Chapter Text

“What’s that sound?”

“Up ahead m’lord, there’s a young man sitting in the middle of the road.”

Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Paramount and Warden of the North urged his horse forward at a slow gallop. Taking the report of his guardsman into account, he motioned for the rest of the men to move ahead of their party. The guard seemed shaken, unnerved.

Behind him, his three sons and ward followed. They were returning from a short tour of the local lands. Bran had just turned seven and it was time to ease him out of the castle, get him used to the North outside of Winterfell's walls.

The guard turned back toward the distant sound. A low voice singing some strange tune. The group couldn’t make out any words or rhyme. As the figure finally came into sight, Lord Stark began to realize why the-boy? man?-was so unsettling.

He sat in the dirt of the road, just off the center. He had broad shoulders and long black hair pulled into a thick braid. Unfortunately, that was all the description Ned could think of. The rest of the man was covered by a large thick green robe. The robe was clasped over his right shoulder and resting opposite was a pauldron with what looked like a deer skull attached to it. He could see a necklace of various sized fangs, feathers and… teeth, around the stranger’s neck.

The most confusing part of the entire outfit was the mask. A large piece of white wood covered from his chin up well past his hairline, wrapping around his ears. Short branches sprouting red leaves crested the mask like a crown. Carved with lines flowed from top to bottom in deep clean cuts. There were eyes cut in the mask, with upturned corners. The nose was long and crooked with a tree knot taking the place of a nostril, the mouth was set closed stretching to the right giving the entire mask an unsettling grinning façade; as if the mask had told a jape no one else understood. The macabre finishing touch was lines of some red liquid dripping from the eyes and corner of the mouth. The mask was horrifyingly beautiful and reminded Ned of the Heart Tree in Winterfell. 

Ned pulled the reins on his horse and stopped. The tone being sung was a slow longing tune, the words seemed to be a mixture of common words and something else. For some strange reason Lord Stark felt as if he was being rude by interrupting the song but chose to press on.

“Excuse me, my companions and I were hoping to use this road, I would ask that you move.” Ned said.

The man’s humming stopped abruptly. He looked up and made eye contact with Ned. The man then stood tall. He wasn’t wearing boots but some sort of strange sandals made of red twine. 

Ned realized the man hadn’t answered, he was still staring.

“Greetings, I was waiting for someone to come down the road.” the stranger explained. “Would you be able to help me? I’m in search of something and need directions.”

“I very well could, that would depend on what you sought.” Ned replied.

The man chuckled, “Of course, I should introduce myself first, I am Beorn, I’m looking for a Godswood, unfortunately I’m not from these parts.”

Ned hesitated but felt compelled to help the stranger, as long as he posed no danger of course. “If you seek to worship the Old Gods, I would not be opposed to you praying before the Godswood of Wintertown, outside my keep.”

By this time the rest of the party had caught up. Some of them looked very disturbed by the sight of the stranger but Bran was teeming with excitement and curiosity. Jon on the other hand had his sword at the ready should a threatening move be made. His attention was drawn back to Beorn once he realized the man had tensed up. 

Warily he addressed him once again, “Beorn? Are you well?”

Beorn suddenly started chuckling, confusing the entire group. Beorn then dropped to one knee.

“Forgive me, Magnar, I should have realized the Gods would steer me true. You must understand though, to meet the Stark of Winterfell so easily is not what I expected when I awoke this morning”

That avalanche of statements shocked the entire group of northmen silent. 

“I will admit I have been searching for you, the sudden rain a few nights past damaged my map and I’m afraid my charges have a bad habit of wandering.”

“Your charges?” Ned asked.

“Yes, in fact they are the reason I’ve come south. I’ve been charged to bring the Stark in Winterfell –” Beorn began.

“WOLF!!!”

The entire party snapped to Theon Greyjoy who already had an arrow knocked and aimed into the foliage along the side of the road. The guardsmen ran and surrounded Lord Stark, swords at the ready. Before anyone could make a move Beorn abruptly walked toward the wolf.

Ned was about to shout for the mad man to step aside. The animal was larger than any wolf he had ever seen and there was a predatory intelligence behind its eyes. It matched the stories he had been told as a child, it had to be a direwolf, the long gone beast that his house used as a sigil. 

When Beorn began talking, Ned suddenly realised it might be Old Tongue, not just talking but scolding, he could do nothing but watch incredulously. Beorn walked right up to the obviously large and dangerous direwolf. It came up to Beorn’s stomach and had dark brown fur with patches of red along its back. 

Robb seemingly snapped first, “Are you mad, get away from it!”

Beorn turned back, “Crag here needs to learn he can’t just run off from his pack whenever he wants.”

Then returned his attention to the wolf, “Crag” apparently and resumed his scolding. Slowly the beast sat down and kept its head pointed at Beorn’s feet. 

Ser Rodrick leaned closer to Lord Stark and whispered, “Are we sure the young man is all there, my lord? Perhaps bringing him to Wintertown is a mistake?”

“I’m not sure,” Lord Stark hesitated before finally responding, “What I am certain of is that he said companions. My question is, where are the others?”

“Magnar Stark!”

Ser Rodrik and Ned turned back to see Beorn walking towards them, Crag following at his heels.

“My apologies, Crag here has run ahead, the rest of his pack should be along soon. I must ask that no one approach the bitch.”

“Beorn, how many direwolves are with you?” Ned paused to absorb the absurdity of the question he just asked. 

“Well there’s Crag, he’s a juvenile from a pack that was killed off, and Maw an older male. Finally there’s Green Eyes, she’s pregnant and will be having her litter soon. She’s the reason we need to find a Godswood, I need to feed the pups Weirwood Sap after their birth.”

Ned kept himself calm and collected while digesting the information. After a few seconds he simply gave up and decided to deal with it later, after a cup or two of wine.

“Are they nearby?” Ned questioned.

“Yes, they will follow us through the woods. Crag will stay by me.”

Ned turned back to Robb, his eldest son would one day be making much bigger decisions as the Lord of Winterfell and needed to get accustomed to such responsibility. His son gave Beorn a searching look then slowly nodded.

“Very well, do you have a horse Beorn?”

“No, Magnar, I prefer my feet personally.”

Also, Ned noted, he’d have to find out why he was being called a “Magnar”, Beorn couldn’t possibly have him confused for a noble family on Skagos. 

///////////////////////

Ned breathed a sigh of relief as Winterfell’s walls drew near. The sight of the keep always set his mind at ease. He chanced a look back at their follower; Beorn was singing again but quietly, seemingly to only himself and Crag. It was unnerving, a man bringing long extinct legends into his house. Ned wasn’t sure he could take much more. 

As their group entered the gates he saw his wife and daughters waiting for them, quickly dismounted he rushed towards them.

“Jory! Whatever you see, stay calm, we have important guests with us.”

“Ned what’s going on? Who’s with you?”

“Farlen! Clear out some space in the kennels, move those smithy supplies being stored there into the tower”

The household rushed to comply with Lord Stark’s orders.

“Ned what is going- BY THE SEVEN!”

Lady Stark’s scream drew the attention back to the gate where a strange man in green walked through with five massive wolves. One obviously pregnant. 

“Ned what is going on?!?”

“I’ll explain later. Children! Gather round but keep your distance.”

The Stark pack gathered around their father, Robb and Jon stood in front of their younger siblings. Bran and Arya were looking past them in awe at the beasts and even Sansa seemed curious but stood resolutely beside her mother. 

“Beorn, do I have your word that those wolves will not harm anyone within these walls?”

Beorn stepped forward. The bitch of the pack, Green eyes, followed closely. He stopped a few feet before the Starks and knelt.

Beorn reached into his cloak, withdrawing a bronze blade with a simply white wood hilt inlaid with intricate rune-work. Focusing on the knife he didn’t see the confused look shared between Ned and the elderly Maester Luwin, who’d rushed out of the castle. 

“I, Beorn, Son of Torrhen due swear by my soul and blood,” Beorn carved a circle into his palm, bringing a shriek from Sansa and Catelyn. “in front of the Gods of wood and stone, sky and sea, that I shall be your Shepherd. I shall care for your woods and wolves. I shall teach your children the old stories so their lessons will never be forgotten. My sons and daughters shall follow me in this oath. I serve the Stark of Winterfell, The King of Winter”

Beorn finally looked up, stretching out his hand to Lord Stark expectantly. Only to see a face of confusion and shock.

“Magnar, have I performed the ceremony wrong?”

“Beorn… What are you talking about? What was that?”

“Oh no…” Beorn slowly rose.

“Beorn I have no idea what that was or what you’re doing here.”

Severely disappointed, Beorn took a step forward causing the guards to tense.

“What I’m doing is reaffirming the oath of the Shepherd. I’m taking my place as the Shepherd of Winterfell, The Shepherd of the Starks.” Beorn slowly explained.

Bran spoke up next.

“Father, what does he mean by Shepard? We don’t have any sheep in Winterfell.”

“Magnar Stark. Am I correct in understanding that you never received the heirs’ lessons before you took up your title as The Stark in Winterfell?”

Eddard slowly walked forward, gently taking Beorn’s hands and taking the knife out of it.

“Beorn, I am the second son of Lord Rickard Stark. My brother and father died together before the start of Robert’s Rebellion.”

“We feared as much. But, we held out hope that perhaps somehow you were told… I take it you never found the books?”

“No, I don’t know what books you speak of.”

“Your father would have passed the Starks’ personal histories onto your brother when he became Magnar Stark. Since that didn’t happen the books must still be somewhere in Winterfell. You must find these books, Magnar Stark. There’re a number of rituals that must be completed. If only we had come earlier… my father and I would have come sooner.” Beorn took a deep breath, “I must send a message to my father.”

“I’ll tell my Maester to prepare a raven.”

“Thank you, Magnar. First I need to ensure that Green Eyes is properly cared for.” 

Beorn turned back to the direwolves and called out in the Old Tongue. The wolves immediately surrounded Green Eyes and followed Beorn.

“Which way is the Godswood?” Beorn asked.

/////////////////////////

Ned closed the door to his study and poured three cups of wine. It was the following morning and his night hadn’t been as restful as he would have liked. 

“I’ve already explained how we found him.” He passed the goblets to his wife and Maester Luwin. “What I need to decide, is what to do next”

“Ned you can’t possibly be thinking of letting him stay, he’s obviously mad and those beasts are dangerous.” Catelyn implored.

“But what if he’s not mad, Cat? I know there were some things Father told Brandon that I wasn’t privy to. Things I only learnt about after reading through his journals.”

“Lord Stark, perhaps we should first try and find these histories he spoke of. If they are real, then they are Stark heirlooms. Once we sort the truth from the lies, we can act. Until then, Beorn seems to be the only one the direwolves will listen to and having the first live direwolves in centuries here in Winterfell will be a strong symbol of power.” Luwin argued.

“Perhaps.” Ned took a sip, “Perhaps you are right, Luwin. You and I will begin searching for them. I’ll comb the study and the older rooms. Check the library and get some of the guards to help you with the old tower. I’ll also have to read through the journals again. Maybe I missed something.”

“I’ll go check on the children. Arya and Bran have been begging to be allowed into the Godswood. They want to see the direwolves.” Cat added.

“I need to speak to Beorn anyway, tell them to meet me in the courtyard after lunch.” Ned instructed.

/////////////////////////////////

“Do you think we’ll get to play with pups? Will father let us name them? I hope so! I’d name them after warriors like Nymeria and Visenya.” Arya wondered.

“I’d name them after the Kingsguard, they would be strong like knights with names like Duncan and Barristan!” Bran insisted.

Jon and Robb watched from the side, listening to their siblings.

“Jon, What do you think of Beorn?” Robb wondered.

“I’m not sure, he knows things that Lord Stark should. I don’t know how he can command direwolves. I’m wary of him.” The Bastard of Winterfell admitted.

“He reminds me of the stories Old Nan would tell us about the Green Men. But aren’t they supposed to be in the south, near the Isle of Faces?” Robb said.

“Aye and he called himself a Shepard, like it’s a title.” Jon added.

Their father entered the clearing and addressed them, “Children, it’s time to go. Remember do not approach the direwolves and listen to what I say.”

A chorus of “Yes father” answered him.

They walked through Winterfell coming to the entrance of the Godswood. Ned entered first, walking with caution. In the Godswood he saw the Heart Tree and pond that characterized Winterfell’s shrine to the Old Gods. 

The Starks noticed the wolves first. The juvenile, Crag, was sitting on a small hill that the path crossed beside. He snapped his head toward the Starks but made no moves, he simply watched as they passed. Laying by the pond was the largest of the pack, Maw. A massive brown beast slightly bigger than Crag, he looked to be resting. His grey eyes seemed to draw Ned’s and the two locked gazes.

Ned could see Green Eyes laying on a bed of red leaves, her swollen stomach pronounced by her grey and black fur. 

“Father, is that the mother? How long until she gives birth?” Arya said.

“I don’t know, Arya, it should be soon. I doubt she can get much bigger.”

“Father, where is Beorn?” Robb asked.

“I’m not sure, none of the guards saw him leave.” 

The surface of the pond broke with a splash. Ned pulled his son Bran back behind him. A man pulled himself out of the hot spring. Long black hair laying across his shoulders and back. Standing at height with Ned, clad only in his small clothes, he finally turned. Sansa’s face developed a deep flush. His form was marred with various scars along his chest and shoulders, his forearms and legs were similarly marked. His face was long with a flat nose and grey eyes. In fact, a quiet part of Sansa’s mind noted that he looked somewhat like Jon and her father; not exactly, but some of his features matched quite well. 

Beorn seemed to finally take notice of his guests and bowed his head.

“Magnar.” Beorn addressed Ned.

“My apologies for intruding on you, Beorn, perhaps you could dress yourself in the presence of my daughters?” Ned suggested.

“Of course.” Beorn moved to the pile of cloth near Green Eyes and began dressing. “I’m surprised Magnar Stark, I didn’t expect your visit so soon. Have you found the Stark Histories?”

“I’m afraid not, I have people searching as we speak though. How are you settling in, Beorn? I was told you did not sleep in the room I had prepared for you in the Keep.”

“Yes, thank you for your courtesy but until the pups are born I’m afraid I must stay by Green Eyes’ side. When she has her litter, I will gladly share your table and hospitality.” Beorn reassured him.

“Can we name the pups, Shepherd?” Arya shouted.

“Arya!” Ned rebuked his youngest daughter.

Beorn chuckled, “Perhaps you shall, I’m not sure how many pups there will be but my father told me that Green Eyes shall be the one to bring direwolves back to Winterfell, and my father’s green sight is rarely wrong.”

“Your father has the greensight?” Ned said.

Beorn made his way to Green Eyes with a dish of water, offering it to her. 

“Yes, my father is the Great Shepard, the Great Shepard must always have greensight.”

“Do you have it?” Arya asked.

“Unfortunately I have a very weak talent. I sometimes have vague dreams, my younger sister Mira however, has very strong and vivid visions.”

Bran moved closer to Beorn, excitement evident in his eyes. “Greensight is real? I thought it was just a myth like wargs and giants!”

Beorn looked down at the lad and frowned. “Now who has been telling you such ridiculous lies? There have been many Starks who were wargs, and giants have walked this earth as long as the First Men and the Children”

“Listen, please don’t lie to my brother, Old Nan told us all about the old fairy tales.” Sansa rebuked.

Beorn pierced Sansa with a sharp glare, “I had such a dream a few nights before I met Magnar Eddard.” 

Beorn took a seat on a stump away from the pond, Ned and the children drew closer. Bran, Arya and Rickon sat by his feet. With his face revealed, Beorn’s strangeness seemed lessened and most of the children felt at ease around him.

“I saw a forest covered in snow, with trees made of stone. A horn blew and the mist cleared. Direwolves circled me.” The Starks were entranced, all of them held their breath. “A great cry came from the south, a falcon fell to its death. The pack began moving south. It was a terrible thing, Direwolves do not belong in the south. I followed them until they crossed a narrow bridge and watched as they each melted under the southern sun and disappeared.”

Ned looked over his children, then back to Beorn. The howl of a wolf broke the reverential silence of the glade. Beorn leapt up and ran to Green Eyes' side. 

“The litter is coming!” Turning back quickly to face Ned while pulling a bag from the base of a tree and shifting through the contents. “Magnar, your entire family needs to be here, send someone to fetch your wife!” He picked up a small stone bowl and walked towards the Heart Tree. “Will you trust me, Magnar? The next hour is going to be very important.”

Ned looked to his children and saw worry and sympathy on their faces. Steeling himself he shed his cloak and stepped forward. “What do you need Beorn?” 

///////////////////////////// 

As Catelyn entered the Godswood, she reflected how she only ever entered to retrieve, or speak with, her husband. She had never felt comfortable under the eyes of the white trees. She preferred her sept and statues. She heard another howl, they had started shortly before Arya had found her in the keep. Catelyn wouldn’t lie, she was somewhat curious. After all, direwolves were legends of myth to a woman from the Riverlands. 

As she walked farther down the path she resolved to ask Ned to have the stranger leave as soon as possible. She would not have some savage staying in her home, Cat had brought up the possibility that Beorn was a wildling; her husband had simply told her being born North of the Wall was no crime. 

Laying at the base of the Heart Tree was the direwolf mother in the middle of labour; kneeling next to her was Beorn, sitting nearby was her husband and children. Bran and Arya were trying to get a good look, while Sansa held onto Rickon near Robb. 

Beorn pulled a small grey form to his chest, wrapping it in a cloth before laying it down. Cat slowly walked closer until Ned noticed her. He rose quickly and approached her then smiled softly.

“Cat, come, Beorn says we need you here.” Ned called out.

Without even waiting for a response, he gently tugged her to his side. Beorn had set aside another pup and turned towards her.

“Magna Stark, I’m glad you came, I’ll just be a moment then you and your children will need to help me.”

She went to her youngest, Rickon eagerly crawling into her arms. She paused long enough to give Snow a glare, he wisely moved away from the family, farther back  to the pond. 

A small group of six pups all eagerly fed off their mother. Cat smiled softly, the mother was simply laying there exhausted but there was a look in her eyes of deep satisfaction. Beorn took a small stone bowl and his bronze knife from earlier and  leaned close to the tree, her husband seemed confused.

“Beorn, what are you doing?” Ned asked.

The stranger replied without straying from his work, “The pups will need to be bonded to the Starks, since their mother wasn’t; while we’re doing that you and your wife should offer something to the parents as a token of thanks. I’ll need some weirwood paste and then something from all of you.” 

He pressed his knife flat against the white bark, slowly red sap began to leak out and trail along the blade. The sap coated the flat of the knife which Beorn scraped it into the dish he held. He slowly filled the bowl twice more until there was a thimble or two of sap. He returned to the group approaching Ned in particular. 

“Magnar, please give me your hand.” Beorn instructed.

Cat wanted to say something but Ned caught her eyes so she held her tongue. Ned reached for the knife, she heard Beorn mutter something about “-the fingertip”. Her husband quickly cut along his thumb, then following Beorn’s instructions, dipped his bleeding thumb into the paste and walked over to Maw and bent down. She held her breath and clutched her son to her. 

The attack never came, instead Maw lapped and nuzzled into Ned’s hand. Everyone released a collective breath. Robb stepped forward and offered his finger to Beorn who simply smiled and repeated the process. Robb picked up a grey pup who struggled until the thumb was presented to it, then it eagerly devoured the red sap. Slowly, the rest of the Stark’s picked up their pups, Ned took Rickon and helped him pick a dog, he was still very young and didn’t really understand what was going on but enjoyed petting the pup anyways. Cat took her turn, marvelling at the story she’d have to tell her family the next chance she got. 

As everyone settled with their new companions, Cat was ready to leave and return to the Keep but Beorn’s voice stopped her. 

“Jon? There’s still one left.”

The bastard boy was standing closer, watching with envious eyes and seemed startled when his name was called. Cat angrily narrowed her eyes. Before she could inform Beorn of his status, the bastard did it for her.

“I’m not a Stark, Beorn, I’m a Snow.” Jon replied.

Smirking, Cat was satisfied, before noticing Ned’s frown. 

“Is Magnar Stark not your father? Does the blood of the North not flow in your veins?” Beorn responded.

“Jon is my natural born son, but is the son of another woman” Ned easily answered, agitating Cat at how easily he admitted it, without a hint of shame. 

“I know the name Snow is used for bastard children but he is still your son. One day he will act as a bodyguard, general or even bannerman to your heir. This ritual will acknowledge and fortify their tie,” Beorn insisted.

Cat had heard enough as this wildling continued to argue in Snow’s favour; but to suggest that he would one day be a Lord! This was too much. 

“You have no authority here! My husband is the Stark in Winterfell and you shall obey him.” As she stood, her tone became increasingly venomous, shocking all of her children. 

Jon looked down, a heartbroken look crossing his face. 

“You allow your wife to demean your son so?” Beorn turned to her husband.

Again, before Ned could even respond, Cat spit faster, “Snow should be grateful for his life, it is far better than most bastards are afforded. He could have been sent off to some place to work the fields until his death!” 

The clearing was silent, her children’s faces were frozen in shock and even little Rickon looked upset. Robb wore a mixture of disbelief. It was when her eyes turned to her husband that she realized she had errored. 

The Quiet Wolf, they called her husband. Many took the name as a play on Ned’s stoic demeanor. What many forgot was that a wolf on the prowl was silent as the wind. Ned was not a man of fiery temper, his anger was chilling and hard. His face resembled the stone statues of his ancestors in that moment. 

She did not hate the boy, but he was a constant reminder of the stain on her family’s honour, of a possible threat to her children. The lessons of her septa on bastards rang in her head. She had allowed Snow to live a good life, he took lessons under Maester Luwin and was trained by Ser Rodrick. A direwolf, a living sigil of the Starks, at his side could very well sway Lords to him. He was already the spitting image of Ned, the wolf would only add to the connection, another step above her eldest. 

Nightmares of a rebellion still plagued her. Visions of Winterfell being taken, Robb brought before the usurper in Winterfell’s throne room. In her husband’s place sat a mirror image of Eddard while bastard colours flew over her home.  

Ned was a Lord Paramount, who preferred his time with his children to be calm. Cat had never touched Snow but she had perfected the art of conveying warning through her eyes. She wanted to ensure he never forgot his place, never forget what his station was. As the Blackfyre Rebellion showed Westeros, a bastard shown too much favour was a dangerous thing.

“Lady Stark. Return to the keep and wait in my study.”

Catelyn couldn’t believe what she was hearing, “Ned-”

“Now.” His orders were calm and unrelenting. 

Cat once again looked at her children, they were hurt and confused; Robb looked upset. As she turned to leave, she glanced back at the bastard one last time expecting to see a cruel smile. Instead, Snow’s eyes were on his feet, a frown on his lips and shoulders hunched. As the Lady of Winterfell left the Godswood she did not feel anger, only shame.

