Robbestart, the diplomatic officer temporarily appointed by Bran as the "tax official," stood stiffly at the entrance to Bran’s mountain estate, fnked by two young knights and followed by a long line of carts loaded with goods—tax payments and confiscated property, supposedly.

  When Dany emerged from the gates, carrying Bran in her arms, Robbestart felt an unpleasant mixture of awe and irritation. By age, Bran should be around ten, though small and slim even by normal standards—not just by the towering Northnd comparison. Still, did he really need to be carried around like a toddler?

  Bran, for his part, didn’t much enjoy being carried either. But it did offer a convenient vantage point for whispering commands and reading people’s reactions. Pying the fool had its advantages.

  “What’s your name?” Dany asked bluntly.

  “Robbestart,” he replied, annoyed they were only now asking.

  “Robbo, this is what you've collected?” she asked, gesturing at the carts.

  “No, not just taxes—this includes confiscated property too,” he replied, keeping his tone respectful while silently mocking them: Robbo? Fine. I won’t argue with illiterate savages.

  “All of it?” Dany asked.

  “Yes. Everything’s accounted for,” Robbestart said, beginning to sweat.

  “So, you think Northnders can’t count?”

  “Please, allow me to expin. The chaos yesterday caused some loss. But this really is the full amount.”

  “For years, we've been too lenient. Do you want to know how we punish thieves in the North?” Dany asked, her voice cold.

  “Thieves? What are you talking about? We didn’t steal anything!” Robbestart’s mind reeled. How had taxes turned into accusations of theft?

  “Cut the games. Go back and tell your merchants to check their cargo again. You’ve got until sundown to deliver what you missed.”

  With that, she turned and walked away, still carrying Bran.

  Behind the estate’s screen wall, Dany set Bran down.

  “I didn’t spot anything suspicious,” she admitted.

  “Different goods, different values,” Bran said with a grin. “These bastards always bring trash to the North, trying to pawn it off like treasure. But even trash has grades. They turned over their tax haul way too fast. Always worth poking a stick to see what jumps out.”

  “Would’ve been easier if we just took it all yesterday,” Dany said.

  “…Leave some face,” Bran replied with a shrug. “Also, how was I supposed to know we were that terrifying? Yesterday’s beatdown scared me, and I was just watching.”

  He paused, then looked at Dany thoughtfully. “Say… what would you do if someone called you dumb?”

  “Hit them,” Dany said simply.

  “Tell Gazzi. Word is, the merchants think Northnders are dumb. Easy to fool.”

  It didn’t take long before Robbestart came stumbling back to the estate, face bruised and nose bleeding.

  “There’s a fight—please, you have to stop it!” he cried.

  Dany stood at the gate, gncing down at him like one might a yapping dog.

  “A fight? Just pull them apart. What’s the big deal?”

  “We tried! They won’t stop!”

  “What started it?”

  Robbestart hesitated. If he admitted it was because someone called Northnders dumb, that might earn him another round.

  “Typical,” Dany said. “You think we’re all soft up here, easy prey.”

  “No! No one thinks that!”

  “Enough of this nonsense. Did the merchants finish listing their goods—types, grades, all of it?”

  “…Not yet.”

  “Tell them to stop bringing us rags and broken tools. If they want to keep trading here, they’d better start showing respect.”

  As she turned and walked away with Bran in her arms, Robbestart stared after them in disbelief. Wasn’t I here to stop a fight? How did I end up with more demands? And what was this nonsense about "Northnd Pricing"?

  Like it or not, when you’re under someone’s roof, you follow their rules. In the end, the merchants had no choice but to comply. Yes, the new regutions would eat into their outrageous profit margins—but even trimming from a 5000% markup to 1000% was still a fortune.

  They cursed the Northnders under their breath, called them savages, but they still lined up and obeyed. That’s how things worked. The weak got squeezed. The valuable goods in their caravans—those rare, polished items—weren’t even for general sale. They were reserved for trading the North’s rarest treasures: starsteel, snow-forged iron, and warhorses.

  Bran often pondered this contradiction: Northnders, so x and chaotic in daily life, yet so unified when it came to guarding their iron and their horses. Every Northnder was at least half a bcksmith, and their skills were passed down like religion. Even if a few tried to leak secrets, it would be impossible to truly steal their craft.

  Gazzi, for all his crooked smirks and slippery behavior, had the market under tight control. Bran had to admit the guy had talent. He might seem dim, but he always had a backup pn—and never once seriously injured anyone. That meant discipline. A weasel, sure, but a capable one. In the North, someone like that would’ve had a hard childhood. Not because he was weak—Northnders didn’t bully the weak—but because he was tricky. Tricky kids were group-punching magnets.

  “So,” Bran said, grinning at him, “how many bribes today?”

  “None. They were… ‘gifts,’” Gazzi replied.

  “Must be nice. No one beating you up tely?”

  “Nah, I’m good.”

  “Shared the gifts? Didn’t keep a stash for yourself?”

  At that, Gazzi’s face turned red with indignation. “Hell no! I’m not—”

  Smack. Dany spped the rest of the words back into his throat.

  Gazzi’s eyes bzed murderously. Bran could practically hear him thinking: If she wasn’t standing there, I’d beat you bloody, brat.

  Bran held up a hand. “My bad, my bad. Just asking. Anyway—go check if you or your dad or your uncle got some good steel. Your axe is getting old. I’ll forge you a new one.”

  Instant attitude shift. Gazzi lit up like a torch, all smiles and brotherly affection. “On it!” he shouted, running off like a happy mutt with a new stick.

  Bran chuckled. Now that’s how you raise a rascal.