A Golden Path: First Steps 1.5 (ch. 5) (Patreon)

“It was only a matter of time,” Rickard muttered as he looked down at the slip of parchment, reading the message but it had some difficulty sinking in. A shipment of goods had been attacked on the way to Whiteharbor. Despite the value of the shipment, Rickard had decided to use a light guard to avoid suspicion and now wondered if that was a mistake. The guards, all slaughtered to a man. The goods, gone like smoke in the wind. The perpetrators? Unknown.

However, Rickard felt the carrion feeders circling. First with the Crown starting to take notice of the trade goods coming out of the North. It was something of a concern, but not a real issue. Taxes would be paid in full, and the Targaryen’s could not decree who the Great Houses could trade with. At most, he would receive more veil threats from King Aerys, but no more than that. It simply wasn't worth the effort -- not just to chastise House Stark, but it would show that the crown is taking an interest in the financial matters of its vassals. Of which, he suspected that there were a great many much closer Houses that had far more reason to fear scrutiny from the Crown.

They would have far more reason and a much easier time convincing the King that it wasn't worth it.

He set the letter down on his desk, a hand going for what was now his favorite drinking glass. He brushed a thumb over the direwolf etched into the cup before dragging a hand down his face, considering the loss. The loss of a single shipment posed some problems for him -- the loss of gold was troublesome. It would complicate things with Bravos, people who were expecting their orders. But, the merchant city would understand that sometimes ships go missing at sea. Sudden storms, pirates, sheer bad luck… a letter would smooth over any ruffled feathers and a token discount for the wait would go a long way.

That wasn't his issue, even if the loss of what could have been three thousand dragons stung more than he thought it might. His issue was how the caravan was attacked and how the goods went missing.

“This was an attack,” Rickard muttered to himself, taking a long swig from his cup before setting it down on his desk. He didn't know by who, but he did know how and why. Someone had been keeping an eye on Whiteharbor. Someone had noticed the trade caravan coming and going between Winterfell and Whiteharbor. They decided to attack it, and a light guard or not, a trade caravan still could boast a guard of fifty men. The fact that they were slaughtered told Rickard that this was no mere bandit group.

There were always bandits on the road after a winter. The smallfolk who had a lean winter always faced a harsh spring, so they took from those that had more. It wasn't right. It wasn't fair. It wasn't just. It was, however, the way of things. When the first harvests were reaped, things would settle once more. A trade caravan would be a tempting prize, and Rickard could see a band of particularly desperate villagers working together to attack. But the men were slaughtered.

That spoke of training.

The attack wasn't committed by half starved smallfolk wielding scythes and pitchforks. Trained Men-At-Arms carried out the attack. It was only a question of whose Men-At-Arms.

As for why? That entirely depended on who did it. It could be a house that was desperate for riches. Northerners were a hardy folk, but not immune to finery. In that case, he would need to keep a close eye on his vassals and any with glass cups or fine tapestries were his culprit.

If it wasn't riches that they sought, then they attacked for a simple reason.

They wanted to hurt House Stark. And that… That was a troubling thought.

Rickard left his solar, his thoughts heavy as he walked the castle grounds with no true destination in mind. In moments like these, he liked to move. His vassals were largely loyal. Naturally, there were a handful that had some degree of ire for him because he denied them this or that. A ruling their way or a privilege or a marriage. But no immediate suspects came to mind that would do something like this because this…

This was an attack on their liege lord. It was sedition of the highest order. If Rickard discovered the culprit, and he would, then the least they could hope to lose was their heads.

Rickard found himself walking on the ramparts, offering a single kod to the guards on duty before his gaze drifted to the courtyard below. Despite his concerns, a smile threatened to tug at his lips as he saw Brandon sparring with Benjen. The younger of the two wore an expression of immense concentration while the elder wore a cocky grin. Benjen lunged with a dull blade, only for it to be smacked away. Brandon thrusted lightly, only for it to be a feint, and when Benjen went to block, Brandon instead went low.

A chuckle escaped Rickard when instead of retreating, Benjen swung wide, forcing Brandon to take a step back and abandon the attack. His heir looked as pleased as Rickard felt. It was a relief that his youngest had a talent for the blade. Brandon would inherit the North, and if all went well, Ned would become Lord of the Neck. Benjen, a third son, had fewer prospects. Rickard hoped he may one day become a castellan. Or House Starks Master of Arms. Failing that, he could join the Night's Watch, but only as a last resort.