/////////////////

Jon watched his father standing stock still in the clearing. No one said a word. The only sounds were the cries of the newborn pups. Lord Stark turned and looked at him, Jon couldn’t stop himself from quickly focusing on his feet instead. He was embarrassed and angry, if Beorn had just let things be then Lady Stark would never have snapped like that. To hear the words said out loud, plainly and clearly boiled his blood. His fingers dug into his palms and he breathed hard to calm himself. 

Again, Jon was being a burden to his father. Sometimes, late at night when he couldn’t sleep, Jon wished that his father hadn’t brought him back. He wished that he was left…wherever it was his mother was from, at least there he wouldn’t be in this state of limbo. 

As the son of Lord Stark, Jon was above the smallfolk, yet at the same time not a member of the nobility. He was given deference because of his blood ties to the Warden of the North but in practice he was no more important than a member of the household, like Ser Rodrik or Maester Luwin. Jon hated wondering what his future would hold, by this point he knew better than to dream. Feeling his eyes burn, Jon turned to follow Lady Stark. 

“Jon,” the quiet voice of Lord Stark halted him mid-step. 

He turned slowly, keeping his head down. “Jon, look at me.” 

Jon slowly raised his eyes to meet Lord Stark’s. 

“You belong with us, never think otherwise.” Lord Stark seemed to hesitate and glanced to where his wife last stood, “I did not realize Cat felt that strongly. This is my fault and I will make it right.”

Jon assumed his father would stride out then and there to apologize to his lady wife, instead he returned to Beorn and picked up the smallest pup, the only one unclaimed. It was white, with blood red eyes; Lord Stark put him into Jon’s arms, Beorn joined the pair and held out the knife. Jon wanted to refuse, he tried to say as much, if not for the runt in his arms licking his face and drawing his attention. Looking down at the small wolf, Jon couldn’t bring himself to protest. He slowly cut his thumb, dipped it into the cup and held it to the pup; he waited for the rejection, surely if these creatures were meant for the Starks they would know he was not one. No growls or bites came, just the cool tongue as the pup eagerly lapped at his finger. 

He smiled softly, not noticing the same smile reflected on his father and Beorn’s faces, “Hello there… hello… Ghost.”

/////////////////

Chapter Text

Catelyn looked around her husband's solar. It was smaller than the one she remembered her Father using. There was no windows, just a door leading out to the Family Wing of the Keep and another that accessed a small dining room. There was little decoration, at least decoration in the southern sense, no gold or jewels. When Cat first arrived she'd thought the solar unbefitting of a Lord Paramount.

She'd learnt to see the luxuries that marked it out as a room of the Warden of the North: the huge bear pelts that covered the floor, a polished axe with a whittled shaft, a Moose head carved from wood which sat above the hearth, a set of dull silver cups with green tinted accents sat on to the side near some wine, a stone bowl carved with runes rested beside a large bookcase made from unique wood from the Neck, and a greatsword wrapped by a rusted chain sat in a place of honour near the far door. Not to mention the large tapestries that covered the walls. They were done in a northern style, thick seams with bright and distinct colours. They depicted events reaching back thousands of years, the oldest sat behind the Lord's chair that had supposedly been redone around the time of the Conquest, depicting a man with a wolf pelt cloak standing before what could only be the Wall. Things that she had once taken for cheap trinkets in fact marked the North's loyalty to her husband, to his family.

Cat poured herself some wine and stood near the fire, a servant had kindled it low, as they did every morning. There was some fresher kindling, Ned must have been in here before going to the Godswood. Cat shivered, recalling the look Ned had given her when he dismissed her. She straightened from her hunch, no matter what she had said, she would ensure Ned understood that she was his wife, not a child to be disciplined. Downing the rest of her cup, she heard footsteps echoing down the hall outside.

Ned came in, silently poured himself some wine and sat. Then quiet as his moniker, he took a moment to rearrange some papers on his desk.

"Please sit Cat."

He sounded calmer. she took the chair opposite and waited. Ned looked up and she saw the conflict in his eyes. Her husband was unsure of what to say.

"I'm sorry I spoke so harshly in front of the children. I should have been more controlled."

Cat didn't feel the need to retort. Ned rubbed his eyes and sat back in his chair.

"I'll speak with Arya tonight, she was incensed when you left."

"It's time she began taking things more seriously." She said.

"Cat, this has nothing to do with Arya's… willful nature. You insulted Jon, she won't forgive that easily. You know she idolizes him."

That got her blood running. She loved her daughter, but she had the "Wolf Blood" as Ned called it and rejected any attempts at acting as a Lady should.

"Perhaps if you had fostered Snow elsewhere this would not be happening."

"I told you then and I'll tell you now, Jon will remain here."

"Ned, do you ever wonder why we've never had offers of fostering?" Her questions threw him off balance, not for long though.

"Catelyn, you cannot believe that the Lords of the North have been kept away because Jon lives in these halls."

"He does not just 'live in these halls'! He is treated nearly as true born! You allow him liberties no bastard should be afforded. Why would your vassals want their heirs to be sent somewhere they'd be treated the same as your bastard? Why else have we received no offers?"

Cat had been holding back on this point for the last few years. As much as she loathed the idea of sending her children away from her side, she could clearly recall the fosterlings who'd come to Riverrun with the Lords to meet with her father. Little Petyr had fostered at Riverrun and she had fond memories of her foster-brother. It was somewhat insulting that no one had proposed Bran or Rickon, or even Robb could find a place with them; not that she would agree to it, but it was the principal of the thing.

"We have."

"What?"

Ned went to refill his cup, keeping his back to her.

"We have had offers. For most of the children… even Jon."

Cat let him fill her cup as well.

"And why did you not share these offers with me?"

Ned had the decency to look away.

"Please Ned. Give me an honest answer."

"I knew that you would push to send Jon away. But if I send Jon to the Hornwoods or the Tallharts, the rest of the Lords would expect Bran to do the same, some would even ask for Arya. Fosterings quickly lead to betrothals, something the children aren't ready for."

"Sending a bastard to foster is not an open invitation!" Cat protested.

Ned sent her a strange look, "Cat, a Great House does not send its children out freely. No disrespect to your family but the Tullys do not have the weight of history that we Starks do. We must be very careful, the balance of the North is important. Do you think the decision to send me to the Vale was made on a whim?"

Cat bit her tongue at the comment on her family. Her Septa and Maester had always given House Tully equal status as the other Great Houses. It was only when she began learning about the North from Maester Luwin that she realised how distorted her education had been. The Tullys had always been in a precarious position as Lord Paramounts, the Conqueror had only gifted them the title because they were the most powerful House to first rebel against Harren The Black. Her ancestors had never been kings, powerful lords yes, but not kings.

Hearing other histories made it painfully obvious why the Tullys were considered the lowest of the Great Houses. They did not have the wealth of the Lannisters and Tyrells, the prestige of the Starks or Baratheons or the natural isolation of the Martells. The Riverlands was a disjointed realm, the battlefield for nearly all of Westeros' wars. The Tullys had spent 3 centuries maintaining their power but by virtue of sharing a border with 4 other kingdoms, her family had never been truly secure. Cat was old enough to remember her father's fear of House Darrys' prosperity and their favour with the Targaryens. She knew that he'd been relieved when King Robert had stripped the Darrys to the bone.

"Why did you bring him back Ned? Why?" This was the first time in years that Ned seemed willing to explain his choices for Snow. "Could you not have just left him with his mother?"

The Lord of Winterfell wouldn't look at his own wife. He was staring at a tapestry of Torrhen Stark kneeling at the Trident, the North remembered their own defeats as well as their victories.

"His mother is dead."

A shade in Cat's mind disappeared. The shadow of a faceless woman that had plagued her mind in the first years of her marriage had receded as the years went on but never left. There was always that fear that Snow's mother was waiting in some far off place, waiting for Ned to find her again and give Snow a sibling. Only, the knot in Catelyn's heart didn't disappear.

"Does Snow know?"

Ned shook his head.

"Was there no one else?"

"None who would care for him." Ned took another drink. "I was the only kin he had left." he whispered.

Catelyn heard him clear enough. 'Only kin? Was being his father not the proper title?'

When Snow was still an infant, she'd held out some small hope that Ned wasn't his father, that he was the bastard of some loyal Stark man who died for his lord. Maybe one of the men who travelled to Dorne and never returned. Her dreams were for naught, he grew to have a Stark's face, a Stark's hair and a Stark's eyes.

Cat knew that during their first months at Winterfell, many guests assumed she'd had twins; how else could there be a boy that mirrored her husband so easily. Those comments led to long nights in private, trying to figure out if her Robb truly was the eldest Stark, if perhaps his red Tully hair would give his future bannerman enough of an excuse to replace him. Could one mistake be enough to put Snow in his father's place?

Her paranoia wasn't lessened by Ned allowing the bastard a true born's education. She'd managed to put a halt to the personal lessons on Lordship but he continued to follow Robb in matters of Arms. A bastard with a talent for the sword was equally disturbing. Whispers of Blacksnow haunted her at times.

"Why here? Tell me that Ned. Could Lord Reed not have cared for him, kept him safe?" Cat was determined to know why he chose years of silence over explaining.

Her husband had wandered over to the bookcase and pulled out a worn tome, its pages yellow and flipped through to the end.

"This is one of the Stark records, it has the names and relations of every Stark that has lived in Winterfell, the year they were born and the year they died."

He placed the book on the desk, Cat could see her husband's hand in the names of her children. She purposely ignored Snow's name in one of the columns. Ned turned the page back. Rickard, Lyanna and Brandon stood out to her.

"When I left King's Landing. I was desperate to find Lyanna. She'd been missing for nearly a year, with no word or sight of her. When I found her… her body, all I could do was count the Starks in my mind. Me and Benjen. That was it."

There were tears hiding behind his eyes, his mind was far away.

"Then I found Jon. They all say he looks like me, when I look at him I see my father. How could I leave him behind? How could I leave a Stark in the South?"

Cat had never seen Ned like this, he rarely spoke of his siblings or the war, perhaps because it was so easy for him to be lost in them. Her hands were stiff, curled into fist. He was speaking as though Snow was a surprise, did he simply forget he'd lain with a woman?

"I didn't know you were with child. Benjen and I were alone, so was Jon. I claimed him readily, I went South to avenge Starks and I returned with a new one."

Cat was confused. Ned seemed dead set against calling Snow his son. Kin, Stark, Family yes, but never son. Was he on too ashamed? Could he not admit his vaunted honour was stained?

If someone else had been in the room they would have seen Ned lost in his memories but Catelyn had a deep frown while staring at her husband. Suspicions that had fled when Snow said his first words and frowned were creeping back into her thoughts. Snow was a Stark there was no doubt, which Stark had fathered was another matter.

The servants of Winterfell told many stories of Lord Rickard and Brandon. She remembered Brandon as a gallant and passionate man who she'd looked forward to wedding. In the corridors and portways of Riverrun he'd stolen kisses and she'd let him perhaps go further than was proper, but she'd been charmed by the Wild Wolf. It was the servants who told of the many maids who'd also fallen to his charms, they even spoke of Barbary Dusting and the many nights Brandon spent in the Rills. While at Riverrun he'd gone out with her father to visit some bannerman more than once.

"When did you find him Ned?"

"A few weeks before I came to Riverrun."

She knew Ned had visited King's Landing on his journey back North, that meant Snow must have been in either the Crownlands or Riverlands. Before that Ned had lived in the Vale.

"You were grieving, I remember it well. I was a stranger and I will admit that I was unsure how to comfort you in those early months. Even so, why could you not send him, even if he was your son, to a Bannerman? Any of them would have seen it as an honour to raise him. He would have been well taken care of."

Ned had downed another cup of wine. "I had to protect him Cat. I promised, and I keep my promises, even to the dead."

"Who did you promise Ned?" She asked quickly.

That had been too far. Ned shook his head and set down his cup. He stood and looked at her again then leaned against his desk.

"It's getting late Cately. You should see to supper. I have some letters to write."

The dismissal was clear. She stood and made to leave.

"Snow is three and ten Ned. He'll be a man grown soon and what will he do? Will he remain here, a hanger on that will haunt these halls till we pass on?"

Ned didn't respond, he was writing paying her no mind, but she saw his hand still. She left the solar and made for the kitchens. She hoped dinner passed quickly, she a lot to think over.

/

Ned met Maester Luwin the next morning in the elderly man's study. There were maps and records strewn about the small office.

"Good morning Luwin."

"Morning my lord," Luwin handed him a small bundle of letters, he began reading while Luwin finished his breakfast. "How are you feeling this morning?"

"Well enough Luwin, my mind has been wandering all day."

"I'm the same way. The Direwolves, the pups, Beorn's existence in of itself has set me off."

"Beorn's existence, Luwin?"

"If he's being truthful, then these 'Shepards' are a group I've never heard or read of. His robes and his talk of Greenseers reminds me of the Green Men of legend that supposedly live on the Isle of Faces."

They made their way to Ned's solar, where he put the finishing touches on some fresh messages.

"I'm more interested in those Histories he mentioned." Ned mentioned. "I have copies of the family records, but most of them are filled with harvest counts, coin tallies and agreements. I was taught my family's past by my father and Old Nan, not from a book."

"Many of the Great Houses have commissioned books recounting their great achievements and heroic ancestors." Luwin added. "I simply assumed the Starks would have thought such a thing a waste of money."

"So would I." Ned agreed. "I want you to search the library, if you need help grab Jon and Robb. I'll search my chambers and solar, perhaps I missed something when I returned after the Rebellion. But first I need these messages sent by raven to Last Hearth, Karhold, and Castle Black."

/

Luwin returned that afternoon with, Robb, Jon, some food and news that the library had been scoured but no sign of these histories was found.

"I did find several cupboards that had been hidden by the shelves, they held some very old insignia and what I believe to be older seals. Strangely enough, they all bear both Common and what I believe is some form of the Old Tongue."

Robb jumped in before Ned could ask anything. "We compared them to the runes down in the crypts, there's a few characters they share but otherwise its indecipherable." Jon nodded along with Robb's explanation. No doubt he was along for the entire adventure.

Luwin placed a small box on the desk containing a pile of iron and bronze disks and a few battered rings. The disks fit smartly in his palm, each one looked older than the last. The bronze ones were so worn that the only design he could make out was the faint outline of the Stark direwolf. On the iron disks the detailing consisted of the Stark Direwolf embossed on one side with a crown on the other. The writings as Luwin described, though faded a bit, was in the Common Tongue on the top and in some strange script along the bottom.

"Why is the Common so strangely worded?" Ned asked. "Blood… o?... Stark be in my bones… Let none doubt my right to… throne?"

"We believe the iron seals are from before the Conquest, my Lord." Luwin answered. "The bronze may date back to the before the Andal Invasion!" He could see Winterfell's Maester was excited just at the thought of touching such an artifact.

"What do the seals look like now Father?" Jon asked.

Ned opened up the large trunk along the wall and pulled out a smaller chest. Taking the large keyring out of his pocket he unlocked it, shifted through the content and finally revealed two steel disks of similar size to the boys' find. He passed the boys one each.

"Those seals are new, from what I understand my brother and father took theirs south. I had these made shortly after you were born."

The seals were elegant in their simplicity. Northern knots adorned the edges, the Stark Direwolf now graced both sides and "Winter Is Coming" was engraved underneath the sigil.

"I went over every corner of my chambers, I also checked the Throne Room for… I'm not even sure, a hidden chamber? We'll go through my solar another day. I need to speak with Beorn."

/

Chapter Text

Ned wouldn't get the chance to speak with his strange guest for two days; a fire in Wintertown took all of his attention. With the immediate danger dealt with, Ned took the opportunity to give Robb the responsibility of overseeing the reconstruction, he also encouraged his heir to come up with a way to recuperate the lost food stuff. Robb was getting to the age where lessons on ruling and management would take precedence over war and arms.

Ned wondered what his education would have been like if not for his fostering. Jon Arryn had ensured that Ned and Robert had a full education, Robert because he was the future Lord of Storm's End, and Ned because of his status as the son of a Great House. Jon had gone above and beyond for him though, ensuring that Ned learned just as much about managing a kingdom as his heir Elbert despite the expectation that Ned would never rule anything larger than a keep and some modest sized land. Neither of them could have imagined those hours spent in Jon's solar while the other boys were out in the yard would be so consequential.

He walked through the courtyard, stopping to watch Jon and Theon as they showed Bran how to hold a bow properly. His eyes caught Arya hiding behind a wagon, flailing a stick in every direction. She had the heart of Lyanna, there was no doubt, but Ned saw flashes of Brandon in her open defiance and temper.

The Godswood was calm as ever, nothing seemed to faze the weirwoods. At the beginning of the Rebellion he'd come to pray after arriving from the Vale. Ned prayed that his father and brother's souls would find peace, prayed he'd find Lyanna, prayed he'd survive the war. Through it all, his only companion had been the wind. A Godswood was silent and in front of the Gods you were alone, any oaths sworn to them were for you alone. When Northerners prayed they knew better than to ask for mercy, the Old Gods would give none. They sought courage, strength and the approval of their ancestors, so that the Old Gods would see fit to allow them victory and good fortune.

Sitting at the base of a bent Ironwood, Beorn had donned a rough wooly shirt, pants and a jacket. His eyes were closed, he seemed to be resting. At his side, the Direwolf pups were feeding from their mother. He couldn't find Maw or Crag anywhere, they must have gone hunting. He'd had word spread that any Direwolves seen in the Wolfswood were to be left alone. Beorn had promised that the wolves would keep to themselves, when Ned had looked into Maw's eyes afterwards he believed him. That wolf confused him, anytime they were close Ned felt unbalanced, his thoughts tended to wander, and his emotions seemed stronger, more present.

"Beorn."

The Shepherd looked up and gave a smile, "My King!… My Lord, I mean. I hope you are well?"

"I'm fine Beorn, yourself?"

Beorn looked down at the little ones, "The pups are in good health, so I am as well. Your hospitality has kept me warm and fed otherwise."

"I'm glad to hear it. We've yet to find the Histories you mentioned, but we'll keep looking. In the meantime, I wished to know more about your oath. You swore to teach my children the 'Old Stories'. There's a woman here, Old Nan, she's always recounted legends and fables, are those the stories you were speaking of?"

Beorn stretched his legs out and the two men began walking through the Godswood. Most visitors underestimated just how larged the Godswood in Winterfell was.

"I've spoken with Old Nan, a kind woman, she knows her tales well. But what I would teach your children isn't fiction of any kind, but the true history of the North. The history that the Shepherds have kept free from time, death and… influence."

"History? Maester Luwin has ensured that my children know the way of the world and its past, as much as he's able to." Ned defended the man who had been a good advisor for many years.

"I have no doubt Luwin has done his best. The Maesters have always been defenders of knowledge. What most forget is that the Maesters also get to choose what is kept and what is forgotten."

"You truly believe that?"

"An age ago the Maesters were nothing more than recluses in the Reach. Under the protection of the Hightowers they kept themselves isolated from war or strife. As long as their Citadel was left alone they didn't care who ruled. When the Andals came, the Reach accepted them with open arms. The Maesters were already filled with men who cared little for First Men customs and religion in general, it was no trouble for them to simply remove anything the Andals felt was 'heretical' from their library. Or more likely take whatever knowledge they thought important and stripped any mention of the First Men from it."

"You feel very strongly about this."

Beorn took a deep breath, "Please, don't misunderstand me. I respect the Maesters for their curiosity, and their endeavors to understand the world; but all too often they will reshape events if they run counter to their views."

"Where are you from Beorn? If you and your family are truly what you say, how could I be ignorant of your existence?"

"Truthfully, the break between us is relatively new. You know of your Great-Great-Grandfather Beron Stark?"

Ned was confused by the diversion, "He became Lord after his elder brother passed without children. Then he was wounded fighting the Ironborn. His wife and sisters, for some reason, quarreled over who should guide his heir, Donnor, until he came of age. Donnor was sickly though and passed not long after."

"What of his children?"

"His other son Willam became Lord of Winterfell, he marched with Lord Umber against the King-Beyond-The-Wall, Redbeard. After dying in battle, his son Edwyle became Lord after." Ned recounted.

"Yes. As you know it was Edwyle's uncle, and Willam's brother Artos that slew Redbeard. Artos was also the only one of Beron's children to worship the Seven. He had an intense hatred for Wildlings."

"Many Northmen do."

"He tried to get Edwyle Stark to convert to the Seven."

Ned spun so fast to face Beorn, he nearly tripped over his own feet.

"What!?"

"He argued that if Edwyle abandoned the Godswoods for the Septs the Starks could gain powerful allies in the South and begin expanding the North's power."

"He'd have been murdered in his bed." Ned said with certainty.

"Thankfully, Edwyle's mother was a Blackwood. It took her a few years but she managed to get Artos married off and out of Winterfell. However before that he convinced Edwyle to banish the Shepherds from his home."

"The Shepherds once lived here?"

"Usually one or two lived in Wintertown, the Starks would send a message to the Great Shepherd informing them of an impending birth. Before the Maesters spread, Shepherds frequently acted as or trained midwives. If the Starks liked the Shepherd sent to them, they would ask them to stay until the child reached adulthood. Often one or two Shepherds would help raise an entire generation of Starks. They weren't as involved as a Maester is, but they still had some influence."

The men reached the far wall, Ned took the chance to inspect it for any damage.

"Except in the turmoil after Beron's death no messages were sent. Willam was more concerned with fighting at the Wall so Edwyle was taught by his Maester exclusively. A Shepherd arrived a few years later, sent to establish ties with Winterfell. Artos hated him, he saw us as Wildlings given leave to wander the land. Edwyle's mother was from the Riverlands, she didn't trust the Shepherds either. Artos pointed to the bronze blades and our use of the Old Tongue to draw similarities between us and the men who'd killed Willam. Edwyle decreed no Wildlings would have a place at his hearth and refused to give the Shepherd guest rights."

"Why didn't you try again after Edwyle passed?"

"Pettiness mostly. The Starks had thrown the Shepherds out, something few Lords have had the gall to do. When news spread that your father had been born and no Shepherd was called, it cemented their resentment."

"What changed?"

They set off back for the entrance.

"My Father was elected the Great Shepherd 3 years ago. He met with several of your bannermen, asking about you."

"My bannermen? The Shepherds are still in contact with other Houses?"

"Don't feel ashamed my lord, we've learnt to hide our presence since the Targaryens arrived. Old tales about us were melded with legends about the Children of the Forest and the Giants. Even Maesters are rarely told about us. Usually, we'll enter a household under the guise of a servant or craftsman."

"And what did my vassals say?"

Beorn met Ned's eyes.

"That you were a good man, an honourable man, devoted to the Gods and Northern to the core despite your time in the Vale. It was enough to convince my father that we should approach you, but first he ordered me to go beyond the Wall and find a Direwolf pack." Beorn looked slightly embarrassed. "My father decided that even if you didn't believe me, the Direwolves might give me time to convince you."

