“A week ago, I stood before you and spoke of heavy investments…not merely within the immediate fiefdom of House Stark, but extending to all your closest banners, most notably the Manderlys of White Harbor. You dismissed the notion immediately, and rightly so. A sudden influx of gold from a foreign hand should always breed suspicion. Were I in your position, looking at a stranger promising prosperity, I would have done the exact same.”
A flicker of surprise and disbelief crossed Ned’s face.
“Would you now?” It was rather sarcastic, but the northern lord wasn’t indifferent to sarcasm.
“Of course. A wealthy foreign merchant arrives from across the Narrow Sea speaking of opportunity and profit. Any prudent ruler should question his motives; that’s the reality of any good ruler.”
Ned leaned back in his chair, still anxious about the older man before him.
“At least you possess some honesty.”
“More than honesty. Just the understanding of the realities at hand,” Qarro replied.
“Which is why I abandoned that line of discussion entirely.”
“Then what is it you want, truly?” The Stark patriarch asked.
“Hmmm… I like that we’re now getting somewhere, but to be fair. I’m here to buy.”
Ned frowned.
“To buy?”
“Aye, to buy.”
Qarro reached for a parchment from Draqen, his adjutant who was similar in age to the northern lord.
“Timber.
Pitch.
Tar.
Flax.
Wool.
Furs, Iron where available.
Salted fish.
Whale oil, if your captains are daring enough to secure it against your ibbenese competition far north.
“You sailed all this way merely to purchase goods?” Ned asked skeptically.
“No, of course not. I have dozens of men who could have that done for me.”
The old Braavosi smiled faintly, though fake it was.
A master of the mystical arts he was, but also a businessman; on the other hand, he didn’t amass most of his wealth through parlor tricks.
“I took to the seas because there are those who wish to bleed the North dry, entirely unimpeded.
The Reach and their allies despise the bridge built between Braavos and Winterfell.
They envy our proximity.
And I wish to deny them that victory.
I wish to ensure that the wealth of the North stays in the North, flowing through the ports your loyal banner man controls, rather than always filling the vaults of Highgarden.
That caused Ned’s expression to harden.
“And there it is.” Ned spoke.
“There what is?” Qarro pretended like he didn’t already know.
“Your true purpose.”
“The true purpose, Lord Stark, is that the North is underdeveloped.” The Draqen came in.
The words hung in the air like a slow-falling leaf, and Ned’s eyes narrowed at the younger man.
“Choose your next words carefully.” He warned, but Draqen didn’t back down, with his stare remaining neutral.
“He means no insult.” Qarro butts in, removing all tension.
“Yet you give them,” Ned countered.
“Then allow us to rephrase.” The master of the covenant shifted in his chair.
“The North possesses resources that would enrich half the Free Cities. Yet most remain untouched. Not because they lack value, but because there are too few roads, too few ports, too few craftsmen, too few ships, and too few hands and minds who lack the vision to make use of what it has.”
Ned said nothing.
Because despite himself, he knew it was true, and the truth hurts no matter from whom it came.
“The North exports a mere fraction of what it could,” Qarro said, his voice smooth as silk but carrying the weight of a stone block.
“Not because Northerners lack capability, Lord Stark. Merely because the distance is immense. We in Braavos understand that obstacle; we know better than anyone how a vast horizon can choke progress. But look at the Secret City now. We built a civilization on salt marshes. We hold the largest fleet in the known world—the largest military armada to ever skim the waves. We shore up our weaknesses. We make the impossible possible.”
Ned stared at the Braavosi, his face as unyielding as the stone of the crypts.
“Distance has always been our burden,” he commented dryly.
“Just so.” Qarro spread his hands, a gesture of open, unvarnished honesty.
“And my rivals have long known that trouble. Pentoshi merchants. Lyseni trading houses. Even certain Volantene interests are looking north.”
Ned’s eyes sharpened, the casual stillness of his posture suddenly hardening into something dangerous.
“And what interest,” Ned asked, his voice dropping an octave, “would slavers have in the North beyond the little trade we already have with them?”
“Very little today, and I suppose the same tomorrow just like it was for the past few centuries,” Qarro conceded, his voice dropping to a low, rhythmic cadence.
“But you forget your history, Lord Stark.
The North once commanded a powerful fleet on both its coasts.
Your own house once commanded the sails that kept the sunset and sunrise seas at bay.
Now?
Nothing.
How far the wolf has fallen.
Do you truly believe you could not reach those heights again within your lifetime?
Or do you think that, besides a few short-sighted Starks before you—no offense intended—there might have been external outliers?
The south already holds your people in low regard—barbarians, they say—and none have shown the same honor or courtesy to others as you have.”
Qarro sowed the seeds of doubt, conjuring ghosts and phantom enemies out of nothing just as Palpatine wanted.
“Let’s not get off topic,” the Warden of the North said.
“Well, Lord Stark, you should know that merchants do not concern themselves with what a thing is. They concern themselves with what it may become.” He turned, gesturing toward the narrow window and the frosted expanses beyond.
“We could build something here, and we want to.”
“For your own self-interests, of course?
Ned prompted, his voice flat, unmoving.
“For our mutual interests, Lord Stark. A step to allow Bravos to see you as an ally and not a client for the wealthy and mercantile houses to exploit when a new winter comes and grain prices increase.”
Ned remained entirely unconvinced, his gray eyes tracking the Braavosi like a hunter watching a fox.
“Maybe, but the last time you would have me believe Volantis is preparing to lay docks on the White Knife.”
“An exaggeration, but it is never out of the question especially since the demand for northern furs has increased.There isn’t many other places where one could get beaver, white bear and white fox fur. So I would have you believe that other men are beginning to ask questions.” The smile vanished, replaced by a cold, professional mask.
“The very same questions I asked.”
“What questions?”
“What happens if the North grows richer?” Qarro asked, the words hanging heavy in the hearth-heated air.
Silence followed, deep and suffocating.
“What happens if White Harbor doubles in size?” Qarro continued, stepping closer.
“What happens if northern merchants begin carrying their own timber and pelts rather than relying upon southern intermediaries to skim the cream? What happens if new roads are built through the Neck? What happens if the next winter is harsher than the last, and the North no longer begs Highgarden for grain?”
Qarro folded his hands neatly into his silken sleeves.
“The men asking these questions may become friends.” His eyes hardened, a flash of steel behind the merchant’s courtesy.
“Or they may become competitors.”
Ned studied him carefully, measuring the weight of the threat hidden in the warning.
“And which are you, Master Qarro?”
For the briefest moment, Qarro’s mind drifted away from the solar.
He thought of the boy upstairs.
Of midnight conversations over maps and trade routes.
Of grand, clinical plans stretching years, perhaps decades, into the future—a total restructuring of northern governance.
Then, the Braavosi smiled.
“A businessman, Lord Stark.”
Which, in its own way, was the most dangerous answer of all.