That chuckle turned into a sigh as the starting continued. Because he knew the truth of the matter.

It would be an exceptionally foolish thing to do -- attacking their liege lord. Attacking House Stark. The only possible reason Rickard could see that would explain such foolishness was that the culprit believed that the attack could not be traced back to him… and that Rickard would be in no position to do anything about it.

He rested a hand on the ancient granite walls of Winterfell, watching his family. Including Lyanna, who was less than subtly mimicking what she saw Brandon do with a training sword of her own in the stables. They were the ones that he had to protect.

“We almost managed to last a year,” Rickard muttered under his breath, knowing what the attack meant. Possibly, it was someone working with the Crown. Possibly, it was a vassal that felt alighted. Possibly it was simple greed. But none of it changed what he knew deep on his gut.

Whoever attacked him knew about the deal with Paul Atradies… and they intended to use that as the knife that they drove into his heart.

…

Everything moved slowly in the North. In a way, it was the North's greatest strength. The sheer vastness of the kingdom made it difficult for the southern plotting to take root, but the North had its own share of plotting. Like the thaw, it happened slowly, incrementally, and almost impossible to measure when you were actively paying attention to it. Yet, Rickard felt a slow change in the months after the caravan attack.

It was entirely possible that it was nothing more than his imagination. The shift in tone of letters. The length that it took to respond. The resistance he encountered when investigating the missing contents of the caravan, which had yet to be found. His position as Warden of the North was secure enough that few would dare to openly challenge him, but Rickard felt the wind turn against him. A silent opposition.

It came to a tipping point when he caught word of a deserter.

“Brandon, fetch your brother. It's time that he witnesses Justice in the North,” Rickard instructed, making his eldest pause his practice against a straw dummy. Working through his anger, more like it, Rickard corrected himself.

Brandon lowered his training sword, “There's been a deserter?” He questioned and Rickard grunted an answer while servants went to fetch their horses. The deserter had been captured days ago and he was being brought to the ancestral execution grounds outside of Winterfell. If the place had any significant beyond where members of the Night's Watch were executed for thousands of years, the reason had been lost to time.

For that matter, deserters were even forbidden from gracing Winterfell's dungeons for holding. It was an odd tradition, but one Rickard would follow and instruct his sons to follow even if he didn't understand why.

“Do you think he's ready? He's never seen a man die before,” Brandon said, planting the tip of his training blade in the dirt. “Or seen you kill,” he added.

A fair question and concern. “He's eleven,” Rickard replied. Still a boy.

“You forbade me from joining you until I was thirteen. You only made an exception for Ned just before he left to be fostered,” Brandon pointed out, sounding concerned. It would follow that his son only used his wits when it was inconvenient for his father. “What's wrong?”

Considering for a moment how to answer, he decided on honesty. “I'm uncertain,” he admitted. “But to be safe, Benjen will join us. If there are trying times to come… he will need to be prepared for them.” with that, Brandon accepted his answer with a curt nod before he left to find his brother.

Rickard was already on his horses but the time his sons joined him. Benjen looked like he was riding to his execution based on how pale he was. He was a kind hearted boy, Rickard reminded himself as Benjen got on his horse and gripped the reins with white knuckles. He urged his horse closer and placed a reassuring hand on his youngest shoulder. “Breathe, Ben. Your horse can sense your fear,” he urged.

“Twilight,” Benjen corrected before flushing when Rickard raised an eyebrow. “His name is Twilight. Lyanna named him,” he elaborated and despite it all, Rickard found himself chuckling.

“I'm fairly certain his name was Frost, but Twilight is as fine of a name as any. So long as you don't confuse him,” he said and Benjen relaxed some at the idle chatter. He would grow out of his shyness, Rickard hoped. He was a quick witted child that laughed easily when he felt comfortable, but Rickard found that he frequently felt uncomfortable and turtled up.

This would help change that, Rickard thought as he led his sons forward. Lyanna was watching from a balcony, waving goodbye. They were joined by fifty guards -- more than his usual retinue, but it felt like a necessary precaution. They rode in the center of the formation, with Bradon at his right while Benjen was to his left. It was after they left Winterfell behind them and they were well on their way to the execution site that Brandon spoke up in a low voice.