Ned mulled over the tales about his forefathers, if it was true then what else might Beorn know that Ned was ignorant of? If his bannerman were still being taught by the Shepherds, was there things he was ignorant of that his vassals were not? That thought unsettled him. Jon had taught him that a Lord must know his lands like he knows his hands.

"I want to trust you Beorn. You seem like a good soul, but until we find the Histories I can't allow you to teach my children. Not without more proof of your claims."

Beorn hid his disappointment well. Despite his confidence Ned guessed Beorn couldn't be older than five-and-twenty, a young man by all accounts.

"Lord Stark!"

A guard stood in the Godswoods calling out.

"What is it Alyn?"

"Maester Luwin sent for you sir! He's waiting in your solar."

"Seems I might have spoken too soon."

/

"Lady Arya was trying to look on top of the bookcase, she lost her balance and fell into the tapestry. When we made to hang it back up, she noticed a patch of stonework that looked strange."

Ned glanced from Luwin to his daughter. Arya wore a plain grey dress, but he could see the cuffs of her pants tucked into a pair of boots.

"And what were you doing in my solar Arya?"

His daughter, bless her heart, wasn't chastised. She perked up and ran to Ned and threw her arms around him.

"Jon told me you were looking for some hidden treasure in your solar! I asked Maester Luwin if I could help him look. Then I figured you probably weren't tall enough to see way up on the bookcase, so I decided to climb up."

Ned couldn't fault her logic.

"So you decided to scale the bookshelf while Luwin was busy instead of asking for help?"

"I didn't want anyone else to get the credit when I found the dragon egg."

"Dragon egg?"

Arya quickly nodded. "Prince Jacaery's dragon Vermax laid them when he visited!"

Ned laughed, "Arya, we aren't looking for dragon eggs, we're looking for a book."

"A book?" she wrinkled her nose.

Ned walked over to the bare wall, from a distance it resembled the rest of the chamber. The stonework was uniform from the floor to the ceiling. Arya detached herself and pointed to a section of the wall about chest height.

"There! The stones are a different colour!"

She hopped and rapped her knuckles on the same spot, Ned was startled when the stones thudded dully, but with a distinct hollowness. He ran his hands along the wall.

"It's wood!"

"Just as I found Lord Stark." Maester Luwin added, the old man reached forward and twisted one of the "stones" and lifted it out of the wall, revealing a small keyhole.

"I called for you because we've reached a dead end. Do you have any idea what key might open a wall?" Luwin asked.

Thinking hard, Ned walked to his desk and searched through one of the lower drawers. He pulled out a crude iron key-ring. There were several keys of varying size and make on it; some broken or bent while a few looked like they were forged from bronze.

"These are the keys to the crypts." He lifted one of the older ones, this one had its end chipped off and the shaft was bent. "I never found a lock for this one, at first I assumed the door it went with had been replaced."

"Looks useless" Arya observed.

"That's what I always thought. When you were still a babe Arya, I dropped this ring while walking to the crypts." Ned took the broken key between his hands, gripped the bow and pulled. The two halves of the key split. "The back popped out, the rest of the key is hollow." He showed the other two, it was true, the bent and mangled shaft was hollow and the key's bow actually connected to a smaller key that would normally be hidden.

"Fascinating. Why the need for the secrecy?" Luwin wondered.

Arya caught on fast, "Try it Father! Try it!"

Obediently, Ned put the key into the wall. It fit snugly into the lock. Ned turned the key, he heard a click and had to stop the wall from falling out. He came away with a wooden board, the front of which was carved and painted to resemble stone.

Behind it was four shelves, each filled with canvas bags. Maester Luwin jumped forward running his hands careful over the objects. He looked closed at the shelves themselves, gave them a tug and proceeded to pull it out of the wall. It was less of shelf and more of a rack. There were two more rows hidden in the compartment. Ned moved closer to run his hand across the "treasure" he'd found, he noticed the books were surprisingly cold, sticking his arm into the space behind and found it was cool enough to give him goosebumps.

"What are they?" Arya asked.

Luwin turned back and smiled at her, "Books my dear, books."

Arya stared at the hidden compartment and started pouting. "Well that's boring! What a waste!"Arya turned and ran out of the room, "I'm going to find something fun to do!"

The two men, now alone, focused back on their discovery. Luwin placed one of the books on Ned's desk. He carefully undid the thin leather straps and unwrapped the heavy canvas. It revealed a tome bound in cracked brown leather. Luwin peered at the cover, which was unadorned, not even a title. The spine cracked as turned it open, the pages were in good condition and the ink was still relatively clear. The first page contained a rough map of the North, the next was even more intriguing.

"Look my lord," Luwin pointed to the text, "Its written in that strange tongue we found on the seals."

Ned took the book and flipped through a few more pages, he stopped at one. The page wasn't on parchment but felt more like drafting paper. It held a sketch of a man, he had what looked to be a wolf pelt over his shoulders, what looked like rings on his fingers and what was definitely a crown on his head.

"Luwin I can read this." Ned pointed to the runes written in the corner of the portrait.

"It looks to be a Stark King, my lord. What does the inscription say."

"Torrhen Stark."

Luwin was stunned. "Truly? Are these the Histories Beorn spoke of?"

"What else could they be?" Ned continued to scan through the book, "I just wish I could read this. Luwin, I recognize some of these words but the ones I can understand are titles more than anything else." He pointed out a few words. "This one means 'Stark', its carved into a few places here in Winterfell. This one is 'King', the tombs of the oldest Starks all bear it. I think this one might be 'Mormont' but I can't be sure."

Luwin had pulled out the other 4 shelves, the bottom 3 were filled but the top one was only half-full. "There must be at least 20 volumes. It would take a long time to go through them all, even if we did learn the language. I could send some of them to the Citadel, there they might be decoded."

Ned thought of Beorn. "No Luwin, these books are heirlooms of House Stark. They shall not leave Winterfell."

"As you say my Lord." Luwin looked uncomfortable with his order.

"After we sup, we'll talk with Beorn. He knew these records existed, he might know how to read them as well."

/

Dinner in Winterfell hadn't changed with the Beorn's arrival. Ned and his family would eat together in the Great Hall at the Family table. Various servants and guardsman would come and go, eating as their duties allowed. Sometimes Ned would invite the Pooles, Cassels or Mollens to dine with them.

Tonight, Ned had invited Beorn to sit at their table. Cat didn't seem pleased with the arrangement but she kept her peace. The children had been ecstatic, they only got to see Beorn for a few hours when Ned and Cat allowed them to visit the Direwolves and they'd been too preoccupied with the little pups to ask him many questions. Now Beorn sat at Ned's left and beside Robb, while he was assaulted by questions.

"What's it like beyond the Wall?"

"Cold, very cold. It's a harsh land, probably harsher than the North. There's all manner of beasts, plants, ruins and people. I wouldn't recommend it, but there are a dozen or so Shepherds who spend all their lives in the 'True North' as some call it." Beorn told them.

"Why would they want to do that? Aren't they afraid of the Wildlings?" Sansa asked, utterly perplexed why someone would choose to live in such a place.

"Most of the Free Folk respect the Shepherds, we help them where we can, broker peace between the tribes and help them when winter comes. In exchange, we get safe passage through their lands and occasionally they'll send their children to join us. More than one Shepherd has taken a Free Folk for a spouse."

Robb chimed in then, "You're allowed to marry?"

Beorn nodded, "Of course, we're not Septons. Usually a Shepherd will meet someone while out in the lands, marry them and have children. Those of us with magic in our blood are encouraged to do so."

"What's your name then?" Robb asked him.

"You mean my family name? Well Shepherds aren't nobles, we don't track our lineages that closely, but there are some who do. We don't take noble names either, usually we gain or choose a name when we come of age. When I was a boy I was called Beorn Son of Torrhen Wolftongue."

"Wolftongue? Why is he called that?" Jon joined in.

Beorn sent Ned a subtle look, then checked the rest of the hall, seemingly satisfied that it was empty, he quietly continued. "Mainly because he has a talent for warging into wolves, he used to hunt with his own pack. He hunted down a pair of snowbears and presented them as a present to his mother. The other reason was his mother's sigil was a wolf."

The younger children were more amazed by the idea of a single man taking down animals from Old Nan's stories. Jon and Robb were thinking it through, Catelyn's eyes were as wide as dinner plates and Ned had frozen stiff.

"Who was she?" Ned's intense question cut through the quiet.

"Berena Stark" Beron supplied.

"Stark!" Bran cried out.

"Beron's eldest daughter. I thought she died from a fever."

"She nearly did. A travelling Shepherd saved her, they fell in love and with Beron's blessings, left. She left when Donnor and Willam were still toddlers."

"You're a Stark?" Sansa asked.

"Not truly. I may have some Stark blood, but there are many noble families intermingled with the Shepherds. My friend Harad is from a long line of Umbers."

"Father what does this mean?" Robb was hard pressed to understand what this newfound blood tie meant for their family.

Ned took a moment to answer. "Not much Robb. As Beorn said, if he does have Stark blood in him, then we are distant kin. Second cousins, nearly as close as my mother and father were related."

All the Starks were staring at Beorn, scrutinizing his face. Most of them seemed to find something that proved his claim.

"I thought you looked a bit like Father and Jon." Sansa commented.

Ned cleared his throat and stood from his chair.

"We can all think on this later. For now, its late but Beorn and I have some things to discuss."

He kissed his wife and children goodnight and led Beorn to his solar.

/

A/N: Thanks for all the reviews, I'm glad people are enjoying the story.

Chapter Text

“You found them.” Beorn’s reverent tone was a bit embarrassing for Ned. The Shepherd was looking at the books like they were made of Valyrian steel.

“They were hidden well, I’m not surprised I never stumbled upon them.”

“I’m very relieved my lord, I was afraid they’d be lost to time.” Beorn ran his fingers along the covers.

Luwin had pulled out 3 different volumes of differing age from the “vault”. Ned had resealed the wall and replaced the tapestry. If the location of the books had been kept secret for so long Ned saw no reason to break from tradition.

“I’m glad to have discovered them, the only problem is we can’t read them.”

Beorn opened the first of the books and quickly turned through it, he was quite gentle with the pages and Ned could see his eyes flying over the lines.

“An unfortunate side effect of the Shepherds’ absence. The Maesters have either forgotten or lost the means to read the Old Tongue.”

“I recognize some of these words Beorn. A few of the titles, some names. I learnt how to read the runes carved into Winterfell’s walls but they were nothing like this.”  

Luwin was looking over his own book, “There are records of First Man runes in the Citadel. Yet as far as I was aware, the First Men abandoned the Old Tongue after the Andal Invasion.”

“It’s difficult to imagine now,” Beorn moved on to the other volumes. “At the time of the Invasion the two peoples spoke different languages, worshipped different gods, held different values. Despite the Andal victory, the First Men survived everywhere not just here in the North. They kept contact in a way the Andals could never understand. Their records kept safe by virtue of the ancestral tongue the Andals refused to learn.” Beorn kept silent as he read more and more.

“What are all these books for Beorn? History? Why would it need to be hidden?” Ned was frustrated, if a secret like this was lost with his father, what else might be lost?

He couldn’t hope for one of his vassals to ride in and explain all of this. There were certain boundaries that none but the closest of Houses crossed. Just questioning Ned’s knowledge of Northern customs or Stark tradition unprompted was an insult that he couldn’t ignore. Feuds had been started over less.

“What else am I missing?” Ned said to himself.

Beorn dragged his eyes away from the texts. “My lord, these are the personal records of House Stark. Everything from journals, to important reminders.” Beorn opened a more recent book, its spine was still stiff. “This is Cregan Stark’s account of the Dance of Dragons.” Beorn pointed to the books left on the table, “The red one is linked to the Company of the Rose and the brown one seems to be a list of treaties from before the Conquest.”

Ned sat down, Beorn and Luwin following his example.

“You can read them Beorn.”

The Shepherd nodded.

“Would you teach me?”

Beorn smiled, “Lord Stark I would be glad to. It will take some time for you to become fluent. Perhaps, in the meantime, I could start the first lessons with your children?” He noticed Ned’s last shred of hesitation, “You and Lady Catelyn can be present of course.”

“Very well. I’ll speak to my wife. The children will be excited at least.”

////////////////////

To Lord Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, from his loyal bannerman Lord Rickard Karstark, Lord of Karhold, with the blessings of the Old Gods.

I hope this message finds you and your family in good health. As always Karhold stands ready at your command. It is sometimes strange to think that no less than nine years ago we marched under the Direwolf to put the Ironborn down. I remember the siege of Pyke well, and the Greyjoy guards my men and I killed. Lord Balon surely rues the day he set his reavers upon our lands.

Your letter was a welcome surprise, it arrived just a week after celebrating the fourteenth name day of my son Eddard. The message was certainly intriguing, I would be honoured to attend your daughter’s celebration. My own girl Alys is only a year younger, perhaps they will kindle a friendship.

As to your other inquiries. The lambs of Karhold are yet still young and not great in number but we ensure they have a proper caretaker nonetheless. Many assumed  that Winterfell’s lack of herd was due to your own views on animal husbandry. It is a relief to hear otherwise and I look forward to discussing it further.

I hope our next meeting will reaffirm the ties of our Houses. The Starks shall look for Winter, and when it comes the Karstarks shall give their liege the Sun.

Loyal and ever vigilant, Lord Rickard Karstark, Lord of Karhold.

/////////////

To Lord Eddard Stark, Lord Paramount of the North, from Lord Jon Umber, Lord of the Last Hearth, with the blessings of the Old Gods.

I pray you and your family are hale as horses. The Last Hearth still stands, and no wildling raid nor storm shall bring it down. I hope your skills with a sword haven’t diminished, I’ve kept myself in shape these past few years, out of necessity more than want.

At some point I started going grey my lord! I tell my children the story of our ride south during the Rebellion and they find it hard to believe that their old father once rode beside Lord Stark and King Baratheon!

I was glad to read your letter. The Umbers haven’t visited Winterfell since the birth of your son Rickon. My own heir has stretched like a weed, or perhaps more like a giant! I’d be happy to see your Robb and my Jon meet in the yard. My daughters are still too young to travel, they’ll remain with my brothers while we visit.

Shepherds are a strange breed of men, sometimes the sheep they care for are good for nothing but meat. Nevertheless, they teach lessons all true Northmen need to learn.

I look forward to celebrating Lady Sansa’s nameday, and perhaps sharing a drink with you? Maybe this time you’ll last the night!

I toast to our next meeting. Mayhaps a Shepherd of Last Hearth shall accompany me, he seemed just as surprised as I was that one of his fellows has taken up in Winterfell.

Steadfast and courageous, Lord Jon Umber, Lord of the Last Hearth.

////////////

To Lord Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, from Benjen Stark First Ranger of the Night’s Watch.

Ned, it’s good to hear from you. I’m sure the children aren’t as bad as you say. Perhaps Arya will yet give you grey hairs, but such is the privilege of fatherhood. The Wall is as cold as ever but duty keeps me warm.

The Lord Commander couldn’t accept my request for leave fast enough. I have some news that desperately needs to be shared about the Watch.

What’s this about a shepherd? I can’t remember Winterfell ever having goats. You’ll have to make sense in person, I’ll be arriving a week or so in advance, if everything goes smoothly.

Give my love to Cat and the children.

First Ranger, Benjen Stark.

Sansa’s eleventh nameday was months away but Ned had decided to use it as an excuse to speak with some his vassals and have his brother visit his home. Until he was able to read the Stark Histories, having a second opinion on the Shepherds would be invaluable.

It had taken Ned a few days to convince Cat to attend Beorn’s lessons with him, in the end her desire to ensure the children’s safety overcame her own suspicions. Coming to terms with the fact that Beorn was his cousin didn’t put her at ease. Aside from preparing for the celebration, Ned attended his children’s first lecture.

///////////

“Ghost, settle down.” Jon pleaded.

He was sitting in the Godswood with his siblings. The pups were tussling in the dirt under the watchful eyes of Maw. Sitting at the massive wolf’s side was his own father, keeping an eye on Arya and Bran as they fought with sticks. Lady Stark was keeping Rickon occupied with colourful leaves, while Robb had Sansa laughing at some jape.

“Everyone’s here?”

Jon looked at Beorn, the man had been preparing something when they arrived. He seemed ready to finally begin. Jon was curious but no less excited than his younger siblings. Although he doubted the Shepherd would be teaching them magic as Arya was convinced.

“Then gather round, you can keep your pups with you.”

The Bastard of Winterfell had mixed feelings about Beorn’s blood relation. Jon wasn’t sure where Beorn fell with regards to social status. His position as a Shepherd probably excluded him from normal conventions, akin to Maester Luwin. Beorn was true born though, and his paternal Grandmother was a mainline Stark.

Jon understood the current gap in close cousins was because the late Lord Rickard was an only child, and both Uncle Brandon and Aunt Lyanna passed without issue. Maester Luwin had explained that once the Stark children began marrying, their ties to the rest of the North would be cemented for another generation. The Maester had even hinted that Jon could likely find himself marrying to create such a bond.

“Are you ready for your first lesson?” Beorn asked.

“What kind of magic can you use?” Arya was impatient as usual.

Beorn took her question in stride, “Unfortunately I can’t teach you any magic… yet.” The Shepherd had little idea he’d just ensured Arya would never stop asking for magic lessons until he gave in.

“Under normal circumstance you would have all started these lessons when your were Bran’s age but I don’t think anyone will mind the change of pace. The first lesson everyone learns is history, without our history we are nothing.” Beorn was confidant, he settled into his seat in front of the Heart Tree.

“The first Shepherds were nothing more than curious travellers.” He began. “Northerners who made their way south, drawn to the God’s Eye deep in the Riverlands. When they returned to their homes they were different; they were wiser, they had a connection to the Godswoods and were touched by the Gods.” Arya and Bran had stopped squirming, becoming entranced by the tale. “As they began to guide and teach the smallfolk, they came to the attention of the Magnars of the North. Choosing to take on the responsibility of guides and teachers, they traveled to Skagos and made it their home.”

Father frowned, “The Skagosi allowed this?”

“The people of Skagos are unrelenting. They live harsh lives, isolated from the rest of the world. Skagos is an interesting place, an old place. The Shepherds went there not just because the Skagosi are fanatically devout but because it gave us a place to be seperate, to live undisturbed.”

Beorn took up a piece of dead weirwood and began whittling.

“After meeting on Skagos, the Shepherds began traveling. They went to every prominent Keep from Widow’s Watch to Bear Island. Any Lord that would welcome them were given gifts and their Godswood was tended to.

“Is that why Winterfell’s is so big?” Robb asked.

Beorn smiled. “Yes, the Starks were just one of many Kings back then. They accepted the Shepherds with open arms and aided them any way they could. In exchange, we gave the Starks many weirwood seeds and more.”

“Like direwolves?” Bran was bursting with excitement.

“On the rare occasion that a Stark was born a warg, if they wouldn’t or couldn’t join us on Skagos, then a direwolf was offered to them. A symbol of fealty.” Beorn explained. “The practice died out after one such direwolf attacked the husband of a Stark daughter. The wolf was put to death and King Brandon The Farmer decreed them too dangerous and had them hunted to the last, despite our protests.”

Sansa clutched Lady to her chest, horrified at the notion of her companion being hurt.

“Our agreement with the people of the North is simple. The Shepherds will tend to the Godswoods, and keep the knowledge of the First Men alive. In exchange, the North shall send any Dreamers or Wargs to us. We continued like this for centuries. Then…” Beorn looked at the Starks, waiting for an answer.

“The Andals came.” Jon guessed.

“And with them, the decline of our people. The First Men were assimilated or eradicated everywhere south of the Neck. They attempted to conquer the North in the same way but we held strong. Despite the victories at Moat Cailin, the Weirwoods were still cut down in the south. We could no longer visit the Isle of Faces except in secret. The Maesters began spreading out from the Reach, and we couldn’t trust them to keep our existence a secret from the Faith of the Seven.”

Beorn’s branch had started taking shape.

“We lived like this until the fateful day of Aegon’s Landing. The Valyrians were nothing but stories to us. Their dragons another strange creature like the Giants and Snow Bears. No one in Westeros was truly prepared for the beasts. The Field of Fire was bloodier than any battle since the War for the Dawn.”

He finished with the base, and focused on more detailed work of the wood’s tip.

“Before he marched from Moat Cailin, King Torrhen summoned the Great Shepherd to him. Whatever they spoke of is lost to history, all I know is that when the Northern army reached the Riverlands King Torrhen bent the knee. In doing so he saved the lives of his soldiers, his family’s rule and the last bastion of First Men left in Westeros. There’s no doubt that if the Starks were deposed like the Gardener Kings, the Faith of the Seven would have done all it could to wipe the Old Gods from the land, including the Shepherds.”

“He was the King-Who-Knelt.” Sansa added.

“We Shepherds have another name for Torrhen Stark.” Beorn blew off the last of the shavings and set it his piece on the ground. He’d carved the branch into a rough pillar. The top was a wolf’s head, jaw open, with a crown of swords. “ Ien Fer Wintre, Winter’s Father.”

///////////////

Chapter Text

“You’re doing well. Now cut a ring just above the leg joint. Not too deeply just enough to get through the skin.” Beorn looked up from Arya as she kneeled with her rabbit. Bran looked determined but he was having trouble pulling the hide away cleanly.

“Robb!” he called out, “Could you help Arya?”

Robb left the fire he was sharing with Jon and knelt down to next to Arya. Beorn smiled at Bran when the boy looked up.

“I’m really trying.”

“I know you are. Let’s just take it slow. You’ve seen your brothers do this before?”

“Yes. When they’ve come back from hunts with Theon.”

“Don’t rush, you’ll get better as time goes. How about I help you skin it and then Jon can show you the best way to cook it?”

They were in the deeper part of the Godswood with some rabbits Beorn had hunted earlier that day. It had been a few weeks since their first lesson, but Lord Eddard’s children had been good students. Not perfect, they all had their own flaws.

Rickon was too young to do anything other than play so he mostly stayed with Lady Stark.

Bran couldn’t seem to sit through a lesson if it wasn’t about some war or battle.

Arya was too quick to dismiss anything she saw as “soft” which included learning the Old Tongue.

Sansa was squeamish but also stubborn to a fault, she had difficulty understanding some of the North’s darker past.

Jon lacked confidence in himself along with a strange obsession with the Night’s Watch.

Robb had a streak of short sightedness that wasn’t a boon for the heir of a Great House, not to mention he outright disapproved of his ancestors’ actions if they deviated from his own moral code.

Six rabbits were glistening over the small fire they’d built. Arya and Bran had begged to be allowed on a hunt, Lord Stark had rightly refused but eventually conceded to a night camping in the Godswood. Beorn offered to watch over them and turned it into a lesson.

