely be remembered it will be revered."

The silence that followed was heavy, charged with contemplation. Then, slowly at first, a lone voice rose in agreement. Lord karstark nodded, raising his cup. "For the North!" he declared.

One by one, the other lords followed, their voices rising in a chorus.

Edric raised his hand in salute, his expression unyielding yet resolute.

Edric raised a goblet, calling for silence. The chatter dimmed, and all eyes turned to him.

"I have named this endeavor the North Rejuvenation Project," Edric began, his cold grey eyes sweeping across the hall. "The first two propositions in this are as follows."

He paused, letting his words settle before continuing.

"First, I want each house to collaborate with your minor and knightly houses to produce something of the highest quality and most appealing to nobles. It can range from exquisite pelts and livestock like horses to even food. The Stark Consortium will establish four locations near the capitals of each realm. These sites will be designed to have an inn, a shop, stables, and extra space for outdoor activities. My goal is to create rest stops for the wealthy and provide them with a true Northern experience."

He glanced across the hall, making eye contact with several key lords.

"This initiative will provide a steady income and encourage more trade. If your products catch on, you can trade them with other merchants as well—unless they are exclusive to the Consortium. Most importantly, this will create a positive image of the North throughout the realms."

Edric's voice grew firm. "These sites can also serve as rest stops for both Northern lords and merchants who trade in the South. You have six moons to find, build, and transport these goods to Winterfell."

He raised a hand, and servants began to bring forward platters of food.

"Now, onto the second proposition," Edric said as the aroma of the dishes filled the hall.

At a signal from Edric, servants brought forth platters: mashed potatoes whipped with cream and butter, roasted potatoes glistening with herbs, golden potato cakes stuffed with cheese, steaming potato stew thick with vegetables, and even sweetened potato pastries sprinkled with sugar.

Edric raised a single potato, golden-brown and glistening with butter. "Today you dine not just on food but on opportunity. Before you sits a humble crop, one that has traveled across seas and endured harsh weather to arrive here in the North. This " he held up the potato higher "is the future."

A murmur spread across the crowd, uncertain laughter mixed with curiosity.

"The potato," Edric continued, placing it down, "is not only resilient against frost and poor soil, but it yields more food per acre than wheat or barley. It grows underground, safe from most pests, and can be stored through long winters with ease compared to ones we do now."

"Today, our cooks have prepared this humble crop in more ways than you could imagine," Edric said with a faint smile. "Potatoes can be boiled, baked, mashed, roasted, or fried. They can accompany meat or stand as a meal on their own."

He paused, letting the aroma drift across the hall. "But beyond its uses in the kitchen lies its true strength—sustainability. With a quarter of the land and labor needed for grain, we can feed twice the mouths. With proper storage, no family will starve during a hard winter."

Lord Manderly, a large man with a keen interest in food, cleared his throat. "Lord Edric, are you saying you plan to replace our grains with... this root?"

Edric shook his head. "Not replace, Lord Manderly, but supplement. Diversify. The North has always been one cold harvest away from famine. With potatoes, that fear lessens. And there's more." He gestured to a servant who brought forward a sack of small, round potatoes.

"Cultivation is simple," Edric explained. "Cut a potato into pieces, plant them in loose soil, and let nature do the rest. They don't require fertile southern fields or constant attention. Even the poorest farmer can grow enough to feed his family."

The hall was silent now, every nobleman and noblewoman processing his words. Edric's voice grew firmer. "This crop is not just food; it is power. A strong North is a fed North. A fed North does not kneel."

A ripple of agreement passed through the hall.

"Eat, my lords and ladies," Edric said, lifting his goblet again. "Taste what the future holds. And know that this—this root—will become the foundation upon which we build a stronger, unyielding North."

The nobles dug into their meals, forks and knives clinking against plates as they sampled the dishes. The skeptical looks slowly faded, replaced by nods of approval and even delight.

"Now, you might be wondering," Edric began, his voice carrying to every corner of the hall, "such a good crop, so versatile and resilient—why hasn't it been discovered before? Why hasn't it taken over every field and farm across the world?"

The hall fell silent, and Edric let the question linger before continuing.

"Well, this question is tied to the reason I fled to Essos. Beyond increasing my influence and power, I was also searching for ways to help the North. I even scoured every inch of Valyria for a solution. But all I found were atrocities—monsters of past failed experiments, ruins of a doomed civilization, and worthless Valyrian artifacts."

Edric paused, lifting a single potato from the table and holding it aloft.

"But this—this humble root—I discovered inland, growing wild near a forgotten village. Its abundance was baffling, yet the locals shunned it. Why? Religion. They called it the Devil's Gift because it grows like weeds, uncaring of soil quality or human interference. Superstition buried its potential."

Murmurs rippled through the hall, a mix of intrigue and skepticism.

"Make no mistake," Edric continued, his tone sharpening, "we may be branded with names, and the South will do everything in their power to derail our plans. But for those among you who remain orthodox or hesitant, I anticipated this reaction. And so... I prepared something special."

At his signal, servants entered carrying trays lined with tiny wooden cups filled with a clear, pure liquid. Each noble received one, their curiosity now piqued.

"I collaborated with the Iron Bank to create a method of distilling alcohol with unmatched purity and strength. Whiskey is the pride of the bravoosi, made from grains, but this—this will be our Northern answer, crafted from potatoes. Vodka."

Edric's voice dropped slightly, carrying a note of warning. "Careful. This is stronger than whiskey—many times stronger than anything you've ever tasted."

Lord Umber, a hulking figure with a booming voice, was the first to snatch up a glass. "I'll be the judge of that, boy!" he barked before downing the liquid in one swift motion.

The hall held its breath as Lord Umber's eyes went wide, then dimmed slightly. A sly grin cracked across his face, followed by a gravelly chuckle.

"By the gods, lad," he said, his voice thick, "this is the best damn drink I've ever had."

A ripple of laughter and approval echoed through the hall.

"But the magic," Edric said, raising a hand, "is in the next two sips. Go on, my lord."

At Edric's nod, a servant refilled Lord Umber's glass twice more. The old lord downed them both with a grimace that soon faded into a satisfied sigh.

"Feel anything different, Lord Umber?" Edric asked.

The lord smacked his lips and pounded a fist on the table. "Aye, lad! There's warmth—heat, starting from my chest and spreading out."

Edric nodded, pleased. "Exactly. This drink not only intoxicates but also warms the body—perfect for our harsh northern winters. And there's more—it can be used as a powerful antiseptic for treating open wounds. It stings, yes, but it's worth the pain."

The great hall of Winterfell buzzed with laughter and clinking mugs as the banquet roared on. Amidst the revelry, a towering figure approached Edric Stark, placing a heavy hand on his shoulder.

"Lad, Medger told me you were strong," rumbled Greatjon Umber. "But strength isn't proven by defeating a puny Cerwyn."

Lord Cerwyn, overhearing, hurled a mug. Both Edric and Greatjon tilted their heads, and the mug struck a passing servant, spilling water across the stone floor.

Edric chuckled, while chugging vodka. "Gladly," he said with a grin.

With a roar of laughter, Greatjon slammed his elbow on the table. The two men locked hands, muscles straining as the lords gathered, cheering and placing wagers.

For a fleeting moment, Winterfell was alive with warmth and camaraderie, a fragile peace before the looming shadow of winter.