“Should we be concerned about this deserter?” Brandon questioned and Rickard fought off a frown. That was a very prudent question.

“I mislike the timing,” Rickard admitted easily. Deserters weren't particularly common, but that was in large part because of the difficulties of deserting. The North was the largest kingdom by far and all knew what it meant to be dressed in black. To escape one's oaths, one must travel the length of the kingdom unseen with whatever food that could be foraged while being hunted by the Night's Watch.

It was a hopeless endeavor for most. Some had managed to escape Justice over the thousands of years, but not many. It didn't stop some from trying, of course, but most didn't bother because it was a foregone conclusion.

Making a deserter, now, after a deal had been made with the Wildlings and Paul in particular… Rickard had his suspicions the moment that he heard of this deserter.

“I think it's time we had a talk with Paul. That we get ahead of this before we find it beyond our control,” Brandon urged and Rickard found himself agreeing.

“Before we react, we must know what we're reacting too… But, yes, I think it's time we had a conversation with Paul directly. Have you had any developments on your end?” Rickard questioned, expecting nothing but hoping to be surprised.

Brandon's scowl was answer enough. “We've narrowed it down a bit, we think. Usually by wildling scouting parties that don't return from a location in particular,” He answered and Rickard grunted. Paul Atradies was good at what he did, Rickard would give him that much. He wanted some kind of leverage when it came to negotiations, or at the very least, an alternative strategy.

However, at the rate things were going… when it came to talks of bringing Paul into the kingdom, the boy would possess all of the cards. He would be negotiating from a position of strength and Rickard didn't like the thought of it, especially if Paul was aware how close they were from a disaster.

“We're running out of time. After this, do what you must to find him, but we must know where his tribe is,” Rickard urged, earning a nod from his eldest. Benjen listened in, saying nothing. He was like Ned in that regard, more so than Brandon -- he knew when to close his mouth and open his ears..

Not long after, they arrived at the execution spot. It was an old grove out in the open, located in the depths of a valley between rolling hills. It was sparse, only truly marked by an ancient petrified log that deserters had been beheaded at for thousands of years. The deserter in question was a ratish looking man -- a pinched face, narrowed jaw, with large eyes that were filled with fear. A scruffy graying beard covered up some pox scars that ran up one of his cheeks.

The man was bound and gagged, two men belonging to a mountain clan stood vigil over him. Based on their scowls and glares, and the few injuries the deserter had, his capture had not been kind. Rickard drank it all in, taking only a moment to do so as he dismounted his horse and lifted the sword of House Stark from where it rested.

Ice was an executioner blade, but it was near weightless. A typical executioner blade would weigh around five pounds, the blade thicker than normal to give it extra weight to help make a clean cut. Ice, a blade of valyrian steel, weighed closer to a pound, that of a longsword. There were a few Starks that had chosen to wield the greatsword as a weapon in battle, but Rickard found the odd combination of its length and weight too off putting.

Presenting the blade to Brandon, he grabbed hold of its sheath and allowed Rickard to smoothly pull the blade free. The smoky rippled surface marked the blade what it was and the deserter flinched at the sight, struggling as he was carried to the executioner block. Coming to a stop over him, Rickard rested the tip of the blade into the ground and rested his hands on the pommel. “Ungag him,” he instructed and a foul rag was freed from the man’s mouth, leaving him free to dry heave but his stomach was empty.

“In violation of your oaths, I, Rickard Stark of House Stark, Warden of the North, sentence you to die. If you have any final words, now is the time,” he said, and he could feel Benjen’s eyes on him while his brother whispered to him lowly. Instructing him not to look away. Just as he did for Ned when it was time for him to see Justice being done.

The man licked his lips and Rickard had him pegged as a coward. So, it was an unpleasant surprise when the man spat in his direction, “Liar! You have the others convinced, but I see through you! You're working with the Wildlings. You're making a King Beyond the Wall!” He accused and that was exactly what Rickard feared.

The secret wasn't a secret anymore. He was right in thinking that the Night’s Watch would be the weak link in the conspiracy. If they were good and honorable men, then odds were they wouldn't be at the Wall in the first place.

“Speak plainly and explain your accusation. It won't save you from my blade, but I would hear your reasons in full,” Rickard said, fishing for information. How many others felt this way at the Wall? How many people had he spoken to? Who did he share these suspicions and accusations with?