“Keep an eye on it, don’t forget to turn it so all the sides get good and crispy.”

Rickon was too young to spend the night outside. Lord Stark had asked Sansa but she refused, couldn’t fathom why anyone would want to sleep outside. When dealing with Sansa, Beorn thought back to his aunt’s lessons. She told him to keep in mind that children aren’t miracles, they’re still growing; even if they seem to be doing things backwards, always making the wrong choices, or doing the opposite of what you tell them, you have to stick it out. No matter what his frustrations were, Sansa was just eleven, plenty of time to grow.

“How about a story?”

Arya and Bran jumped at his offer.

“Do you know any stories about knights?”

“A compromise, a story about a man who embodied knightly vows though he never held the title,” Beorn stoked the fire. “ Ber Led Veyg Bisl, Branin Wyr-Stark .”

He pointed at Robb, the teen struggled a bit while translating.

“Hear my good story? Of Brandon Half-Stark? Who’s Brandon Half-Stark?”

“Very well done Robb. Old Tongue is somewhat awkward when translated directly. As you get more comfortable with it, switching will get easier. Brandon Half-Stark is known to you as Brandon Snow, the half-brother of King Torrhen.”

That caught Jon’s attention.

“King Torrhen had no trueborn siblings, his father had died young and before his marriage he’d sired Brandon on the youngest daughter of House Cassel. Brandon was a fierce man and loyal, he was a great help to his brother, especially in the early years of his reign. Most famously, on the night proceeding Torrhen’s surrender, Brandon offered to sneak into Aegon’s camp to try and kill his dragons.”

“Kill them with what? Was he mad?”

“He was desperate Robb. If Aegon rejected Torrhen’s offer of fealty then the Northern army would’ve been massacred. Even without dragons, the Targaryen army outnumbered them. Brandon said he’d made a set of weirwood arrows and would slay the dragons as they slept. Whether it was possible or not, Brandon was willing to take the risk. He was a Prince in all but name.”

Jon may have found a new personal hero, judging by the glint in his eye.

“After Torrhen made his decision, there were many who disagreed with him. These subjects thought they should have fought, and if they were defeated retreat back and let Aegon smash his army against the twenty towers of the Moat.”

“Had they not heard about Harrenhal?” Arya asked.

“News travelled slowly in those days, there was little contact between the Houses of different kingdoms. Rumors that Aegon had razed Harren’s fortress would easily have been chalked up to exaggeration.”

“Were these the people who left to form the Company of the Rose?”

Beorn nodded. “A host of second sons and daughters, sworn swords and smallfolk, left White Harbour by ship bound for Essos within a year of the surrender. They were led by Brandon Snow.”

“He betrayed his brother?” Jon sounded disappointed.

“On the surface, it looks like it. I don’t think he did though, in fact, I don’t think the Company of the Rose were exiles at all. I’ve never heard any Shepherds disparage them.” Beorn leaned in, wiping the gristle left by the rabbit meat on his chin. “A few years ago, my father introduced me to a Shepherd who lived in Braavos, I overheard them talking about the latest contract the Company had taken.”

“So?”

Beorn reached over to stop Bran’s rabbit from slipping off his spit.

“So, if the Shepherds have been keeping in contact with the Company then King Torrhen must have approved. If he approved, maybe the Company was ordered to leave.”

“You think King Torrhen ordered Brandon Snow to lead the Company. For what purpose?” Robb could think with a Lord’s mind when he was so inclined.

“To keep them loyal? I can’t even begin to guess. The Great Shepherd knows, I’m willing to bet that every Lord Stark is supposed to know as well. Hopefully,” Beorn stood and began setting up the tents while there was still light. “your father will find out in those books.”

////////////////////////

Dropping another log into the fire, Ned warmed his hands. The evening was late but he wanted to get through another few pages before turning in for the night. Reclining into his chair, he resumed reading.

9 moons have passed now in the year 59 A.C, and the snows have only gotten deeper.

I doubt we shall the end of Winter this year. I thank the Old Gods that the Shepherds gave me fair warning. The last summer and spring lasted less than a year each.

Despite my order to store half of the last harvest, I’ve received news that the Karstarks ignored my command. From what Markan has found out, nearly half  of Karhold is starving. Damn that Geran, his children will pay for his hubris.

More pressing than our stores is the tales of sickness in Wintertown. Maester Varrick believes it may be the Shivers, and if so, he has advised I seal the gates. I am loathe to do so, and have ordered my son Jon to craft a way to pass along foodstuff even if the gates are barred.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The year has turned, but 60 A.C promises no reprieve from the cold.

The Shivers has engulfed much of the land. A letter from King’s Landing tells of many deaths in the Crownlands. I’ve sent ravens to inform the other Lords to be cautious of any travelers, rare as they may be in this weather.

I barred the gates after the first deaths in Wintertown, it seems I was not quick enough. Lord Cerwyn’s heir, Torghen, passed away a week ago. It was not a pretty sight, or a comfortable end. As is custom, his body was burned while the snow fell, his ashes mixed in water and poured in the Godswood.

Yesterday, Lord Cerwyn introduced me to young Ramsay, the boy was Born this Winter and is already a fair hand with an axe. For the foreseeable future Ramsay Cerwyn shall attend lessons with my own children to ensure his education.

Cerwyn’s wife is from the Riverlands, it took quite a while to convince her of the need for Ramsay’s birth. She seems a good sort though and accepted it. How she’ll feel when summer comes is another matter.

“When Ice falls, a snow may be needed” as my grandfather taught me.

Written by the hand of Alaric Stark, Lord of Winterfell.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Ned noted down the page number he’d finished on and closed the book. He’d spent time every night since the discovery of the Histories learning from Beorn. He was making progress but not fast enough for his liking. To this end, he’d asked Beorn to write out common words and House names in Old Tongue. Using that as a reference to compliment his own growing skill, Ned began sifting through the various books.

He’d begun with the journals and memoirs, they were simpler and used less “official” writing. Beorn had pointed him to Gendig Fer Wintre , Memories of Winter; a journal used by the Starks to mark important events during the aforementioned season. The oldest parts of the book had begun to fade, Ned decided that he’d get some of children to make a new copy once they became comfortable with Old Tongue.

These entries often revealed more questions than answers. For example the last entry he’d read. Alaric Stark’s private recollections matched, for the most part, with what Ned had learnt at Old Nan’s knee. After reading it, he’d gone and sought out the elderly nursemaid and asked her about the last few generations of Cerwyn. According to her, Ramsay Cerwyn was the second son of Leor Cerwyn, he was born in the autumn of 58 A.C. When his older brother Torghen died of the Shivers in Winterfell, Ramsay became the new heir.

It makes no sense then how a boy of three years could already be a “fair hand with an axe” let alone any weapon. Why lie about his age? If he was trueborn why had Alaric not met him before the passing of his brother? Why would Lady Cerwyn need to be convinced at all?

“Born in Winter”, Ned got the impression it wasn’t a literal birth. It was written like Ramsay had passed some rite of passage. An explanation might still be found, Ned was only certain it wouldn’t be found quickly.

/////////

Jon was looking at the stars. He could hear the soft breaths of his brothers and sisters. Moonlight filled the clearing, the fire finally petered out. He could still smell the ash and rabbit meat.

The snap of a twig caught his ear. He drew his eyes from the sky and looked into the trees. Getting up, he wandered over, another snap came out of the bush. Jon hunched down and dug into the dirt, ready to jump at a moment’s notice.

Nothing exciting or dangerous emerged, instead his sister quietly padded out. Jon let her brush past, giving her side a nudge before turning back himself. He circled his spot outside the tent for a few moments, then settled down and closed his eyes.

///////////

Chapter Text

Dawn was one of Ned’s favourite times. When he was living in the Vale, he would get up before even the servants and carefully climb the tallest towers of the castle with some bread and honey. He’d sit by one of the windows and enjoy his meal while watching the sun climb over the horizon and bathe the valley in colour. The habit had stuck and when his children were still babes he would wake and take them up Winterfell’s towers to admire the sunshine reflecting on the ice. Rickon was now too old to accompany him, so he was back to being the sole viewer. Except for this morning.

From his seat he heard footsteps climbing the tower stairs, he was certainly surprised when Sansa drowsily opened the door and came in. She was shivering despite the fur wrapped around her. He picked her up and she burrowed into his chest.

“Why are you up so early Sansa?”

“I couldn’t get back to sleep.” She mumbled.

“Bad dreams?”

“Good dreams!” the young girl insisted. “I was getting married, and I had a dress made of jewels!”

“Oh, I’m sure you were the vision of beauty, and who was the man I was giving my daughter to?”

“I woke up before that part, but, but I know exactly what he looks like!” she gushed, “He would be handsome, charming and have flowing hair!”

Ned listened as his daughter listed off the appearance of her dream husband. It surprisingly reminded him of listening to Brandon when they were young. His brother had always been a bit too obsessed with girls and had already crafted the most beautiful, elegant and… passionate woman in his head. He used to say that he knew that woman was out there, it would just take a few tries to find her. If Ned had been older he would have boxed his brother’s ears for talking like that.

“Father, when are we going to go look for a marriage?” Sansa asked.

“You’re a bit young to already be asking about suitors.”

“Septa Mordane says that a long betrothal means a fruitful marriage. Especially, if I’ll have to go South afterwards.”

“South? Why would you be going south?”

Her stare would have been insulting if she was older, “Because that’s where my husband is going to be.”

“Sansa you’re a daughter of House Stark, you’ll be marrying here in the North.” He explained.

His redheaded daughter began tearing up, “No that’s not true! I’m going to marry a knight or a prince, not some Northman.”

Ned tried to calm her, but he said exactly the wrong thing. “There’s nothing wrong with it Sansa, you’ll marry a son of our bannermen, become the next Lady of their House.”

Sansa was upset, she talked about her dreams of knights and golden halls, of grand tournaments held in her honour. Septa Mordane it seemed had told the girl stories of the gallant and virtuous men she would one day meet, how they would sweep her off her feet with vows and flowers. Ned wasn’t upset with her, Sansa was only 11, she hadn’t even become a woman yet. What did frustrate him was that he didn’t know if Septa Mordane could be trusted to prepare his daughters for the real world.

Stories and legends were one thing. When he was her age, he’d been just as guilty of sitting at Old Nan’s feet imagining himself marching off with Cregan Stark to bring order to the South. The difference was he, and his brothers and sisters, had been conscious of the divide between fantasy and reality. Talking with Beorn had brought Ned out of his own bubble, where his children would never grow up and be seperated.

“Sansa, sweetling.” Ned wiped her tears away. “It's not about where you are Sansa, how big your castle is, or how full your coffers are. You should thank the Gods if you have a husband that loves you, healthy children, and food on your table. Fear not, your mother and I will settle for nothing more than a man of great character for you.”

“Do you promise?”

“I swear it on my honour as a Stark.” Cradling her closer, relieved to see the sadness fading from her face, Ned whispered. “You know, love can be found in the unlikeliest of places. Have I ever told you about the moment I realized I loved your mother?”

“No.” He had her full attention now.

“It all started when we returned to Winterfell after the Rebellion…”

As Ned spung the tale about his early marriage, he began to think on the future his daughter was already planning for herself.

/////////////////////////

That morning after breaking his fast he’d ridden to Wintertown with a handful of men. Normally Robb would accompany him but Beorn was going over more history that day and none of his children were eager to miss their lessons.

Taking in the town, speaking with his people, was relaxing. The work cleared his mind, allowed him to actually think rather than trap himself in a loop of worries. Sansa was too young to be considered marriable, but betrothals for girls her age were not uncommon. Marriage was a much more relevant topic for Robb and Jon. They’d be grown men soon. Grown men, and how well did they know the North? Ned hadn’t been in the habit of travelling widely with his family, the relatively quick time between pregnancies offered little room to travel with the children being so young. Mayhaps they’d been too isolated. Greatjon and Rickard would be arriving in a few moons, it would be a good opportunity to discuss fostering. If that went well, Ned considered sending a message to Howland and perhaps Maege. The North had united behind him in the wake of the Rebellion, that kind of loyalty didn’t disappear overnight.

Nevertheless, his thoughts drifted back to the writings of his ancestors. He’d made headway in their journals, even began writing one himself. They’d brought out an ugly side of the Starks he’d had trouble processing. There was no denying that more than a few Starks had been dishonest, idiotic, some even outright cruel. It was cathartic, even if disappointing, to learn about his vaunted forefathers breaking oaths, stealing and lying. Sometimes for the benefit of the House, sometimes not. It lessened the burden of carrying the Stark name, the Stark honour.

In those pages he’d also picked up lessons that he’d missed out on while in the Vale. Every realm was unique, as Jon Arryn taught him, they had their own pasts that shaped how they worked. For instance, Ned knew it was important that the Redforts and the Arryns of Gulltown interact as little as possible because during the War of the Ninepenny Kings two sons of their Houses killed each other in a brawl while on campaign. Jon had managed to stop a war between his vassals but it was a delicate balance that he’d still been managing up until the Rebellion began.

Similarly, from the archives Ned finally learnt why the Umbers were so competitive with the Karstarks. Centuries ago, before Aegon’s Landing, a would be Wildling King snuck across the Wall with hundreds of warriors and began pillaging. The Lords of both Houses were courting a Stark daughter at the same time, so her father King Morrin Stark judged that the man who put down the raiders would earn her hand. After four months of hunting, both Lords tracked down the Wildling King and attacked his camp simultaneously. They found their target dead from a stray arrow and quarreled over who would take the credit. Despite the Karstark’s insistence the Umber temper won out and a single punch meant victory for the giant man.

Ned wondered if that history was the inspiration for the strange children’s song called The Giant’s Hand , which is about a Giant Chieftain who snuffs out the sun with his palm then gives it to a Queen as a gift to entice her into marriage.

Information like that was invaluable. Knowing of the history meant that if Ned could get GreatJon to foster one of his children in Winterfell, he could subtly push Rickard to do the same. It was a bit underhanded as he’d be doing it when Sansa was the centre of attention, but whatever conclusions the two men came to was none of his business.  

He’d always found politics confusing and complicated. Motivations made little sense and it appeared greed and pride carried more weight than sense and duty. His frustrations were not shared by his ancestors. Cregan Stark for one had been a devilish negotiator. Most of his exploits were written down by his children; the deals made to keep the mountain clans in check and the threats used to warn the Boltons off their ambition were tactics Ned had never considered using. Slowly but surely, he was learning how the Starks of old had maintained their rule for thousands of year, a combination of strength, loyalty and ferociousness.

He’d yet to consult with Beorn on the oldest of the texts but he wondered if they would find the writings of the most brutal of the old Kings. Would the Hungry Wolf’s savaging of Andalos make more sense in his own words? Did the Laughing Wolf revel in the death of the Marsh King? In truth, did Ned himself regret the slaughter at the Battle of the Bells? Where, in his desperation to save Robert, he accepted no quarter and his honour mixed with the blood of the enemy.

Honour. If he had any true honour he’d have told his wife of Jon’s true parentage the moment she set eyes on the babe. If he had honour he’d have brought back Willam Dustin’s body, or better yet not gotten him and the others killed in the first place. If he had honour he wouldn’t have lied to Robert and Jon Arryn. No, Ned resolved he was nothing more than a dishonourable man trying to repent for his mistakes.

His own thoughts crept up to disagree, ‘Torrhen Stark thought the same after his crown was taken and yet he is seen as a saviour by many. You’d never be able to bear facing Lyanna again if you’d handed Jon over. What good is honour when it dictates you betray those you love?’

“It is late, let us return to Winterfell.” Ned commanded as he pushed those thoughts down.

Their party came into the courtyard an hour before supper. Ned unsaddled his horse and watched the boys finish up their practice in the yard. Jon had a natural talent, but Robb and Theon had the advantage in size and strength. The Bastard of Winterfell, and how he hated that name, had a grey gambeson on and in the shade of the castle walls it looked almost black.

Where would Jon go? Ned had become an expert at avoiding that question. In two short years he would be left behind when Robb took up more duties. He and Theon never got on well, with Robb out of the picture it was doubtful they’d spend any time together. Jon would probably shift his focus onto Arya, Bran and Rickon but spending time with children was no way for him to  his life. Jon was good with a sword, could read and write and was unintentionally charismatic. There were plenty of paths open to the boy, a small holdfast somewhere, staying on as an advisor to Robb, training to become a cavalryman, he could even visit the Free Cities as an envoy if he wished to travel. Still, Ned thought the risk of having Jon out of his sight was too great. If he left Winterfell he might meet someone who could recognise some hidden Valyrian features that Ned was blind to. How hard would it be to meet a stranger that had never seen or heard of Ned Stark but was familiar with the Targaryens? The Stark looks had been a boon in the North but without the surrounding family Jon really was striking and stood out even in Winterfell.

Not for the first time he considered Jon’s habit of asking questions about the Wall. Ned held no illusions, the Night’s Watch was an honourable institution that had been reduced to a dumping ground for Westeros’ criminals. There were still a few noble souls serving, Benjen had recently become First Ranger and Jeor Mormont was Northern to the core. As long as Jon kept his head about him, it wasn’t difficult to picture him becoming a Ranger even Lord Commander in time. Even so, the notion of sending Lyanna’s son to the Wall didn’t sit well. He was still young and there was more to life than being a black-clad sentry.

Retreating back into the keep, Ned stoked rested in his solar. He closed the last book he’d been reading, a collection of treaties and oaths from just after the conquest penned by Torrhen’s sons. He’d found a number of agreements for mutual trade ventures. It looked like just after the Conquest, the North was worried about how heavily it would be taxed by King Aegon. They’d commissioned a number of merchants to travel east and south to get a better feel for the new markets they’d be joining. To his surprise, he’d also found a plan to repair and expand the Kingsroad drafted by Barthogan Stark before his death at the hands of the Skagosi. There were plenty of ideas written down, but very few executed whether due to lack of resources or by war breaking out.

Ned began to consider his own plans. Inspired he’d begun to list out the main projects he’d like to see started or completed in his lifetime. They weren’t overly ambitious or grandiose, but they would lay the foundations for greater things in the future. He took up a quill and added Barthogan’s plan to the top. It now read:

• Repair the Kingsroad and expand it.

• Repopulate the Gift and New Gift

• Improve Farming

• Take a Count

• Hold a Council of Lords

• Send a new trade mission east

It was admittedly a short list and not all that in depth but Ned was just getting started. He’d asked Luwin to send for any texts the Citadel had on growing food in colder weather or any records of goods available in the farther reaches of Essos. Until he had more information, his hands were tied. Listening to Beorn’s stories had lit a fire in him. Lately he dreamt of himself wearing a crown of bronze and iron marching from Winterfell and uniting the North, turning it into something great; very out of character for him, he had no great desire to rule but he did desire a better life for his family and his subjects.

Ned knew that he needed capital to support any large spending, the Starks were wealthy but large scale projects like these required more backing than one House could provide. Unless their name was Lannister. He was considering writing to Jon Arryn and inquiring about gaining support from the Crown or perhaps reaching out to his good-father Hoster but it could wait until after Sansa’s celebration. He’d straighten out matters with his children first.

Putting away his papers for the night, Ned left his solar and nearly ran into Arya.

“Father! Come on, come on.”

She started dragging him by the hand down the corridor.

“Arya, wait a moment.”

“There’s no time! Beorn’s going to teach us how to make an Amol .”

“What’s an Amol? ”

“I don’t know but I’m pretty sure its magic.”

As it turned out Amols were small good luck charms made from bronze and wood. They were given as a gift and usually had a rune carved into them to symbolize its purpose. Beorn pulled a small bundle of them out of his bag. They were each a flat piece of white wood the length of a finger, on each end with a small piece of bronze and carved into the face was a rune. Ned noticed the rune’s were filled with a hard red liquid. He also recognised the small trinket as similar to one stored in his chambers.

“I have one.” Ned said.

“Really?” Bran asked.

“Yes, Howland Reed gave me one before the Battle at the Trident. I thought it was a crannogman tradition. I never saw anyone else with one.”

“ Amol ’s are considered a private gift, they are not often shared with others.” Beorn explained. “If they’re carried into battle, most warriors keep them tucked inside their armour somewhere and it is customary to burn or bury them with their owners.”

“What are they made for?” Robb questioned.

“Lots of reasons. They can be given as an act of friendship, a sign of loyalty, an expression of love. Parents and children often make them for each other if they’re to be seperated for a long period of time.” Beorn shook the bundle and the wood pleasantly clacked together. The eight or so Amols were linked by a leather band. “These were given to me by my family, some of my friends and one of my teachers. They all bear different runes and to convey different sentiments.”

“Are they magic or not?” Arya pressed.

Beorn smirked, in a way that reminded Ned very much of Benjen, “A certain kind of magic, to be sure.”

As the children worked through making their own practice Amol , only Robb and Jon actually whittled a piece of wood the others used pieces of coal to sketch out their designs, Ned felt Maw settle down at his side. He carefully threaded his hand into the wolf’s fur.

Less than two months since their arrival and the direwolves had seamlessly blended into their lives. The pups woke up with the children, nipped at their heels until the mid-morning before going with Beorn while the children went off to their lesson and duties. He’d been spending more time with the Maw. While he was certainly too large to come up into the Family Wing, Maw accompanied Ned on his morning walks to the Godswood. Crag spent his time either in the Godswood or watching the boys in the yard, he’d recently taken a shine to Theon which Ned was glad to see. Green Eyes followed her pups unless she took a break to go hunting, otherwise she watched over both sets of children at Catelyn’s side. Cat said she managed to get Bran to stop climbing a part of the outer wall the day after a downpour, growled him down from the battlement and back into the Keep!

Beorn himself hadn’t had as easy of a time. Though Bran and Arya were quick to latch onto the man, the rest of Winterfell still kept him at arm’s length. The Shepherd shrugged off their suspicions, he guessed that the lack of a Shepherd had affected everyone born and bred near Winterfell. The Pooles and Cassels certainly had no memory of them. Ned’s early doubts were proven wrong when Beorn accompanied him into Wintertown. Covered in his green cloak with his necklace and mask on full display they’d both been surprised by the dozen or so families that had approached them.

They’d bowed and shown him proper courtesy but it was Beorn they focused on. Tovan, the elderly tanner that had been in Wintertown as long as Ned could remember, stepped out from the crowd.

He went right up to Beorn and asked, “Are you a Shepherd?”

“I am.” Beorn’s voice was calm and level.

The crowd erupted with excitement. A woman, Tovan’s wife, came forward with a gaggle of children in her skirts. She looked hopeful.

To Ned’s shock she burst into a quick gaggle of Old Tongue! He was only able to follow every couple of words, thankfully Beorn’s responses were more interberable.

“I brought new direwolves to the Starks.”

“----guest?-----Starks-----made amends?”

“Lord Stark has acted with honour, he is a credit to his name. The Starks will remember the old ways soon enough.”