Not all of his vassals kept such a close eye on the Wall, but his northernmost vassals had every reason to. The Night's Watch couldn't exist as a completely independent structure, not here, nor in the North. So his vassals sent men to keep an eye on their interests, usually making sure that no wildlings came their way. Or they paid men for information.

“I know. I know,” the man insisted, but Rickard got the impression he was half mad. Hysterical. “I know all about your secret deals with the King Beyond the Wall. You've turned the Night's Watch against its sworn enemy! You're building an army of wildlings, using my brothers to smuggle them here!”

Hm. “I'm smuggling wildlings. Into my kingdom. To build an army to use on… whom, exactly? Myself?” Rickard questioned, and he heard the men laugh at the thought. With that, the man had been discredited. Those that overheard his ramblings would dismiss them as the last words of a coward and a mad man.

He was right enough to give Rickard concern, but wrong enough that he was convinced that the man didn't have the whole conspiracy. If he did, he would have lashed out at Brandon.

No. What he knew was that the blacksails were allowing Paul's ship through. But not much else. That, however, was still entirely too much for comfort. Especially when he felt so strongly about it that he decided to leave. Rickard could only imagine that this same resentment was building up at the Wall -- half muttered whispers in the dark, seeing glimpses of a conspiracy but not enough to understand, yet enough to make assumptions. The Lord Commander hadn't informed him of this development, covering his own ends rather than warning him of incoming problems.

The deserter glared up at him, his lips pressed into a thin line. He knew he was right, and he hated that he was being made a fool. “I'll die here, at your hand. But don't you lie to yourself that this is justice. You're murdering me. You're murdering me to keep your secrets. My only regret is that I didn't get to see you strung up by your treasonous neck like you deserve.” The laughter abruptly stopped, shifting into a cold anger. The deserter paid it no mind in favored of laying his head down on the block.

It was a poor development. Rickard wished to learn more about his motivations and the general sentiment at the Wall. Did he have like minded fellows? How exactly did he learn about the shipments? It was prudent information, but he couldn't extract it from the man without giving his words validity.

Making his final words more right than He realized.

So, with little other choice, Rickard raised Ice up and in a single smooth action, he beheaded the deserter. His head rolled away, blood spurting from the stump of the neck. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Benjen flinch, a sharp breath the only sound in the grove. He didn't look away from the corpse, much to Rickard's approval. Handing Ice to one of his guards, who wiped the blade clean, he approached Benjen.

“You did well, my son," he said, cupping his cheek so the boy would look away from the corpse and to him. “I shall tell you the same words that my father told me. And his father told him. It is an easy thing to order men to die. As lords, a handful of words could seal the fate of someone half a kingdom away. The weight of the decision completely removed because you don't see it. It is why we don't employ a headsmen. I'd you can't look a man in the eye as you sentence him to death… then perhaps he doesn't deserve to die.”

Benjen looked at the corpse once more, “Did he deserve to die?” He questioned without any innocence. A boy he was, but he was no fool.

“He did. He broke his oaths to the Night's Watch, no matter his intentions,” Rickard told him in a low voice. “His fate was sealed the moment he abandoned his post. But… more than that, he was acting against our family. He didn't understand anything and in his own mind, he was doing what he believed to be right. In doing so, he would have invited disaster for us -- for me, your brothers and sister. For yourself as well. What have I always told you?”

Benjen seemed uncertain, jolted by the sudden question before speaking, “The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives?”

“Good. Remember that, my son. Always. There is no right and wrong when it comes to protecting your family.” Rickard said, and in that moment, he saw Benjen understand the truth.

The deserter was right.

He had been murdered before half a hundred witnesses and it was called justice.

For justice was always on the side of the powerful.

…

It was days later that another development occurred. Slowly, Rickard could feel the noose of his intrigue closing in around him and he searched and plotted away out of it. Time was slipping away like grains in an hour glass, and very soon, unless something changed, time would run out.

That change wasn't one of his own design. In truth, it was just shy of the worst case scenario.

“My lord, the delivery is here… as is Paul Atradies,” Maester Wyllas informed and Rickard went still. The timing was awful. Truly dreadful. He was growing desperate and he had yet to gain any meaningful leverage over the exiled noble.

Yet, he could hardly turn him away. “Did he give a reason why?” Paul didn't accompany the trade ship often. Only once before where he fine tuned the deal.