His assurance seemed to relieve the woman. She urged her grandchildren forward to Beorn who kneeled. He took out a small wooden bowl with a lid wrapped in twine. He pulled the top off and reached into the small bowl. His fingers scraped the weirwood sap, closer to a paste than hard syrup, off the side. Beorn smudged some of the paste onto each child’s palm while muttering prayers.

When Ned asked Tovan how his wife knew about the Shepherds he learnt she came from Sea Dragon Point. Tovan had met her while visiting a friend at Deepwood Motte. When they returned to marry she’d asked after the Shepherds but had been unsatisfied when he replied that he owned no sheep. It was obvious that the smallfolk either felt they had no authority to question the Stark’s ignorance of the matter or they thought the Starks deliberately kept the Shepherds away from their lands.

Tovan spoke about the rumors of Direwolves living in Winterfell were already spreading. Most traders passing through Wintertown had been asking about them no doubt taking the tale even farther afield.

“Most of us believe its a sign my lord.”

“A sign of what?”

“That the Old Gods still stand with the Starks.”

Beorn was highly sought by the townspeople after that. His weekly routine now included a visit to Wintertown and its Godswood. In response, Winterfell began opening up to the man. He found friends among the guards, spent evenings with Old Nan listening as she told stories to the children and more than once took someone into the Godswood to speak or teach them. His main priority remained the Starks, but day by day Beorn was making himself a place in their home.

////////////////////

“Riders my lord.”

“How many?”

“Three, all in black.”

“Benjen.” Ned said to himself.

He instructed Ser Rodrick to gather his family together so they could greet their uncle properly. Walking out into the courtyard he knew Maw was at the same time leaving the Godswood with Crag following close behind. The entire Stark clan converged on the main gate. Ned took Rickon up into his arms when the young boy asked.

“Do you know who's coming?”

Rickon nodded, “Unc Benjin.”

Ned smiled, “That’s right, you’re Uncle Benjen.”

“He have wolf?”

“No I don’t think so.”

Rickon thought very hard on that, frowning as he went over his father’s answer. “He need wolf, he Stark!” The boy insisted.

As Benjen rode through the gate Ned saw Crag perk up and lock his gaze on him.

“Maybe he does.”

Leaving the thought unfinished Ned smiled and went to embrace his brother.

///////////

Chapter Text

Ned led Benjen into his solar. He’d had to pry his the children off him with promises of a special dinner in honour of their uncle’s return. Offering some bread and wine, the two Starks sat down and got a good look at each other for the first time in three years, they’d not been together since Rickon’s birth.

“It’s damn good to see you Ned.”

“You’re a sight for sore eyes Ben.”

Conversation was pleasant and light, though it turned to grimmer when Benjen revealed the latest news from the Wall.

“Less than a thousand men.” Ned could hardly believe it.

“The Old Bear fears that we might have to abandon Eastwatch if things get worse.”

“Two castles… how can that stop any Wildlings?”

“That’s my point Ned, it can’t. We already have too many raiders getting by every year. They know the Gift and New Gift are practically deserted. They’re moving on to Umber Lands, the Mountains and Bear Island. Gods forbid what would happen if one of them got it into their heads to occupy one of the castles.”

“In this state I might have to call the banners.”

“The banners may not be enough.” Benjen rose and dug into his discarded cloak. He returned with a stack of parchment and unfolded over the small table. It was dozens of reports and numbers made in Ben’s hand. “The Rangers have been keeping track of the wildlings, the ones crossing and the ones staying behind.” He pulled out one specific piece, it was a rough sketch of the lands beyond the Wall, it had a journey marked out crisscrossing the land from east to west and south to north. “I’ve personally done my best to keep track of one man in particular, Mance Rayder.”

“That sounds familiar.”

Benjen nodded, “He accompanied Qhorin Halfhand on his last visit.”

“This Rayder is one of yours.”

“No longer, he abandoned the Wall and went to live with the Wildlings. He’s also been amassing a large tribe, making peace as conquering as he goes. Lord Mormont fears he’s set on becoming the next King-Beyond-The-Wall. Thankfully we have years before he’ll be strong enough to challenge us.”

Ned leaned back into his chair, thinking hard.

“Perhaps it's time I wrote to Robert.”

“About settling the Gift?” Benjen asked. “The South’s had little interest in the Watch since the Kingdoms united, it would take more than a King-Beyond-The-Wall to change their minds. Fewer than a thousand Southerners marched with Willam when Raymun Redbeard plagued our lands.”

“The Crown does owe some debt to the North, Robert took a loan from us after the Greyjoy Rebellion that he has yet to pay back.” Ned took a deep breath. “I do not like leveraging my friend but with things so dire I may have no choice.”

They huddled together and talked deep into the night.

//////////

“Watch your legs, it’ll keep you from getting your ear cuffed next time!”

Benjen helped Robb back to his feet. He was eager to see how his nephews fared with a sword in hand and declared he would take them to task.

Taking a break, Benjen sat down next to Ned while taking a long drink of water. “Ser Rodrik’s not coddled them, that I can be sure of.”

“If they had their way, lessons with Luwin would be replaced entirely.”

They watched Rodrik guide Robb through practice swinging his sword atop a wooden saddle. Winterfell’s Master-at-arms had decided it was time for the boys to learn more of mounted combat. Jon had wandered away to practice his archery.

Benjen smiled, “It's good to be back, though things have definitely changed. Your children have shot up like weeds for one.”

“You nearly fainted when you caught sight of Maw and my children’s height is the strangest thing you’ve seen.”

Benjen rubbed his eyes, “Don’t start on those wolves Ned, or that strange man you’ve welcomed into your home.”

“Beorn’s no stranger. I’ve told you, without him we’d have never found the vault. Nevermind the fact that we share blood.”

“Long lost family… those books… I don’t know what to think of all this Ned.” Benjen admitted.

The two saw a group of men catch sight of something around the corner of the yard and rapidly make their way in the other direction. The gaggle of direwolf pups and their parents, all escorting Lady Catelyn, would be enough to send the bravest of men running.

“Ned, Benjen.” Catelyn took her own seat, entwining hands with her husband. “Have you decided what’s to be done with the pups during the celebrations?”

“Beorn says that Maw and Green Eyes will keep them confined to the Godswood. I’ll put men at the entrance to ensure no one goes in unaware. Though I’ll have to show them off at some point, the wolves could go a long way in convincing the Lords that our House is reconnecting with the Shepherds.”

“All these mysteries and secrets.” she bemoaned.

“Exactly my thoughts Cat.” Benjen said.

Ned gives Benjen a slap on the back. “Has all that bravery you preen about to my sons disappeared? Come along, I’ll introduce you to Beorn properly.”

Winterfell’s Shepherd was in the Godswood with Sansa, Arya and Bran. They all had wax tablets and stylus in front of them. Beorn was leaning against a tree with a small fiddle made of dark red wood playing a soothing tune.

“Writing!” The children startled at Benjen’s cry, “I didn’t know I had Maesters for nieces and nephews.”

Eager to share, they explained that Beorn’s lesson today was about how the First Men told stories. Sansa was particularly excited to learn that the First Men also wrote poetry. He wanted the children to pick a story or make one up and write it properly.

“Beorn recited some for me and it was absolutely beautiful! Especially when it was in Old Tongue!” Sansa gushed.

“I can’t wait to hear it dear, any ideas on what you’ll write about?”

She nodded quickly, obviously excited. “I was going to write something about Queen Alysanne but then I remembered the story of Queen Maegel.”

“Maegel?” Benjen frowned. “I don’t believe I’ve heard of her.”

“Oh Uncle it's a great story, Queen Maegel was the eldest daughter of House Field and in the old days she was wed to a King of Winter. In preparation for her wedding she went out into the Blackwood (that’s the really old name for the Wolfswood) and made a dress out of ice! She was so beautiful that on her way back to Winterfell a direwolf began following her thinking she was a star in the sky!”

Ned leaned down and kissed his daughter’s forehead before turning to the other two. “And what tale are you two interested in?”

Bran turned his tablet around so Ned could see the beginning lines of his work.

“I’m writing about Micah Snowsteed, the man who rode all the way from the Frostfangs to Dorne!”

Arya butted in front of her brother, her tablet had a few runes in the corners, the bulk of the surface had a simplistic drawing of a bear with a sword in its hand.  

“My story is about Joran the She-Bear!”

They listened along as Arya expounded the history on how Joran lived on Bear Island when the Woodfoots still ruled it. After the Ironborn conquered the island, Joran lived among the bears and killed any Ironborn that strayed too far into her woods. When the Starks finally won the Island back, daughters descended from Joran married with the Mormonts. A bit too gruesome of a children’s tale for Ned’s taste, but Arya was unique in that way.

“It's almost time for dinner, go tell your mother about the lesson and then get ready.”

Arya was at a sprint so fast you’d think she was being offered the chance to see a dragon, Bran was on her heels not far behind. Sansa shook her head and followed. He turned back to find Benjen staring intently at Beorn, who was looking at the First Ranger of the Night’s Watch with some trepidation.

“Lord Benjen.”

“You’re the mysterious Shepherd then.”

“Yes my lord.”

“You’re also my cousin apparently.”

“Distantly, through your Great-Great-Grand-Aunt.”

“I find it odd that I never heard of your kind while at the Wall.”

“We are not welcome among the Night’s Watch my lord, much to our disappointment.”

“And why would that be?”

Ned worried he’d have to step in if Benjen chose to keep pressing Beorn.

“There’s too many worshippers of the Seven on the Wall. Combine that with the hatred of wildlings and there’s no doubt any Shepherd sent to the Wall would be found dead within a year. The Shepherds are a well kept secret, a wives tale, most of us live as tradesman and farmers only acting as Shepherds when needed. I wouldn’t be surprised if there were Shepherds on the Wall, men who took the Black to keep an eye on things.”

“Suppose I ask Lord Commander Mormont. Ask what he knows of you Shepherds.”

“If he is a true Mormont he would tell you gladly. Bear Island has been a home to the Shepherds for centuries, their daughters and sons often take our oaths. No doubt the Lord Commander is well informed, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was still in contact with the Shepherds of his home.” Beorn answered.

Benjen looked back to Ned, he looked unsatisfied.

“My brother says you’ve been teaching him history.”

“As well as I can.”

“Surely then you know of the Watch, even if the Watch doesn’t know of you.”

That poked at something important, for Beorn stood putting his fiddle to the side.

“Oh they know of us,” Beorn yelled back. “your Black Brothers have been more than one of mine to the blade for nothing more than their existence! We have a saying that if the Crows could see beyond their beaks they would be able to do more than eat off their dead!”

Benjen went eye to eye with his opponent, “What do you know the Watch, of the Wall greenboy! I will not stand here and have my oaths insulted by a pup.” he snarled.

“And I won’t let your disrespect of the North’s history stand in my presence!”

Their teeth were bared and their fists tensed, all it would take is a twitch and they’d beat each other senseless. Benjen did not take well to strangers and Beorn had the temper of youth.  

Their attention was focused on each other, until the rumble of a growl.

“Crag?” Beorn was confused.

The adolescent wolf must have slipped into the Godswood during their argument. He’d advanced forward and stopped… at Benjen’s side. Crag was obviously not happy, Beorn observed him then stepped back.

“I apologise Lord Benjen.” he bowed.

Reassessing the past few minutes, Benjen bowed in return, “I apologise as well. I fear what ignorance on the scale Ned’s hinted at could mean for the Watch and the North as a whole.”

With the space between them Crag had settled down, his attention shifting from Beorn to Benjen.

“Hello.”

Crag didn’t move. Beorn chuckled at the sight. Looking between the two, he collected his bag and harp.

“We’ve gotten off on the wrong foot. I hope we can move past this. Will you be joining Lord Stark and his sons tonight?”

“What’s happening tonight Ned?”

“The reason I wanted to introduce you two now was so you’d be more inclined to join us in the Godswood tonight. Beorn believes that with you here there will be no better opportunity to share a special lesson.”

Benjen raised his eyebrows at the Shepherd.

“I’m here for more than teaching, I’m here to remind you of who you are. Jon and Robb are old enough now to learn, eventually Sansa, Arya and Bran will learn this lesson too.”

“What have we forgotten?” Benjen asked.

“Your origins.”

/////////////

“What do you know about Bran the Builder?”

“He built the Wall.” Robb said.

“And Winterfell.” Jon added.

Beorn looked between the two. It was quiet in the Godswood, Beorn had dug a small fire pit to light the clearing they were resting in. Ned and Benjen sat beside each other listening as well. The Shepherd looked to the elder Starks for their own answers.

“He was the first Stark.” Ned supplied.

“He gave the Night’s Watch the Gift.” Benjen answered.

Stoking the fire, Beorn took a moment to breathe the crisp air before beginning his story.

“Bran the Builder is old. So old that even the records of the Shepherds are nothing but copies of copies of copies, and the originals are only the written versions of tales and songs shared for generations.” He took a swig of wine and offered the skin to Ned. “Some Maesters say that Bran never existed, that everything he built or did was actually the work of a dozen men mixed into one legendary figure.”

Benjen passed the skin to Jon after taking his own drink, “Do you know the truth of it then?”

“I would say so. What must be understood is that the Age of Heroes was a different time. Magic was everywhere, it permeated the world. From the deepest forests of the Old Gods to the blooddrenched pyramids of Ghis, there were wonders and terrors beyond imagination. You know the legends, that the First Men crossed the Arm of Dorne and warred with the Children of the Forest for dominion of Westeros. All that came to an end when the two groups made the Pact.”

Beorn added another log to the fire.

“Most tell that the Pact was a way to end the stalemate of the war. The Shepherds teach that this agreement was not made out of desire for peace, but an alliance of desperation.”

“Desperation?”

“The Children and the First Men needed each other, to fight the Others.”

None of the Starks interrupted.

“As the Children lost more and more ground to the invaders, they became desperate. They decided to try and create a weapon to destroy them. They kidnapped many strong warriors and finally found one that suited their purpose. Using the most ancient of magics, they stole his soul and bound it to a great heart tree in the Lands-of-Always-Winter. When the man rose again, his heart no longer beat. The warmth of life had left him, all that remained was cold flesh unable to die. They made a dozen more, but the first they had created was father to the rest.”

Robb wrapped himself tighter with his furs. The clearing felt colder than before, the fire seemed to exude no heat.

“The Children unleashed their monsters. The First Men fled and the Children who beget the monster were hopeful. They did not know what they had created. After one battle, where the Children had used their magic to bury a hundred First Men beneath the earth, the Others called out to them. The Other was an abomination, neither living nor dead. The theory goes that using his corrupted Heart Tree the Other stole power from the Old Gods and became something more, a being of darkness. The corpses rose from the ground, twisted into Wights. The first act of the Other with its new army was to kill its creators. The Wights devoured them, drinking their blood like mead though it gave no sustenance. From then on, the Other destroyed everything in its path, bringing eternal snow and ice behind it. Weakened by breaking its chains, the Others retreated in the Lands-Of-Always-Winter to regain their strength. When they did return it was to once and for all plunge the world into darkness”

“You’re talking about the Long Night.” Jon whispered.

Beorn nodded. “They descended from the far North, wiping out all the lived. Their numbers growing after every battle. We don’t know how but the Great Other, the Night’s King, found a way to turn the strongest of those captured into new White Walkers. Children and Men retreated south together, they fled all the way to the Riverlands. On the Isle of Faces, the greatest of their Kings met with the Elders of the Children and the Giant Chieftains.”

“Then they made the Pact.”

“Not just any pact Jon. A marriage pact.”

“Between who?” Benjen was confused, “The First Men Kings?”

“With the Children.” Ned guessed.

“Exactly. A King took one for a wife and they had a child. They named him Bran.”

The men around the fire were dumbfounded. They’d heard old wives tales about how different people across the North had interacted with the legendary Children of the Forest. The people of the Neck supposedly intermingled with them giving rise to their short stature, the Warg Kings of the west were said to have employed them as teachers during their reign, and of course Bran the Builder had their aid in erecting the Wall.

“Bran was the first man with the Greensight. The first man to truly speak with the Old Gods. His very existence was a miracle and in the face of the Long Night he was a symbol of unity.”

The fire was beginning to fade but Beorn didn’t add any fuel.

“Bran grew up fostered in the stronghold of Storm’s End learning to fight from the Durrandons. He traveled to Highgarden where the Gardeners taught him how to farm. In the bowels of the Rock he became friends with Lann, the second son of the Casterlys, and they spent their days learning all there was to know. In the high peaks of the Vale, Bran learned horsemanship from the Winged Rider himself.”

“Do you mean the Winged Knight?” Ned tried to clarify.

“Knights... when Bran walked the land the Seven were nothing, their blessed warriors even less.” Beorn dismissed. “The Winged Rider warred with Giants to take dominion of what little lands in the Vale that were habitable. He had no gold or jewels, but his steeds flew faster than the birds.”

“Where were the Others during all this?” Robb questioned.

“Marching south. Their winter had began shortly before Bran’s birth and had not ended. The First Men and the Children sent armies North, constructing forts and outposts where they could to turn back the forces of the dead. The War was unending and by Bran’s twentieth nameday it seemed unwinnable.”

“Twenty years of winter!” Benjen cried. “No one could survive that long.”

“They survived that and more.” Beorn insisted. “It was thankful that the First Men had allies across the sea. Food and supplies came across the Stepstones, warriors as well. For the Great Other did not just focus on Westeros, he wished for the entire known world to fall. His armies crossed the Grey Wastes of Essos and warred with the people there too.”

“Bran’s father, Brannon, was King of the Wolfmen an old people who traveled with Garth Greenhand when he first crossed over the Narrow Sea. Now that is an event so lost to history that even the Shepherds have no idea why Garth left his lands. Either way, Brannon died in battle and Bran ascended, he would bring about the end of the Long Night.”

“How could one man turn back the dead?”

“One man couldn’t. Bran knew that. Up until his crowning, the First Men had operated on their own. They didn’t war with each other, but they fought on occasion. They couldn’t trust each other. Bran though, had the touch of the Old Gods and intimate friendships with many of the Great Kings, he even ventured to Essos and gained the aid of the people there. For the next 20 years, Bran led the First Men beating the Others back into the North. Unlike his elders Bran understood that to push back the dead once and for all they needed a way to remain in the North even when the winter reached its worse.”

“How could an eternal winter get worse.”

“You have to understand my lord, this was not natural winter. In the days before the Other was created, the seasons were shorter. Summer, spring, autumn and winter only lasted a few months before turning.”

None of his listeners looked convinced.

“Bran convinced many Kings to construct holds all focused on keeping his people alive under the fury of the Night’s King. He planned to hold the enemies attention in the North allowing the southern lands a chance to recover. The Lockes built Oldcastle, the Barrow Kings reclaimed their lands, the Red Boltons staked their Dreadfort, the farthest the armies of the living had made it was a place called the Last River, where the Umbers, who were kin to the Giants, rested upon a great craig. Hundreds of tribes and Kings fought tooth and nail for every inch of the North. All were in agreement that unless the Long Night ended there was no point in conquering one another.”

The wine had run out. The shadows danced across the tree trunks, giving the darkness a life of its own.

“Bran built his own home next to a large Godswood and dug to find hidden hot springs. The great structure he built saw many Kings meeting to plan their war.”

“Winterfell.” Jon smiled, glancing at the towers in the distance with a newfound awe.

“In those days they called it Winter’s Home.”

“Why did the name change?” Benjen said to himself.

“For all its malice, the Night’s King was not mindless. It's possible it saw that the war was turning in our favour. That would explain why they marched on Winter’s Home during the Harvest Feast.”

“They still held the Feast, even during Winter?” Ned was surprised, he’d read about the Harvest Feast being cancelled for less.

“Feast may have been an exaggeration, truly it was a way to gather a huge number of Men in one place without raising tension or strife. The occasion was seen as sacred and Bran was fanatical about observing guest rights.”

“They would have felt safe to discuss the war.” Benjen summarised.

“Scouts reached them quickly, bearing news that the Others were stirring in the True North. Dozens of tribes and petty Kings arrived fearing the dead’s renewed assault. There were many more who disappeared without word once the ice began to cover everything.”

“They could have just fled south, they’d obviously done it before.”

“Bran’s guests said the same thing Jon. He argued otherwise. He believed that at Winter’s Home, they could finally break the back of the dead and kill the Night’s King. Thanks to Bran’s foresight and the sacrifices of many brave warriors, they had a scant few years to prepare for the inevitable siege. With the help of the Giants, Bran raised both of the stone curtain walls and dug the moat while the rest of his men constructed hundreds of yards of wooden palisade and trenches. He sent the Children of the Forest to gather ancient glitter glass from the deep places of the world.”

Beorn stood up, and pulled a small oil lamp from his bag. He used a small piece of kindling to light it and walked to the looming Heart Tree. Hesitantly, the others followed him.

“Heroes from all corners of Westeros answered Bran’s call for aid. Durran III brought enough archers to make the sky rain with arrows, Lann the Clever disobeyed his father and arrived at the head of a host of Westernmen, Gwayne Gardener brought a bountiful supply of cavalry and enough food to keep the armies fed, the Royces and Griffins rode with their hardiest steeds, even the Grey King sent a score of his sons by boat, not to be outdone the Kings of the Riverlands sent hundreds of men with barrels of pitch and oil. Finally, the Sword of Dayne came with uncountable Dornish spears after making peace with the Fowlers and Yronwoods. It was an army unlike any ever assembled.”

Through the Godswood he walked, stepping behind the great Heart Tree. He carefully pushed apart the thick bushes crowding the tree base.

“Is that a rune?” Robb peered closer at a slab of ancient stone laid into the ground.

“A little help here Jon, Robb.” Beorn and the two teens carefully took hold and slid the slab to the side. Underneath was a cramped staircase made of rough stone.

“Now I only know what my father’s told me. Things might be different than expected so be careful.” Beorn told the rest as he descended into the hole.

Cramped stairs made way for a cramped tunnel, damp and chilly. Ned brushed his hand along the walls, embedded in the dirt was sparse rocks and rotted wood but around all that snaked white roots. The tunnel curved and sloped downwards, Ned guessed they were circling the inner godswood.

“This has to be as deep as the crypts.”

“Deeper Lord Benjen!” Beorn called back. “If I remember my lessons right, the door should be right… here! Lord Stark, if you would come to the front.”

Ned squeezed past his sons, coming to a thick knot of roots that covered a section  of wall from floor to ceiling.

“On the eve of battle Bran revealed he had a gift for every warrior present that the many wives and daughters had laboured on. A black cloak made from wool and feather. Donning one himself, declaring that as long as the Great Other lived, they would be its enemy, thus the Night’s Watch was born. When the Night’s King did arrive, the Battle for the Dawn began. The sun vanished and for 20 days they fought. Unknown to all but Bran, the Night’s King had also sent an army and his strongest lieutenant to put an end to the Essosi who met their foes at the edge of the Grey Wastes.”

Beorn took out his ceremonial knife. The same one he’d used to pledge himself to Ned weeks earlier.

“The Night’s King slaughtered its way into the Godswood, where Bran awaited it. With nothing but a sword of obsidian Bran dueled the Great Other. Bran never told his sons how he defeated the evil, only that it came at a great cost. With their King fallen the other Walkers retreated and the Wights became corpses once again, and summer returned to the world.”

Taking Ned’s hand, Beorn made a small cut over the thumb and squeezed to encourage the blood. He placed Ned’s hand on the roots.

“Bran’s work was far from over, he went further North and began his greatest project yet. A fortification that would protect the realms of men should the Others try to return. While he dedicated his time to the Wall, his son Brandon the Stark, known for his strong, straightforward sense of honour and dedication, took over rulership of Winter’s Home now known as the place where Winter Fell. Bran died after living 205 years, his body was burned then brought back to Winterfell by a procession of a five thousand mourners. This is his tomb.”

“Say your words my lord.” Beorn whispered.

Jon Arryn had once told him, “History is made of seconds Ned, all small, all personal. The actions of one man have forever shaped the actions of others. You yourself may one day take such an action and you will remember it.” There were few times in Ned’s life where he felt the stillness of the moment. He felt it when he watched the rubies fall into the Trident, when Robert sat upon the Iron Throne, when he walked into the Tower of Joy and saw Lyanna lying in that bed.

He felt it now. House Stark were solemn by reputation but the truth was they held passion and anger as easily as honour and selflessness. The Gods were watching him, The North looked to him, his children held him above the rest. He would not fail them, he couldn’t.

He had a duty, the Starks had a duty.

Because - “Winter is Coming.”

///////////////////////

Chapter Text

It was dark and dry. The roots had given way like a curtain, Ned couldn’t tell how big the chamber on the other side was. The light from Beorn’s small lamp barely made his hands visible. Even without seeing he could feel the goosebumps crawl up his skin. The chamber was cold, unnaturally so. It reminded him of the chill that permeated the book vault.

Beorn stepped past Ned, taking small steps feeling for the wall and letting it guide him along the edges of the space. He stopped and leaned down, the lamp briefly disappeared before the room brightened considerably. Ned’s eyes adjusted slowly, Beorn was next to a stone bowl he’d filled with fresh charcoal and lit. Ned looked behind him to check on Robb and Jon while Beorn lit another bowl. He noticed Benjen was crouched scrubbing at the floor.

“What is it?” Ned whispered, he felt that shouting in this place would be disrespectful.

“This stone, it reminds me of the Nightfort.” he answered.

All five men could stand comfortably in the room. It was perhaps seven feet from floor to ceiling with curved walls turning the whole room into a circle. Beorn finished with his light and moved to the part of the wall opposite the entrance. He knelt and lit a brazier.

“By the Old Gods.” Ned uttered.

Sitting against the wall, previously enshrouded in the darkness was a stone statue. A rough hewn throne just like the ones in the Winterfell Crypts. Sitting in it was the likeness of a man. Though the statue was worn from age, some features and details remained. A long face with longer hair and a sparse beard, stern eyes and a hard frown. Carved across his shoulders was a massive wolf pelt that draped over his crude armour, and sitting on his head was a simplistic band engraved with runes. Completing the likeness was a sword laid across his lap, but unlike the rusted bronze blades that decorated the crypt statues this one was slick, shiny, made of reflective black stone. It reminded Ned of the arrowheads and chips he and Lyanna used to collect in the Wolfswood.

Beorn turned back to them, “This is the tomb of Bran the Builder.”

“Why was he buried here and not in the crypts?” Benjen asked.

“They hadn’t been built yet, they would only be dug out when Bran’s son finally passed.” Beorn set down his bags. “On his deathbed, Bran gave his son three secrets, made him take three oaths. These were to be kept, remembered and passed down to all Starks. Bran believed that these were so important that he made his son, Brandon the Summer King, swear on the bones of his grandfather.”

“Do you know them Beorn?”

“Yes my lord. Berena Stark was told them the day before her wedding, she passed them on to her children and my father passed them onto me.”

“I take it these oaths are not meant to be known to the young.” Benjen said while looking at Robb and Jon.

The two boys looked ready to argue when Beorn cut them off.

“Normally a Stark is brought here when they’ve become an adult, or before they’re set to leave Winterfell. If the tradition still stood while you’re father was alive my lord, you would have probably been brought here before departing for the Eyrie, and Lord Benjen before leaving for the Watch.”

Beorn took a moment to stoke the fires and give more light to the room.

“He looks like you father.” Jon said, peering at the statue.

“There is a strong resemblance to both of you my lords.”

“Beorn if I’m to guess correctly, you mean to have us swear on the grave of our ancestor. What did you swear on when it was your turn?”

“On Skagos, there is a Weirwood so old that the bark has petrified. It’s known as the Stone Heart. Bran lived on Skagos for a time when he was first learning to warg and built a home next to the Stone Heart. Shepherds with Stark blood are often interred underneath Bran’s old abode. It was the closest we could come to being at Winterfell. But enough chatter, the night grows late and I’d rather have this done before the dawn arrives.”

They arranged themselves on one knee spread in front of the statue with Beorn standing behind them. Each placed a hand on the memorial. Jon and Benjen on the knees, while Ned and Robb touched its hands.

When Beorn spoke, there was a gravity to his words.

“Starks come to honour Bran but Bran is a long dead man. He is silent as the stone content within his home.”

It was almost a lymeric.

“Yet Bran is blood to you and so he shall give you three vows, three oaths, three secrets to hold when you are weakest.”

Laying his hands upon them one after another, they each repeated after him.

“By bronze and blood, I am Stark to my bones. Your vows I shall take, your oaths I shall honour and your secrets I will hold. Let the Old Gods hear and know, I am Stark down to my bones.” they recited.

“There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.” Again they repeated after the Shepherd. “When your family is strong, when your lands are strong, when your people are strong, then the North will be strong.”

Ned realized these were lessons, advice that Bran gave the first Stark, lessons that formed the bedrock of their family’s identity.

“When the Wall shakes and kings die, the Others shall claim all that lives. Take heart in each other and let no creed or deed shatter your ties. The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.”

Each of them experienced something unnatural as they finished their oath.

Benjen could make out distant horn blasts, the kind he often heard when returning to the Wall. One blast for a returning brother, two blasts for wildlings, three blasts… Benjen had never heard the third blast, no man of the Night’s Watch had in thousands of years. Yet he heard the third blast all the same and within his own mind a voice whispered, “And now my watch begins, I take my place among the Skilvad. ” It was young and full of energy, “for this night,” but it quickly faded, crackled and wheezed like that of a greybeard struggling for breath, “and all the nights to come.”

For Robb, the quiet breathing of his brother next to him was drowned out by the chanting of men. A cacophony of shouts that Robb could only liken to when Winterfell held a great feast. “The Stark in Winterfell!” they chanted, “The Young Wolf! Brudarhov! ” they bellowed. Even that was overpowered by the thunder of horses, the clash of blades and splintering of spears.

Jon noticed the warmth of the braziers had disappeared. He heard harsh winds sweeping across the Godswood above. What sounded like a thousand tons of ice breaking was only stopped by a young woman’s voice calling from a far distance, her laugh sounding like a chime, “ Veyg Arn Lord Snow!”.

Ned felt the unbearable urge to open his eyes. The room had gone dark, only Bran was visible to him. He couldn’t hear or feel Benjen at his side. Before he had time to panic, the statue’s eyes opened. Underneath the stone lids was a deep red light that intermingled with streams of green. “You are the blood of Kings and Queens, Eddard, Wolf Lord, Ien Fer Ulf .” The voice was deep, but not overwhelming. “You shall be the turning point.” It reminded him of his Grandfather, an old man who he could recall telling him and Brandon stories of the Kings of Winter. He’d died when Ned was very young, but his stories had stuck with him. “Rule wisely, and when Winter comes… look to the Wall.” It was a command, it was advice, it was a father speaking to a son. Then Ned felt only the cool stone of the floor and the deep breaths of his sons and brother.

/////////////////////

The deeply affected men of the Stark household would normally have faced heavier scrutiny for their strange behaviour in the days following their oath taking. It was lucky for them that the rest of Winterfell was preoccupied with preparing for Sansa’s nameday. Ned and Benjen all but lived in the solar going over maps, old reports, trying to get Benjen literate in Old Tongue and generally making the most of their limited time together.

Robb was shaken certainly. As heir he’d always been expected to learn how to lead men but his dreams still resonated with the sound of battle. He’d never been so committed to his training, moving at a blinding pace through a variety of weapons and focusing on his horsemanship. He’d also pleaded with his father to increase the lessons on lordship. The idea of being called The Stark in Winterfell had long been one of Robb’s daydreams but hearing it in his own head and hearing the shouts of loyalty from others was like night and day. The responsibility was becoming all too real, particularly now that Robb was privy to the exact workings of the North; its tax system, schedules, mundane troubles. Being Warden of the North was a difficult task. As a consequence spent less time with Theon if it didn’t involve his studies or training. The Greyjoy had seemed emboldened to begin taking his own learning more seriously but quickly backed off and left Robb to his own pursuits.

Jon had become more sullen if that was ever thought possible. He retreated to the Godswood often and kept to his chambers for many days. None were as displeased about his change in mood as Arya, who made it her duty to drag him out of his room as often as possible. While his sister’s efforts went a long way in lightening his mood, Jon’s melancholy remained.

Lady Stark was bustling from dawn to dusk, preparing food, gathering supplies, and having the massive keep swept and cleaned from the deepest larder to the highest chamber. Sansa was by her side every step of the way. The two had bonded over the preparations and Sansa had pleaded with her mother to be of use, due in no part to Beorn’s explanation that in the many places in the North the Lady of the castle was expected to run the household. Lady Catelyn was a fine example of a southern noblewoman, who had learnt that her duty was to raise the children and attend guests. She’d adapted admirably to the extra duties thrust upon her but in comparison to other Northern Ladies she still did comparably less work, relying on the experienced servants to help manage Winterfell. Inspired, Sansa had taken it upon herself to organise all of the rooms and dorms to accommodate their guests. She’d even roped Arya into helping her choose the type of entertainers to invite to the feast.

One morning Jon asked Benjen to accompany him on a walk in the yard. They’d gone onto the battlements and finally had some privacy away from the rest of the Starks.

“Uncle?”

“Yes Jon?”

“Did you ever feel jealous of father?”

“Jealous? Of what?”

“That he got to be Lord of Winterfell, or even Uncle Brandon before that?”

Benjen took too long to answer.

Jon looked up at him, imploringly. “I want to be something Uncle. I want to be more than just the bastard of Winterfell. But…”

“But you don’t want to step over your brothers to do it.” Benjen supplied.

“Never. I love them, they’re my family and I’d protect them with my life. Robb will be a great Lord one day. I would consider it a gift if I’d be able to serve him.”

“Are you jealous Jon?”

“I thought I wasn’t. Yet I’m scared, scared that I’ll end up just like those bastards Septa Mordane used to warn Sansa and Arya about. Living my life with one eye on my brother’s holdings, just waiting for the chance to make it mine.” In his own mind echos of “Lord Snow” rose and fell.

“You’re nothing like that Jon. You’ll find a place, your father will make sure of it.” Benjen reassured him.

“I could always join the Night’s Watch. Serve the realm at your side.”

“Oh Jon,” Benjen rested a hand on his nephew’s shoulder. “don’t make such decisions so quickly. The Night’s Watch is a sworn brotherhood. We have no families or lands. We have the Wall and each other. Our wife is duty, our mistress is honour. At least for those of us with dignity left to spare.”

“I could rise high!” Jon insisted.

“Aye you could. With dedication and the Stark name behind you, you wouldn’t be the first Snow to become a Lord-Commander.”

Jon’s eyes were hopeful now, his Uncle seemed to be agreeing with him.

“But the Watch will always be there Jon. The Wall will always be there. You don’t know what you’re giving up. Like a blind man deciding to deafen himself rather than be forced to hear the voices of people he cannot see. Explore the world, fall in love, father a few bastards of your own and then if you still wish to, take the Black.”

That had been the wrong thing to say. Jon looked heartbroken and furious at the same time. He shoved Benjen’s hand away.

“I’ll never father a bastard and there’s no life for me here!” He took off running, scampering down the staircase and running off into the courtyard.

He’d had the same doubts as Jon, though not nearly as guiltful. He knew full well that if he’d chosen to remain Ned would have given him good land and found him a good wife. Thinking back, he might’ve spared Jon all the pain of his name by taking him in to his own household.

Shaking himself, Benjen began following after his nephew. Stopping short when Crag emerged from the Hunter’s Gate, plodding along right up to him. Unsure and perhaps slightly frightened Benjen looked back to see that Beorn had run into Jon. They were talking while Beorn led them back into the Keep. Benjen resolved to find Ned, his brother would want to know what Jon had asked about. Going to the Wall was not something to be done without your father’s approval. His choice had nothing to do with being stalked by a beast that was strong enough to rip a man’s leg off yet seemed to have a habit of following him around Winterfell with curiosity… not at all.

///////////////////////////

“I invited you to come along because you seemed troubled. Sometimes you need to get away from everything to truly clear your head.”

Jon adjusted his furs as he walked beside Beorn. “What do you normally do in Wintertown? Robb said that you go at least once every few days.”

“I visit some townspeople I’ve become friendly with. Walk through the market. Listen to people’s troubles.”

“That’s all?” Jon frowned. “I thought priests were supposed to preach?”

Beorn squinted at Jon, “That is what priests generally do yes.”

“Then why aren’t you doing that?”

“I’m not a priest Jon.” The Shepherd slowly said.

“Yes you are. You’re a priest of the Old Gods.”

“I think you may be misunderstanding what a Shepherd is.”

“Then explain it to me.” Jon’s earlier frustration was creeping back into his voice.

“What would be the point of priest? When a man or woman wishes to pray they only need to go sit in the Godswood. If they wish to plead for safety or courage they do so in silence. You know as well as I do that the Old Gods don’t care if you tack on flowery words or wear silken robes, they know what’s in your heart and that can’t be hidden.”

“I’ve heard Septa Mordane say that ordinary folk cannot reach the Gods. That’s why they Septons and Septas to do it for them.”

“Perhaps for the Seven that’s true. Maybe the Father and Mother only speak to those who have dedicated their life and lot to them. Whatever they believe the truth of the Old Gods is the truth of the woods and water. Forests grow and streams flow whether men wish them to or not. The Trident didn’t stop roaring because a thousand men dyed it red just as the Wolfswood didn’t wither away when the Kings of Winter scoured the Blackwoods from the land. Shepherds are less priests and more knowledge keepers, who dedicate part of themselves to aiding others.”

Jon considered Beorn’s explanation and let the matter drop.

Passing through the town square, their conversation was interrupted by a gaggle of mothers coming over to them. Some had babes swaddled to their chests. They greeted Beorn and gave Jon awkward greetings of his own, but the women focused on the Shepherd. They talked about news, shared some rumors and generally just caught up with Beorn, one woman did ask if Beorn knew how to mix a “stomach soother” like her grandmother used to. Bidding the women farewell with a promise to delivery the remedy within a week, Beorn led on.

After stopping to chat with a carpenter and his son, they finally made it to the Wintertown Godswood, it was a few minutes outside of the village hidden in a grove of trees. Unlike Winterfell there was no towering Heart Tree, this one was modest and bore a different but still ominously shaped carved face. The quiet was the same though, the peace Jon felt was recognizable.

“What did your uncle say about you joining the Watch?” Beorn asked.

Jon couldn’t meet his teacher’s eyes, “He told me I didn’t know what I was asking. That I didn’t know what I was giving up.”

“Rather than dwell on what you might lose, I’m more interested in what you hope to gain.”

“Honour.” Jon answered reflexively.

“You can find honour here.” Beorn countered.

“Not in Winterfell.”

“Because of Lady Stark?”

“There’s no honour in being a burden to your family.” Jon refuted.

“There’s no honour in lying in front of the Old Gods.” Beorn threw back.

Jon looked to the Heart Tree, staring into the sappy red eyes. He bowed his head and gave a short prayer in apology.

“I’m not want to insult your father or Lady Stark, but the truth is you’ve lived a very insular life Jon and I think its made you ill-prepared to make choices about your future.”

“I don’t understand everyone’s reluctance. Starks have went to the Wall for generations, Benjen did it and he was trueborn. Why is it so difficult to believe a bastard could do the same.”

“Because they want better for you Jon.” Beorn answered.

Vulnerable and unsure were Beorn’s impression of Jon at that moment. He seemed to want so badly to believe that his family would always welcome him but there was a streak of stubborn practicality that stopped him from embracing that familial love.

“I want someone to need me.” Jon looked back toward Wintertown. “I want to have a place, like you do.”

“The future's not ours to know. Even the wisest Greenseers can only glimpse cryptic peaks of our fate. So unless you’ve received word from the Old Gods that you’re destined to live the rest of your life on the Wall dressed in black, don’t resign yourself to it.”

“If not to the Wall, then where am I to go?”

Beorn looked to the Heart Tree, the wind picked up and he closed his eyes. The wind blew leaves and sticks through the clearing, the red leaves of the weirwoods dancing between him and Jon.

“Skagos.”

“Skagos?”

Beorn smiled and looked at Jon.

“If Lord Stark agrees, I’ll write to my father. I’m sure he’d be happy to have you.”

“Like fostering? What would I even do there?”

“Learn, explore, meet new people. That’ll be up to you. If you’re interested in what Shepherds there’s no better place to find out than Skagos.”

“And you’re sure you’re father will be open to it.” There was definitely excitement in Jon’s voice.

“I think you keep forgetting that we are family Jon.”

The two spent the rest of the day in town before returning to Winterfell after dark. Jon cradled Ghost close to him, his dreams that night absent of servants calling him Lord and instead filled with people in green robes and giant weirwoods.

////////////////////////

Chapter Text

“Arya come on!”

“I’m coming, I’m coming.”

The youngest daughter of House Stark quickly pulled the length of rope she was using to play tug with from Berena’s mouth. Her direwolf was always eager to roughhouse in the morning and Arya saw no reason to deny her.

She stopped to pick up her skirts, a concession to her mother for the length of Sansa’s celebrations in exchange for extra riding lessons. She threw open the door and saw Bran already making his way down the hall, Summer at his heels.

She followed him down the steps and out of the keep, her family stood arrayed in the courtyard. Beorn jogged up and took both Berena and Summer with him into the Godswood with the rest of the Direwolves as not to frighten the guests or cause an accident with their mounts.

Upon coming into view, her mother ushered her into line between Bran and Sansa. Arya looked around to see Jon standing with Jory Cassel and Ser Rodrik behind them. Jon gave her a quick smile and a wink before the cry of a guard stole her attention.

“Riders approach Lord Stark!”

“What banners do they fly?” Her father called back.

“The Giant of Last Hearth and the Sun of Karhold!”

True to the man’s word, through the gates came two large parties of warriors, men and women. The stable boys rushed forward to help clear the steeds out of the way while the rest of the servants hurried to the wagons that followed.

Her father walked forward to greet the two men at the heads of the column. One was huge, as tall as Walder the stablehand. Arya knew he was Jon Umber, the Greatjon as Father called him. They said that the Umbers had giant’s blood in their veins and hearing Greatjon boom as he bowed and embraced her father she could believe it.

Next was a Lord with the white sun of the Karstarks proudly sewn on his cloak with a seal skin draped over it. Arya vaguely remembered meeting Lord Rickard years ago but she’d been more interested in playing than meeting her father’s vassals. He had a long and narrow face like father but the customary blue-grey eyes of the Karstarks. His greetings were more subdued but still warm.

These were the men that had marched with Father twice, once to King’s Landing and again to the Iron Islands. Arya perked up when she saw there were more than boring old men with them.

“Ned, you;ve me wife Tyla, my heir Smalljon.” The Lord of Last Hearth introduced, “my younger one, Edwyle, and my oldest daughter Oma.”

Arya could hardly believe anyone could call the man “small”, he was nearly as tall as his father! His other children were large as well. Smalljon couldn’t have been much older than Robb but his huge red beard made up for it. Oma looked about the same age as her brother but Edwyle seemed closer to Sansa despite still being nearly as tall.

“It it is a pleasure to have you here Jon. I’ll let you get yourselves settled but you must join me for a drink before the feast.”

Greatjon only laughed and made some jape about drinking before the sun had even set and then followed a servant into the castle. Catelyn took the time to greet Tyla Umber and make plans to meet once her household was settled.

The Karstarks stepped forward next, two boys and a girl stood next to their father.

“My sons Torrhen and Eddard, and my daughter Alys.”

She saw her father smile at his namesake and greeted all three politely.

“Winterfell will be glad to have you. You’ve grown since I last saw you Lady Alys.”

She saw Alys blush and her gaze darted from Father to Robb as she thanked him.

“Lady Jarra is not with you?”

“She sends her best wishes but before we left she took a bad fall and couldn’t make the journey.”

“A pity. I’d like you to join me before we dine as well Rickard. I’m sure Robb and Sansa can ensure the children all arrive in one piece.”

Chuckling Rickard followed their guide into the castle. The carts had for the most part been cleared and Arya hoped that would be it for the day, standing around was so boring. It was not to be. She was allowed to go with Bran and Rickon to the Godswoods for a break before being called back sparingly to greet the other guests.

Winterfell was soon packed with Cerwyns, Flints, Brooks, Halfans, Willows, Tallharts and beyond that each had a handful of minor Masterly Houses in their company. Most of them had been waiting in Winter Town, having arrived early but postponing their arrival until the Umbers and Karstarks arrived. Before the afternoon was done Arya’s home was filled with men and women preparing for the festivities.

“Arya?”

“Yes Mother?”

“Thank you for your attentiveness.” Catelyn leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. “At dinner you and Bran will be sitting with the other children, I want you to be polite and get to know them.”

Arya sighed, “I will Mother.” she was about to ask if Jon would be sitting with them but she didn’t want to ruin what goodwill she’d built up. She gave a quick hug and then rushed off with Bran to the Godswood. Dinner might not be so bad, she just hoped their visitors had some good stories.

//////////////////

“To the North.”

All three Lords took a drink of their wine.

“I can’t tell you how glad I was to get your letter Ned. It’s always good to see your face.”

“It's good to see you too Jon, how have things been?” Ned asked.

The Greatjon took another drink, his lips twisting. “Good Ned. The summer so far has been productive and for the most part my people are happy. They’ll be shocked when I come back with news of those wolves. I nearly shat myself when that big one - what was his name?”

“Maw.”

“Aye, when Maw came up to you. Thought you were gonna lose a leg.”