“The last panes of glass for the glass garden have been completed, my lord.” Maester Wyllas informed and that should be excellent news. When it came to convincing his vassals the worth of Paul, it would go a long way. It would be a large boon to Brandon's reputation -- the Stark that brought glass to the North.

The timing of it was the issue. “Ahead of schedule,” Rickard growled from behind his desk, clenching his jaw. He could see the confusion on Maester Wyllas’ face. He didn't understand. A deadline was just moved up without any notice and he was caught off guard.

Because, as per the agreement made, upon the completion of the glass garden, their deal would be open for renegotiation.

And Rickard had nothing to negotiate with. Worse, as the North was steadily putting the pieces together, he was in a position that he had to bring Paul into the fold.

“I shall meet him in the crypts, send him there once he arrives,” Rickard decided, standing up and walking by the Maester as he bowed to him he thought furiously as he made his way through the castle, a heavy frown on his face that had the servants scurrying away. Yet, by the time he cut across the courtyard and pushed open the ancient heavy door that led into the Stark family crypt, he was grasping at smoke in the wind.

Desperation wasn't something that Rickard often felt. He only felt it a handful of times in his life -- first, when his father died. Then his mother. And, lastly, his wife. For all of his power and influence in the North, he could do nothing to bring back the dead. It was his wife's tomb that he stopped before, the dark shadows of the crypt chased away by torch in his hand. Her statue couldn't do her justice, he thought, and not for the first time.

He had loved Lyarra in a way that he hadn't thought possible. He hadn't thought he could survive without her, but he had to for the sake of their children.

It was before her tomb that the planes of glass were piled up, separated by thin sheets of fabric. The crypts were the perfect hiding place -- they were a vast complex series of tunnels that went down several floors. Even with the tunnels collapsed to the deepest and oldest parts of the crypt, it was still easily large enough to get lost in. So few would venture this far in without knowing where they were going.

He stood in silence, mulling over the issue at hand as he gazed upon the statue of his wife. He wished she had any advice to offer in a time like this. Because, for all of his southern ambitions, she was always the better player at the Game.

His time truly ran out when he heard the sound of footsteps. No hesitation in his gait. He walked the crypts like he knew them as well as he knew his own home. Rickard looked over to see Paul Atradies walk around the corner, torch in hand.

The past year had been kind to him. He was growing into himself. While he was taller, he was no longer lanky. His comely looks of a boy shifted into a handsome face of a man. Yet, his eyes were the most striking of all -- they almost seemed to glow in the low light of the crypt.

“Lord Stark,” Paul greeted him, bowing his head in respect but he didn't bend the knee.

In that moment, Rickard almost hated the boy. He hated how dependent he had become on him. How the future and all of his plans now hinged on convincing this boy to become his vassal. Something he had no true motivation in doing because he would gain so little by bending the knee.

“Lord Atradies,” Rickard decided. “You finished ahead of schedule,” he noted and Paul nodded, his expression betraying nothing. Now, when he walked, closing the distance between them, Rickard didn't hear a thing. He announced himself with his footsteps and now he was silent as a ghost.

“We have been increasing our means of production for the past year with the resources you have provided,” he admitted easily, coming to a stop. “Until recently, our bottleneck was trained craftsmen to oversee the process. With them now fully trained, in theory, we could produce a full glass house in as little as six months.”

Rickard closed his eyes and imagined it for a moment. Years in the future, likely when his son or grandson was the Lord of the North, where no one starved. A glass garden for every keep, every town… every village. He wanted it. He craved it. It was almost a need, he desired that future so desperately. And that was the most dangerous thing of all.

He was desperate. Paul could ask nearly anything of him, and Rickard knew that he would agree simply because it would be worth it. And, for that, Rickard hated him.

“Then you desire this partnership to continue,” Rickard said, opening his eyes to the reality before him. Paul hadn't said it in so many words, but the fact he was increasing his means of production meant that he intended this partnership to last more than a year since the very start. That, at least, was something. It meant he was gaining something tangible from their dealings.

Paul nodded easily, “I do, Lord Stark. But, as I understand it, that could prove… difficult for you.” He said and Rickard swallowed a scowl.

He knew about the leaks in the Night's Watch. He knew that the North would soon put together enough parts of the Co piracy to come to a conclusion. That meant Paul knew he had all of the leverage.

Did he admit it? Lie? Obscure? Deflect? “The lie was never going to last forever,” Rickard admitted, “it would have been better if it lasted a while longer, but the situation is in hand.” To that end, he couldn't let Paul control the conversation. “As things are, the reveal my family has been working with wildlings is not worth the political headache your goods provide.” He said, and he wasn't sure the words were true.

There was another option, loathe as he was to use it. He could taint his own reputation -- accept the blame for working with wildlings, sparing Brandon the damage, while his family reaped the reward of a second glass garden. If Paul was brought into the fold on his watch, then Brandon would benefit from his presence without suffering the loss of reputation for allowing a wildling to become a vassal.

“I understand, Lord Stark. To that, I believe I may have a solution,” Paul offered and Rickard wasn't surprised. The boy was clever. He wouldn't have gotten this far if he couldn't seize an opportunity like this. “As it stands, to my knowledge, Paul Atradies and Maud’Dib are completely separate people to all but a select few. Maud’Dib is a wildling beyond the Wall while Paul can be anyone. A wandering merchant. An exiled noble in search of a new home with the vassals that escaped with him.”

As he spoke, his gaze was unflinching, burning a hole into Rickard as he heard everything that wasn't said.

It was perfect. Almost too perfect. They could present a story that would connect the pieces of the truth floating amongst his vassals, leading them to a conclusion that served their agenda.

However, there was one issue. “My vassals are not fools. One way or another, even if I were to claim that all the goods came from you, they would know that the wildlings were involved in this deal.”

Paul offered a humorless smile, “Let them be involved, Lord Stark. I say we give your vassals a version of the truth. I am a noble of a far off land that was caught North of the Wall. My origins matter little if you wish to hide the existence of the Padish Empire. Claim that I am from Essos. Or beyond it.”

Rickard started to put the pieces together, “You made contact with Brandon during his inspection of the Wall,” he ventured. It would be best to hide the existence of another ancient empire. It would only complicate things and the story that he wished to tell. The Padish empire could be a silent concern, but given that their existence had been unknown for thousands of years, he didn't expect that to change in his lifetime

Paul inclined his head, “From there, I made a deal with him for my eventual immigration south of the Wall. In exchange for knowledge of certain crafts, my nobility would be acknowledged by his father, the Lord of the North.”

Rickard swallowed his surprise at that. Paul wanted to come south. That made things vastly easier, and that was the leverage he had been looking for. It was a gift horse, he decided, so he was wary of checking its teeth but he couldn't help but to wonder why exactly Paul wanted to come south. What did he gain from it?

“Naturally,” Rickard replied drily. “But I requested proof, which you gave in the form of a glass garden. The deliveries were made through the Night's Watch, who dealt not with a wildling but a noble beyond the Wall. For such a gift, I wonder what lands I would bequeath onto such an ancient house?” Rickard questioned, curious what Paul would ask for. Because he would accept it.

They needed this. Paul was giving him everything he wanted on a silver platter and the cost would be well worth the gain.

He was prepared to give him the Stony Shore. He was prepared to give him lands that had belonged to the Starks for thousands of years.

Yet, Paul's answer surprised him.

“Lands in Skagos, in particular, taken from House Crowl.” Paul decided and that was… strangely perfect. Skagos was barely under the authority of the North. The nobility naturally wouldn't like it if he were to repossess lands to bequeath to a newer house, but they would care a great deal less that he did it to the nobility if Skagos than they would if he did it to the Karstarks or Boltons.

The reason why those lands were chosen was evident enough. “You wish to continue to harvest the land beyond the Wall.”

“During my time beyond the Wall, I encountered a wildling of the name Maud'Dib. We established a relationship of mutual benefit. He aids in procuring resources for me, and the knowledge I possess helped solidify his tribe in the Frostfangs.” Paul finished, and that, Rickard thought, was very dangerous.

The words of the deserter rang out in his ears. That Rickard was working with a King Beyond the Wall. The lands beyond the Wall were vast, untamed, and untapped. Each time a King Beyond the Wall marched South, he did so with an army of tens of thousands at his back.

He could very well be opening the door to let one inside, Rickard thought as he offered a hand to Paul.

Yet, as Paul clasped his hand and the deal was struck… Rickard accepted a cold truth.

Desperation made fools of everyone.