Ned laughed, “Maw is slow to anger, though if you see him running you best get out of the way fast. He can tackle a buck at full sprint with ease.”

“They might have to start calling you the Brave Wolf Ned.” Rickard added.

Ned turned to his distant kinsman, “How fares Karhold?”

“It fairs well. Fishing has been good and Braavos have gained an interest in our seal skins. Trade has been small but rewarding.”

“That is good news, I’ve heard from the Manderlys that the Sea Lord is interested in creating some kind of new fashion. He’s scouring the world for inspiration, or so rumors say.”

They made small talk for a little longer, recalled old stories spoke of their past battles. The conversation turned to the Shepherds.

“That boy, Beorn, has he been good to you Ned? My man, Yarrick, has his doubts about him.”

“Meddin is the bald one?”

“He’s been the Shepherd of the Last Hearth since Mors was born, he’s not the smartest man I’ve ever met but has a good head and knows how to swing a sword.”

“Well have no worries, I wouldn’t trade Beorn for another. He’s been an immense help, ensuring that I learn what my father never had time to teach.”

“I don’t want to seem rude Ned,” Rickard interjected. “but when I told the Shepherds in Hilltop that there was one of them in Winterfell the ladies were overjoyed. They were of the opinion that the Starks had gone too long without counsel from naught but Maesters.”

“You don’t have any Shepherds in Karhold?”

Rickard shook his head. “They’ve always resided in Hilltop to be closer to the fishing towns and herders, three or four at a time.”

“It seems that every Shepherd is different.”

“That is the way of it Ned. They’re not Maesters or Septons, all taught in one place from the same book. My father once said that Shepherds grow to fit where they are needed. The ones who serve noble houses know the ways of court and manners, but I tell you the Shepherds of the Mountain Clans could talk for days on the ways of hunting but can’t read a letter.”

“Beorn told me there are Shepherds even among the Wildlings?”

Greatjon grumbled, “I may hate those raiding scum with all my heart but they follow the Old Gods and the Shepherds have always been clear on that. Thankfully they know well enough to put aside that tenant when need comes. I’ve killed my fair share of green clad pillagers who’ve climbed the Wall.”

“How can you trust any of them Jon? If you know they share a profession with savages?”

“I can’t speak for others but we Umbers ensure that our Shepherds are in some ways kin. Mors’ second son has already gone to Skagos to learn from some of our cousins there. If his letters are true the young man’s got his eye on a woman as well.”

“Beorn mentioned a friend of his came from Umber blood.”

They both looked to Rickard next.

“There is a reason ours are mostly women who live outside our Seat.”

“Do either of you know what Roose Bolton uses his Shepherd for?”

“The Boltons… are Boltons and rumors are rumors as the Greatjon can attest. Some tell the Boltons keep theirs as jailers. Darker tongues say that Bolton Shepherds are the finest leather workers in the North for they’ve had lots of practice.”

None of them wished to continue that train of thought.

Ned was calling upon both his own experiences and the writings in the vault for handling this situation, the first test of his new motivation. He knew that to make headway with any of his ideas he would need the support of the two men before him.

“Would you say I have been a good Lord my friends?”

His question caught them off guard, glancing uncertainty at him, Rickard answered first. “I would say so Ned. You’ve kept the North together and led us through two wars. You’re father would be proud.”

Greatjon grunted, “You’re a Stark through and through.”

Ned leaned back in his chair, “In truth, I’ve done very little I think. The North is much the same as when I took up my titles. Looking back, the North hasn’t changed much since my grandfather Edwyle’s time, other than the Rebellion.”

“Surely that’s a good thing Ned?”

“Jon, Rickard, I’m worried about King Robert.”

“Is something amiss in the South?” Rickard was instantly attentive, he’d always been sharp when it came to preparing for danger.

“Not that I know of. I’ve spent that last few weeks thinking on the history of the throne, of the Targaryens. They ruled for 300 years, and yet they’ve faced near destruction more than once.”

“That’s the price you pay for trying to rule the whole land.” Greatjon affirmed.

“The Targaryens won their throne on the backs of dragons and kept it through tradition and politics. Only without their dragons they never would have made it that far.”

“They’d probably have been crushed by the Reach and the Westerlands or even the North when time came to march.” Rickard said.

“Robert has no dragons and I’ve learnt now that ruling over a land divided is never stable. I wonder what would have happened had Balon not rebelled, I think that war turned Robert from a rebel to a King in many eyes.”

“Then what has you thinking of the King?”

“Something that Cregan Stark once told his sons about the Blackfyre Rebellion. ‘The Targaryens are no longer special, no longer above the laws of Gods and men. All it takes is ambition, rumor and a poor King to split the realm in two.’ I’ll admit I’m not well informed of the state of Robert’s rule, but I do know that he has yet to repay the North its loan and from what Lord Manderly has told me the Faith of the Seven have been using the same complaint to bargain for concessions.”

Ned stood up and went to his writing desk and pulled a large case out and place it in front of his bannermen.

“I may be just paranoid, worried about an old friend, or seeing shadows where there is nothing. Nevertheless I believe now is the time to speak of the future.”

He pulled out the large pile of writings and drawings, most either in his hand or Beorn’s.

“You’ve been busy Ned, get bored with making judgments all day?” Greatjon joked.

“If you ever have six children Jon, you’ll find yourself in needs of a hobby.”

He pulled out a smaller set of drawings and arranged them across his desk.

“I won’t skirt around the truth, though I did wish to celebrate with you both there is more to my invitation. Take a look at these maps.”

The two veterans parsed through the sheets.

“That’s the western part of Last River and that’s Long Lake.” Greatjon knew his lands by sight alone.

He paused and peered closer, tracing his finger along a thicker broken line leading from northeast shore of Long Lake to the southern branching part of Last River.

“What’s this supposed to be?”

“The same thing is marked here connecting Torrhen’s Lake to the White Knife.”

“Those my friends, are canals.” Ned declared.

“Ned what the fuck is a canal?” Greatjon, subtle as ever.

“They’re manmade paths that connect rivers. Braavos is practically covered in them.” Rickard explained. “You want to dig a canal in the North? Where did this come from?”

Ned answered with more a leather sleeve put on the table. “From Torrhen Stark.”

“The King Who Knelt?”

“The very same. He sent men to Essos after Aegon’s Conquest looking to learn anything and everything. The ships returned six years later with more news than Torrhen could care to read. Most of it has sat useless until now.”

“Something must have peaked your interest about the canals.”

“Correct Rickard, just not the ones in Braavos. What I’m interested in are the ones on the Rhoyne.”

He pushed forward a small packet of sketches, they were of various waterway cutting straight through lands. A few were of large wooden gates with diagrams opening and letting water flow in and out. Rickard was especially interesting in the ones showing boats going into them and then being lifted to actually sail uphill.

“I want to hire engineers from Braavos to oversee connecting Last River to Long Lake. If it's successful I want to repeat the process only connecting Torrhen’s Square to the White Knife.”

Greatjon stood up to better read the map. “We’d have an easier time getting goods to and from White Harbour. Food, timbre, stone, it’s a pain in the arse to drag it by cart I’ll tell you.”

“Just travelling would be easier. Mustering troops, visiting other parts of the kingdom. The only problem is building and maintaining something like this requires coin and men, more than we can provide easily. Not to mention how much more one crossing half the North would require.” Rickard pointed out.

“I plan on giving it a small trial first. Extending the White Knife further into the Wolfswood to hopefully double the amount of lumber heading downriver. As for funding, I’ve written to Lord Arryn and the King for support. If things fall into place Vale ships and Crown-paid labourers will make the work faster. Lord Glover will oversee the day to day progress.”

The next hour was spent answering questions and taking down suggestions. The sun had quickly risen and began making a downward fall, it would soon be time to dine and celebrate. Ned decided to finish up his business so they could enjoy the night without worry.

“I’m looking to the future my friends. I can’t promise it will be flawless or that no mistakes will be made, what I can promise is that my goal is to make the North stronger for our children and our grandchildren.”

“You haven’t led us astray yet Ned. The Umbers will stand with you.”

“We all stand to benefit, Karhold and its people are behind you.”

Ned embraced both of them, “I am glad to hear it.”

////////

After putting his solar back into some kind of order, Ned led their party out and down to the main hall. It was already filled and the musicians played a jovial tune. The Lords saw their own children mingling near the head table.

Smalljon, Torrhen and the Tallhart heir, Benefred, were huddled at a table with Robb, Jon and Theon. They were laughing trying to convince Robb of something. He conceded, got up, and walked over to the young ladies at their own table. Bowing he offered his hand to Alys who blushed but agreed to dance anyway. That was all it took for the rest of them to pair off and take to the floor. Ned smiled when Jon was dragged from his seat by Arya and Eddara Tallhart.

He drew Greatjon and Rickard’s attention back to him. “It would be a boon to have a representative of your Houses stay in Winterfell wouldn’t you say? To be your eyes and ears as things develop.”

“A fine idea my lord!” replied the Greatjon, grinning unabashadley, “Smalljon could use some time away from home.”

“Alys would be grateful for the company of other girls and Torrhen has been itching to train with someone besides his brothers.” Rickard nodded along.

Ned stood and raised his goblet. The hall fell silent as others rose with their own cups.

“Honoured guests before we dine, a toast! To my daughter Sansa, another year has passed and you have only made me more proud. I have no doubt that one day you shall be a great Lady as your mother.”

Sansa couldn’t contain her smile or hide her blush.

“To Sansa!” Robb called.

“To Sansa!!!”

/////////////

Chapter Text

The North, like any Kingdom, had its own over-exaggerated images. The Northern Berserker, the Fur-Clad Hunter, the Wild Tree Worshipper. Yarrick, the Shepherd of Last Hearth, was these tall tales personified. If he wasn’t truly sincere, he’d be accused of playing a mummer’s part. Tall, bearded and bald, with a thick layer of fat. A quick temper and dour demeanor. Yarrick took his duties and responsibilities as seriously as any Northern folk legend. Yarrick caught Beorn in the yard, the morning after Lady Sansa’s celebrations.

“I see the Great Shepherd has finally corrected his predecessor’s mistakes.” Was the senior Shepherd’s greeting.

Taking care to ignore the man’s tone, Beorn carefully replied. “The signs were right and Father decided the risk of the Starks going unguided was too great.”

“A wise man, your father.” Yarrick’s praise was genuine, though it wasn’t without a barb. “Though no one can choose their family.”

Beorn had his dagger out for a sharpening and polish. He paused, placing it to the side then leaned back in his seat. The courtyard had a modest crowd, the early risers and household servants going about their early duties. He was waiting for Jon and Robb to break their fast, the two boys had badgered him into agreeing to lessons in the yard. He was decent enough with a blade or club but his training in arms were a mix of familial teachings and survival experience. His distant cousins believed it would do him good to receive the attention of Ser Rodrik.

“Of course. Though I’m unaware how a man from Last Hearth can know the mind of the Great Shepherd.”

“I don’t have to speak with the Gods to know what sits before my eyes. Why you, of all people, were sent to Winterfell I may never understand.”

Beorn took a deep breath, hiding the grinding of his teeth. 

Yarrick bent his bald skull in close, “You’re a failure of a son.” He snorted and spit on Beorn’s feet. “A miserable coward who can’t even carry on his father’s legacy.” Laughing loudly, Yarrick turned away. “When you get homesick, boy, let me know before you scamper back to Skagos. I’ll gladly take up your duties.”

Slumping, Beorn quickly put away his dagger and hurriedly left the yard. Focused on seeking solitude to cool his temper, Beorn overlooked the figure of Arya scampering out of the doorway he’d been sitting by, running in search of her father.

//////////////////

It took five minutes for Ned to get a straight story from Arya, then another five minutes convincing her not to dedicate the rest of her day to harassing this Yarrick fellow. His daughter’s last moments of attention were spent ensuring her father would seek out Beorn and make sure he was alright. 

True to his word, Ned postponed a meeting with Maester Luwin to seek out his distant cousin. His first stop was Beorn’s favoured spot in the Godswood. He found Maw instead, who languidly joined his search. Finding the Godswood empty, Ned stopped to think. While he decided that Wintertown was a likely choice, he unexpectedly pictured Beorn sitting on a bench near an old door. The image flashed in his mind, it was distorted slightly in colour. Ned recognised it as the door to the crypts. Shaking away the image, he almost turned towards the stables. Something nudged his thoughts toward the crypts. He looked down to find Maw staring at him. The Direwolf was quiet most of the time, occasionally growling while playing with the pups, but otherwise he was a silent predator. 

Ned brushed a hand across his companion's fur and set off towards the main keep. It would do no harm to ensure Beorn had left the castle before making the trek into town.

“Lord Stark.”

It was for naught, Beorn was indeed sitting outside of Winterfell’s crypt. He stood and bowed when Ned approached. 

“How are you, Beorn? Not too tired from the celebration, I hope?”

“I’m fine Lord Stark. I spent most of the evening enjoying the food rather than the ale.”

“Good.” Ned smiled, Beorn didn’t sound any worse for wear but there was fatigue in his posture. The sound of a scratch drew his eyes to the door to the crypts. Maw was patiently scratching at the bottom of the heavy ironwood door. “You haven’t been to the crypts yet have you?”

The Shepherd blinked, “No, my lord. Lord Robb pointed them out in passing.” He looked away for a moment. “I didn’t want to presume too much, Lord Stark.”

“You have Stark blood, and as much right as I do to see the resting place of our family.” Ned walked past, opening the door. Maw slipped in immediately and Beorn entered behind him. Ned picked up a lantern from the wall and lit it. Guiding Beorn down the stairs, the long halls cast deep shadows across their steps. Maw stayed just in sight of the lamp light as they travelled down.

It didn’t take long to come upon the most recent additions. When Rickon was born, Ned had commissioned the masons to add a new set of unsealed tombs. There were now places ready for himself, Benjen and all his children; while Catelyn would rest beside him. The largest would one day bear a statue in his likeness. 

Next came the towering resting place of his father. Rickard Stark’s face looked out stoically like in Ned’s memory. Beside him was Brandon and Lyanna. Traditionally, their graves would have been simple boxes with nothing more than a name inscribed. None of his household argued when Ned had instead commissioned statues for them, it wasn’t unheard of. Most seem to think it was a way to honour their part in overthrowing the Targaryens. Ned’s true purpose had been to keep their likeness alive outside his memory. 

“You resemble your father, my lord.” Beorn commented.

Ned shook his head. “As a child, I had more of the Flint look from my grandmother. I suppose I’ve grown into my own. Arya is the spitting image of my sister.” He tried not to linger on the grief Lyanna’s face kindled.

Pushing past, he led Beorn farther into the stonework. The next set of statues were older but preserved by the cold and careful maintenance. Ned named them as they came.

“This is my grandfather, Edwyle. Beside him are the statues of his father Willam, his uncle Donnor, and his uncle Artos.” Ned pointed to the simple graves set behind the statues. “Berena Stark was supposedly buried here with her brothers and sister. I guess the tomb was left empty.”

“As the eldest daughter, Berena wouldn’t have been allowed to wed a Shepherd. Beron had two healthy sons though, so he was convinced to make an exception.” Beorn added.

They had to descend another level to reach the tombs Ned had in mind for this visit. He paused momentarily to examine the livery carved into the arches above him. 

“Are those runes?”

Peering up, Beorn nodded. “If Edwyle and Artos were in charge of preparing the upper level, they no doubt wished to distance themselves from the older traditions.”

There was a definitive chill in the air now, strangely enough, Maw seemed more at home. The wolf jogged forward taking a seat and staring up at the next statue. It was quite worn by age, the traditional iron sword laid across the lap. This was also the first statue to have a stone Direwolf at its side.

“Beron Stark.” Beorn declared. 

He stood close to the statue, examining the dour face. If one spent enough time in the crypts, as Ned had, it was possible to see the small touches that personalized the statues. How they were dressed and the sigils hewn into their minimal detailing all held significance.

Beron Stark was mortally wounded while defeating the Ironborn, he was depicted in a mail coat and under his right foot was a dead squid. Beron’s mother was a proud Karstark and upon the memorial’s right hand was a simple disk-ring with an inlaid sun. Not all Lords had that level of detail put into their tombs. It largely depended on the amount of time, attention and coin committed by the living members of the family; all of which was further limited by the skill of the sculptor.

Beorn hummed and took a step back, he was frowning.

“Not what you expected?” Ned asked.

“For some reason I pictured finding a statue that mirrored my father. In my mind he’s always embodied the likeness of the Starks but I know better now.” The young man tugged at his own hair. “My own hair is more black than brown, and my father’s eyes are closer to brown than grey.”

“Lord Umber has blood among the Shepherds. You spoke once of a friend, Harman?”

“Harad. Yes, his grandfather was an Umber cousin.”

“I won’t deny that I very much would like to meet your father, Beorn. To know that I have close kin still in the North is a great relief. Outside of your line, our next closest cousins come through Edwyle’s sister, who wed into a junior Royce line down in the Vale.”

“I thought that Artos’ line continued with two sons?”

“His grandson through his eldest took the Black. His granddaughter, by the younger brother, married a second son of the Glovers. Her descendant, Ethan Glover, was my squire during the rebellion for that reason. He died in the Rebellion.”

Beorn wandered to another statue, obviously trying to distract himself.

“I heard that some words were exchanged between you and an Umber Shepherd.” Ned saw the Beorn bite hard on his lip, the dim lighting unable to completely hide his embarrassed flush. “You’ve done an admiral job here. I’m thankful you arrived. Why would this Yarrick claim you were a failure?”

“Because I am.” Beorn confessed. “The Great Shepherd must always be a Greenseer. It’s the one official qualification. When I was younger, everyone expected me to be a prodigy like my father. I was more of a disappointment, I just didn’t have the gift.”

Ned looked confused. 

“I have very weak visions, the occasional dream and as I child I couldn’t even skinchange.” Beorn explained.

Maw slipped beside Beorn and nestled into his shoulder.

“I found the lessons difficult. When I got too frustrated, I would run off on my own. I’d spend days camping out on Skagos until my guilt brought me back. My home became a place to escape rather than live. When my sister was born, I saw a way out.”

“You have a sister?”

Beorn grimaced while nodding. “Mari. She’s the prodigy, everything I couldn’t live up to. She was flying through birds by the time she was seven, and speaking with the Weirwoods at twelve.” He chuckled. “She drank up the lessons like a bottomless well. With a proper heir for my father, I decided that it was time to stop deluding myself. I wasn’t going to be a Shepherd.”

“Then how did you come to be here? Something must have changed.”

Reaching into his cloak, Beorn ran his hand along his necklace of teeth.

“I couldn’t work up the courage to face my father or my teachers. I left with another Shepherd heading North of the Wall. It was short notice and I wasn’t prepared. We’d landed near Hardhome when I realised I’d likely wouldn’t survive on my own. I pretended to be a full Shepherd and tricked a small tribe into taking me in. We were traveling through the Haunted Forest when a war party from further up the river ambushed us.”

“You fought them off?” Ned guessed.

Beorn ground his jaw. “No. The tribe was slaughtered, but the enemy recognized my garb and decided that it would be bad luck to kill me. Didn’t stop them from leaving me stranded.”

“Alone, beyond the Wall with no food? How did you survive?”

“I wasn’t planning to. See, the tribe had asked me to seek guidance on the best way to reach their old hunting grounds. I advised them to go through the forest. If I had been a real Shepherd, I would’ve consulted the roots, maybe warged into a bird to scout the way. Instead, those people put their faith in a liar. I burned their bodies, found a Godswood and prayed for their souls. I was starving and freezing. I fell asleep against a Hearttree, confident I wouldn’t wake.”

Beorn looked up and his eyes shone with wonder. “Instead, I dreamed for the first time. I stood before a mighty castle of old stone. It was empty, nothing but the whispers of ghosts filled the halls. Behind me I heard the roar of a great beast as it ripped the throat from its prey. I was terrified. My hands were made of gnarled wood and I knocked upon the gate in fear. The castle moved, and I realized it was no keep but a great wolf carved from stone.”

Ned could hear a steady drumbeat but realized it was his own heart.

“I woke up and Green Eyes was laid beside me. Her stomach was just beginning to swell. I felt the touch of the Gods that night and returned to Skagos with all haste. By the grace of the Old Gods, I ran into a party returning east and tagged along. I finished my training and apologised to my father.”

“Yet, Yarrick mocks you.”

“Though I regained my honour when I returned and even some acclaim for finding a pregnant direwolf. The fact remains that my greensight is sparing and weak, the best skinchanging I can manage is to impart a command but I will never share a mind with a beast, never bond.” 

Ned could here the longing, the wistfulness in Beorn’s words. He spoke of a privilege, a wonder, he’d never have.

“Mari will find a good match on Skagos. All the major clans will want her. There’s a good chance she’ll be the Great Shepherd one day.”

“A woman can attain the title?” Ned was shocked.

Beorn nodded. “It doesn’t happen often. The last was a younger daughter of the Reeds, Nelette Earth-Heart, some 200 years ago.” Beorn smiled. “If any woman can do it, it’ll be my sister. She’s always exceeded where I’ve failed.”

“If greatness is her future, what about you?”

“Me?” Beorn asked. “I’ll have to find my match outside the Island. Hopefully a woman who won’t mind being married to the lesser child of The Wolftongue.”

Ned passed Beorn his wineskin, the younger man took it gratefully, his mouth parched from the cold and confession.

“If you are the ‘lesser son’, then would your sister have not made a better choice to send to Winterfell?” 

“It was seriously considered. Except, there was uncertainty to how a woman would be received by your family. Especially, an unmarried woman. While I was away fetching Green Eyes, it was decided I would make the first overtures.”

The two men began making their way back to the surface.

“I don’t think any less of you, Beorn.”

“There’s no need to be courteous, Lord Stark. I understand what my actions mean. I’m trying to do better now, but sometimes it's hard to not feel like a fool, trying so hard to be something I’m not.”

Those words struck Ned’s heart, he paused. “When I received the news about my father’s death it felt like my soul had been struck. In truth, it was Brandon’s death that nearly swallowed me whole. Not just because he was my brother, but because it meant I was Lord of Winterfell. To suddenly have that responsibility thrust down, to have no choice but to step into a role I wasn’t meant to, nor prepared to take, was maddening. Even after the rebellion I felt like I was wearing a mask. Those early days were hard. I was unsure, alone and every decision I made only seemed to create more problems.” Ned smiled at Beorn. “I felt like a fool, trying so hard to be something I wasn’t.”

Ned led them out of the crypts. Their confessions to be kept by the statues of their forefathers. Beorn stood straight and bade Lord Stark goodbye, intent on joining Jon and Robb in the yard.

/////////////////////////////////

Winterfell was full of people, bustling from room to room. There was conversation in every hall, footsteps in every stair and the chambers were full to bursting. Catelyn had a full smile on her face. She’d started the day refreshed from a night of pleasantries and perhaps a touch too much wine. Her maids were on time and doing an admirable job. Cat took the time to order a platter of apples and bread to be brought up to her rooms. She was hosting multiple Ladies of the North for the first time since she arrived after the Rebellion. 

Looking back, the true shock of the North had not been the weather, it had been the politics. Oh, there were similarities. Kingdoms, from the Wall to Dorne, ran the same way. Lords, taxes, smallfolk, food, these were things Catelyn had learned about by her father’s side at Riverrun. She’d been preparing to step into her role as a Lady for years. Her expectations had been realistic by all measures. Her days would be spent entertaining and negotiating with the ladies and children staying in the keep while the Lords handled business. She would have managed the funds of their household and ensured they were adequately funded, and in the absence of her husband she would have taken charge to ensure matters remained stable. Finally, she would have had a small group of senior household servants that reported to her for instruction. 

When she had children, they would be taught by a Maester until they reached an age to separate them. From then on, her sons would be taken in hand by their father while a Septa would handle the supervision of her daughters alongside Catelyn herself. Her sons would be knights and her daughters, Ladies. Catelyn was prepared for her new life. Then she arrived at Winterfell. 

By the Grace of the Seven, Catelyn was a young woman in a foreign land with a stranger for a husband and a newborn babe. All of that added to the unexpected challenges that being Lady Stark entailed. Winterfell was not ordered like Riverrrun, nor like any Lord Paramount Seat that she knew of. 

First of all, there was no court. That had left her confused for a full week. She’d been in a rush to prepare Winterfell for what was sure to be a huge party of visitors. After the war, she’d thought the various Lords would be arriving and staying for weeks in order to properly adjust to Ned’s new rule. She hadn’t accounted for the delay that her husband’s journey to Dorne caused. When he finally arrived at Riverrun, only the Stark and Reed men remained south of the Neck.

It took two months before Lord Umber arrived, he was happy to see Ned but he hadn’t brought his wife or children. Catelyn was disappointed but she understood that Lord Umber had lost more men than most at the Trident and he had to put his lands to rights. The Greatjon, as he insisted she call him, was succinct and straightforward. His negotiations with Ned took two days, they hunted for another, then Lord Umber had to leave. Apparently he was making stops at every major Keep in the east, then he predicted he’d be stuck in Last Hearth for another 5 or 6 years or until the next Harvest Feast. Once again, Winterfell laid empty. This process repeated for the next year as Robb grew older. Lords and their guards came on their own as they made visits and Ned oversaw what business they each had. No doubt Ned did his fair share of hard negotiation. 

There was tension with the Dustins and Ryswells over the death of their kin who escorted Ned into Dorne. In return for their service, Ned granted them increased hunting rights and made a deal to purchase 50 strong steeds from their stables over the next five years. With the Rylls and Barrowlands mollified, he had to turn his attention to the Mountain Clans. 

The Flints, kin to Ned’s grandmother, sent word after Robb’s second nameday of trouble brewing. As far as she understood it, Lord Flint had arranged a betrothal for his niece to a son of House Knotts in exchange for six moons worth of meat and salt. The Knott son perished at the Trident but upon returning home, the Flint’s discovered their girl had fallen pregnant before they marched to war. The Knott’s refused to pay the agreed upon price because in their eyes the betrothal had been broken. Fights between the two Houses had already broken out, Ned was being called to ride and settle the matter. 

The betrothal was one of the strangest things she’d ever heard. She pleaded with Ned to simply let someone else deal with the matter. Her father would never have dained to intercede so personally in the feuds of lesser lords. Ned explained that the Hill Clans were a different folk but loyal nonetheless. If he didn’t bring justice to the matter it could spark a feud between the two Houses. According to Maester Luwin, the last conflict in the mountains had taken months of bloodshed to quell.

Ned was gone for nearly a full moon, with only one raven relaying his arrival at the Flint’s home. Then silence. Another message arrived late, her heart froze when she learned that Ned had been injured. A brawl had broken out during a meeting between the two families. Three men had been injured and one killed. Ned had been accidentally struck in the back, aggravating a wound he’d taken at the Battle of the Bells. Her husband had recovered and then taken the heads of two murderers before arranging for half the betrothal price to be paid as agreed. 

The Clansmen seemed satisfied and sent a stack of pelts back to Winterfell in gratitude. Her fear when word of his injury brought about another shock, the depth of her feelings for her husband. The Sept he commissioned, Robb, even the responsibility and respect he gave her had grown a love deep in her spirit. Catelyn was quite certain Sansa was conceived upon his safe return.

“Lady Stark?” 

Catelyn turned to the older servant who had called out to her. Berta was in charge of the pantry and always kept a close watch on the food stores. It seemed a few too many wheels of cheese had been brought up for the celebration. As they walked, Catelyn gave instruction for a portion of the potatoes to be traded to make up for it.

Dealing with the pantry. At Riverrun, the most interaction she had with the kitchens and maids had been through the Steward. Veyne Poole was as competent a man as any, and he dealt with the larger part of Winterfell’s servants and assisted her in many duties. Tradition dictated though, that the kitchen and the maids were to be handled directly by Lady Stark. Old Nan had told her it was because the Starks took hospitality very seriously, and nothing less than the watchful eye of the Lady of Winterfell would suffice. It was comforting in a way, to have such a direct hand in her household. Though if there was a court, she doubted the tradition would last long.

“Lady Stark!”

Another interruption in the form of Septa Mordane and Septon Chayle. 

“Is it not time for the girl’s lessons Septa?” She wondered.

Mordane sniffed disdainfully, “Today’s lessons would normally have been centered around the Seven-Pointed Star .”

That explained her attitude. Ned had convinced her that with Sansa nearly a woman grown and Arya’s fights with her teacher growing worse by the year, it couldn’t hurt for their lessons to be reduced. Instead, both her daughters could spend the occasional day learning at her side. It seemed fitting, Catelyn had been running Riverrun by the time she was thirteen. The decision led to an enjoyable change and she’d had the chance to start easing the tension between Sansa and Arya, a tension that had spiralled out of control under the watch of the Septa in front of her.

Mordane continued, “Septon Chayle and I wished to petition you.” She nudged Chayle forward. 

He was a timid but polite enough man. “You see, Lady Stark, the Septa and I are concerned. Aside from yourself and a few servants from the keep, attendance to my sermons have been ebbing over the last few moons.”

“None of the converts from Wintertown have attended.” Mordane added.

“None?” Catelyn was surprised, she’d thought Winterfell’s Sept had a small but dedicated congregation.

The Septa was agitated. “I went down to ask after them a few days ago. Not ten minutes into my visit I caught a group of older dames, who I thought were the most eager worshippers, coming from some place in the woods.” Oh she was turning truly pink now. “They were happy to see me. They asked if I was going to visit the Godswood! Me, pray before a heathen tree!”

“Did you question them?” Cat was not happy with Mordane’s tone.

Chayle laid a calming hand on Mordane’s shoulder as she took deep breaths. 

“No one would come right out and say it,” Chayle was frustrated, but not furious as Mordane was. “though I suspect it has something to do with the arrival of the Direwolves.” he explained.

“That savage has corrupted the people, I know it! I see him out and about, going from house to house. The boy thinks himself a Maester!” Her septa couldn’t contain herself today it seemed.

Catelyn discreetly checked the hallway for any of the servants and noticed a slip of a dress poking from one end. Someone was listening, she had to be very careful about this. Her response wouldn’t not be kept private.

“Septon Chayle, Septa Mordane. While I truly appreciate your dedication, you must not forget that this is the North. The roots of the Godswoods run deep in these lands. It certainly brought me joy that some of the smallfolk found peace with the Seven, but there’s no way we can force them to be devout.”

Her answer didn’t satisfy the pair. 

“Lady Stark, I must insist that boy and those beasts be sent away. We were finally making progress, I know that if we truly pushed for it we could expand Chayle’s congregation.”

“There will be no talk of conversion in my house, Septa Mordane.” 

Catelyn’s fierce rebuke caught both worshippers off guard.

“This is the North and perhaps it's time you two realized that. My husband’s people do not believe that the Gods rest inside a temple. The Gods are in the wind that blow their mills, the rivers that hold the fish, the trees that feed their fires.”

“Lady Catelyn, surely you have not lost faith?” Chayle was certainly shaken.

“Of course not, Septon. I pray every morning and give thanks every night. That will not change. You two must come to terms with the realities of life north of The Neck. We live in a land where the snows can bury whole villages. When faced with that, would it not seem folly that a man dressed in silk is the only way the Gods can speak?”

Mordane was purpling and Chayle was frowning, looking down at his well-kept coat, a gift from the Most Devout when he came North.

“I am content with my small worship. We have no need to worry about the politics or the decadence so easily found in the South.” Catelyn continued. “In the past few moons I have begun to see the work of the Seven around us.” 

Beorn’s lessons, the few she had accompanied her children too had been interesting. He taught of the many facets of Northern History that none but a Maester would seek out. Her children were learning how the smallfolk farmed. How the various villages around Winterfell came to be, how they cooperated, and how they quarreled. They were also taught the wildly different traditions of the Old Gods, the way worship and tales changed from one castle to another. The openness of her children permitted her to learn about her husband’s faith in a way no servant or vassal had ever expressed. They knew she was of the Seven, and had long ago decided not to risk insulting her in some way. 

“The Seven are not here, Lady Stark.” Mordane insisted. “This place has never received their touch. That is why we must harken to the Great Sept and the High Septon. We have a duty to them.”

Catelyn shook her head, in truth she disagreed. “I see the Crone’s touch when the elder servants give advice to their young charges. I see the Maid when a wedding is joined in Wintertown. I see the Smith when wind and snow are pushed back so homes can be rebuilt. I see the Warrior when the guards return home safe and whole. I see the Mother when the laughs of my children echo in the halls. And I see the Father when my husband brings justice and peace to his lands.” She looked Mordane in the eyes then, “I see all that without having a grand Sept, or boxes of jewels sent south.”

Mordane couldn’t seem to accept Catelyn’s words. She curtsied and marched off, dissatisfied. Chayle was lost in thought but bid her goodbye and said he’d be in the library. He muttered something about history having an answer.

Alone again, Catelyn takes a deep breath. She turned the corner and opened the door to her rooms where her guests awaited. Swallowing her fear, she smiled and walked in.

Chapter Text

“Rickon! Watch your feet! You know Mother will be upset if you get dirty.” 

Sansa’s shouting had little effect as Rickon, with his unnamed direwolf pup, sprinted out of earshot. She took a moment to collect her wax tablet and parchment before following him out of the Godswood. 

Tucking her writing supplies into a satchel she took a moment to admire the leather stitching. It was a gift from her friend Jeyne Poole for her name day. It was a simple bag made special by the trim of roses stitched in white. Of all her presents, the bag had seen the most use. She hardly went anywhere without it. 

“Sansa!” 

Speaking of which, Jeyne was walking through the yard as Sansa emerged from the Godswood and called out to her.

“Where have you been?” Jeyne asked.

Sansa pointed to Rickon who was now trying very hard to climb Robb’s legs, while the pups tussled around the yard. She even noticed Lady and Berena nipping at each other. Sansa’s first instinct had been to keep Lady close and clean but with Green Eyes taking charge, all the little wolves were soon prowling and learning to hunt. 

“Rickon wanted to visit the Godswood and I was finishing up a poem.” Sansa explained.

Jeyne leaned against one of the inner walls, her smile dimmed. “Is it one of those weird poems that the Shepherd asked you to write?”

“Not at all.” Sansa denied. “This is a special verse that I’m writing for Robb’s name day.”

“Can I see it?” Jeyne leaned forward.

Sansa slipped the parchment to her friend while she watched Jon lift Rickon onto Robb’s shoulders. The trio all laughed at something Rickon said.

“You wrote this in that weird language!” Jeyne complained. “You know I can’t read it.”

Sansa apologised and tucked her work away. “I’m sorry, Jeyne, but the rhymes don’t work in the common tongue.”

“The common tongue was good enough before.” Jeyne muttered, walking toward the Keep.

“Jeyne, wait!” Sansa hurried to catch her friend. Following into the main hall she saw Jeyne make her way to her rooms and Sansa could hear tiny sobs the whole way. Sansa pulled Jeyne to a stop outside the Poole quarters. “What is wrong?”

“Oh nothing! Just you and your siblings are all busy doing secret Stark stuff.”

“It’s important stuff, Jeyne.”

“Says who?” 

“Says my father!”

Jeyne shrunk back at that statement. “Either way, what is Lord Stark thinking? Letting you learn from that savage? Septa Mordane says that he’s done no good and should be sent away from Winterfell.” There were still tears in her eyes as she rallied.

“Septa Mordane is not Lord here. She has no say in what my family decides is important.”

Hesitating, Jeyne shifted topics. “Well- well-, what about marriage? No Southern Lord is going to want to marry you when he finds out you’re being taught by some stranger in green robes and praying in the Godswood. You barely go to the Sept anymore, Sansa!” Jeyne accused.

It was true, with the extra lessons from Beorn and time spent with the direwolves, Sansa had found herself only going to the Sept for weekly service with her mother. Where she used to find contentment and enthusiasm when listening to the prayers of the Seven, now she felt somewhat hollow. The words were still pretty and the sentiments behind them were nice, but there was just something special about sitting in the leaves, braced against the Heartree, praying in quiet, that a Septon’s sermon fell short of. Guiltily, Sansa also noticed that she had more spare stags since she wasn’t giving it up to collection. Sansa hadn’t brought it up with her mother, but she knew Bran and Arya had already stopped going all together. 

Septon Chayle was nice enough, if a bit awkward at times. It was Septa Mordane that was starting to get on her nerves. Even with less lessons, the older woman had seen fit to cram what time they did spend together with lots of “advice.” 

An awful lot of that boiled down to, “Beorn is an evil savage, Father is being tricked, remember that you’re going to marry a great Southern Lord, and Arya is a lost cause.” It was all getting very tiresome. What was worse was that she’d found the Septa passed out in the sewing room more than once, with an empty bottle at her side! If this kept up she was going to ask Mother about setting Mordane straight.

“I don’t want to fight.” Sansa implored.

“Do you even still want to be my friend?” Jeyne cried.

“Oh, Jeyne!” 

Sansa rushed forward and enveloped her friend in a tight embrace. Resting their heads together, Sansa waited until Jenye had stopped sobbing, wiping away a few of her tears in the process.

“This wasn’t part of our plan, Sansa.”

“What do you mean?”

“You were supposed to be the perfect lady. Then when you were betrothed we’d both go South. I’d stay by your side when you ruled and find myself a brave, gallant Knight to fall in love with. Now, the servants are saying that Lord Stark is going to arrange for a Northern marriage.” Jeyne told her.

“I know.” Sansa told her.

“You know?”

Sansa nodded. “Father told me before my name day.”

“And you’re going to go along with it?” Jenyne was shocked.

“Yes, but, I wouldn’t leave you behind Jeyne.” Sansa added. “You can come with me wherever I go and I’ll make sure you have a good husband. Besides, why can’t we be happy here, in the North?”

Jeyne blinked and sniffled. “You’d still take me with you? Really? But I’m just a steward’s daughter.”

“Your father’s not just a steward. The Poole’s have served the Starks for generations. Even longer than the Cassels. I’m surprised your father hasn’t told you about it.”

“Father is usually busy, he trusts that Lady Stark will ensure I’m taught what I need.”

Sansa rolls her eyes. “Well I’m sure your ancestors would want you to know your own family history. You should ask him tonight!”

Jeyne hesitated then noticed some servants moving through the Great Hall. “You must have duties to attend to. I’m sorry for dragging you away.” 

“Mother asked that I spend time with some of the Bannermen’s daughters. Would you come with me?”

Jeyne’s eyes widened. “Would that be proper?”

A good question. Sansa didn’t have much experience with other Noble Ladies. She had been much younger when the Lords had gathered to celebrate Rickon’s first nameday and from what she could recall, they had spent most of the time throwing snow around in the yard. She and Jeyne were nearly adults now. 

Swallowing her fear, Sansa locked arms with Jeyne and passed her a handkerchief to dry her eyes. “I’m the eldest daughter of the Warden of the North.” Sansa straightened her back and frowned in a way she hoped replicated her father’s cool composure. “I’ve decided it is proper.”

Together the pair climbed the First Keep stairways to the upper levels. The sewing room door was open, projecting mutterings or the occasional laugh from within. Sansa made eye-contact with Jeyne then strode in.

It was the most crowded Winterfell’s sewing circle had ever been. Sitting beside the fireplace was Lady Umber and Lady Karstark conversing with Lady Tallhart. 

A cluster of the married women from Houses Cerwyn, Condon and Quall were sharing some food by the tables. Standing over the chest of needles and thread were yet more guests including Oma Umber. The only open chairs were by Alys Karstark and Eddara Tallhart.

When Sansa was finally noticed, everyone stood and greeted her. Sansa did her best to return the greetings and join in with the group. Lady Karstark made polite enough inquiries about her siblings, though there was a strange focus on Robb. Ladies Umber and Tallhart complimented her dress then praised her mother for the celebration feast and her hospitality. 

Leaving the older women to their conversation, Sansa took her sewing supplies and joined Jeyne with the girls closer to her age.

“Good afternoon, Lady Alys, Lady Eddara. Do you mind if we join you?” Sansa asked.

“Please do. We were just about to ask Lady Jeyne about life here at Winterfell.” Alys replied. 

The only daughter of Karhold was of an age with Jon. She was tall and skinny, her brown hair was woven into a simple braid that Sansa had noticed many of their visitors preferred. 

Eddara nodded along, “I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw the grounds. The castle is massive, truly a sight to behold. It must be a monumental task to keep the household in working order.”

The second child of Lord Tallhart was a comely girl with ruddy blonde hair styled into two short braids.

“We didn’t notice any of your Mother’s ladies-in-waiting, are they somewhere else?” Alys asked.

Sansa frowned. “Mother arrived from Riverrun with three ladies. Sadly, I never met them. One caught a fever and passed on, the other married a Knight from the Stormlands, and her final Lady had to return to the Riverland when I was but a babe. Mother never sent for replacements.”

Jeyne spoke up then, trying to lighten the mood. “I’m not really sure how the household is managed, Sansa and I spend most of our time in lessons with Septa Mordane.”

Alys and Eddara seemed surprised.

“We heard there was a Sept here,” Alys commented. “I never expected you to have a Septa. What’s that like?”

Sansa explained some of the basic lessons Septa Mordane had taught her, Jeyne and Arya. Her new acquaintances understood most of it even commenting that they learned similar things, to a point.

“I guess there’s not much of a difference between your Septa and our Matrons.” Eddara pointed out.

“Matrons?” Sansa asked.

Eddara nodded. “Most of the Houses in the North have Matrons. It’s similar to your Septa. Someone to educate you and teach you valuable skills. They’re usually either a family member or a member of a friendly House. My matron is Lady Tanner, she’s kin to my mother.”

“Do you have a matron, Alys?”

“Arra.” Alys nodded. “She was one of my cousin’s matrons but came to live at Karhold when I was five. She’s very shrewd about some things, but she runs a large dyehouse in Hilltop and I’ve learned quite a lot.”

“Her husband must be quite wealthy to own such a property.” Jeyne said while sorting through her sewing supplies.

“Her husband doesn’t own it, Lord Bardurn does.”

Sansa fumbled with her cloth bolt. “Is Arra’s husband one of Bardurn’s vassals then?” 

“No, Arra runs the dyehouse, Lord Bardurn owns the building.” Alys stated.

It seemed so strange to Sansa, Jeyne looked similarly gobsmacked.

Their guests took in their visibly confused hosts. “Arra’s father is a merchant who does quite a lot of trading with Lord Bardurn. If I remember correctly, Arra took over the dyehouse from Lord Bardurn’s good-sister many years ago.” Alys explained.

“I’ve never heard of a Lady doing something like that. What does Lord Karstark think of it?” Jeyne probed.

Alys turned her head and called out. “Mother? What does Father think of Arra?”

Lady Karstark turned to them, “Arra? Arra Cogstan? He thinks well enough of her. I believe he would prefer she’d go a little easier on her prices but I doubt that can be helped.”

Alys turned back. “Nothing untoward. Arra’s been dyeing clothes for Karhold for decades. I believe she even coloured my aunt’s bridal gown.”

“Ladies aren’t supposed to be merchants.” Jeyne asserted.

Alys looked to Eddara for some kind of help. Sansa suspected she was missing something.

“Ladies of Sansa or Alys’ station wouldn’t, of course.” Eddara hesitated before moving on, “Women of lower status often have to, it's quite common, Lady Jeyne.”

“I believe that Wintertown’s Linen House is run by a woman,” Alys informed them. “I know for a fact that Hilltop’s bakery is run by a mother and her three daughters.”

“I… I don’t understand.” Jeyne appeared rather lost, her stitchings untouched in her lap.

“Jeyne, if I may call you that.” Eddara gently stated. “Your family and mine are not often in the position that we can sustain our Houses solely on taxes alone. We must find other sources of funds. Whereas the Greater Houses can finance merchants or own buildings, our wealth is made through work. Especially once we reach marrying age, it’ll be harder to find a match if we don’t have some existing skills.”

“The stories and songs never mentioned that.” Jeyne told Sansa.

“I imagined the stories were about Princesses and Queens.” Eddara pointed out. “The idea is nothing new. In fact my family began from one such woman.”

“Truly?” Sansa asked for her benefit as much as Jeyne’s. “I must admit I’ve only just begun being taught about Father’s Bannermen. Would you care to enlighten us Lady Eddara?”

“Certainly, Lady Sansa.” Eddara reached over and refreshed herself with a drink. “The Tallharts are Masters of Torrhen’s Square, but we did not build it. Thousands of years ago my ancestors were simply small folk sworn to the Warg Kings of Sea Dragon Point. They were loyal but unhappy. My ancestors made their living off their deer herds. The Warg King gave his skinchangers the right to take any animal they could control as their own property.” 

“Does that mean they fought against the Kings of Winter?” Sansa asked.

“More than a few times I believe. At least until the final war.” Eddara confirmed. “King Gerrick Stark was the one to finally conquer Sea Dragon Point. It was on his final march that he encountered my family. The Stark army had marched through the Southern Wolfswood and stopped to make camp. That night they discovered hundreds and hundreds of rats had eaten through their supplies and spoiled the rest. The Warg King had sent the vermin to starve out his enemies before they could face him in battle.”

Jeyne gasped in shock.

“King Gerrick’s only choice was to either march back to Winterfell or scour the nearby villages for supplies. His men were saved when a group of herders arrived at their camp. The leader introduced herself and asked the King if he had come for the Warg King’s Crown of Claws.” Eddara paused here. 

Sansa laughed, “Don’t leave us in suspense, what did the King answer?”

“He said ‘No, I have come for the Warg King’s head, his crown shall be left to the crows.’ Then my ancestor and her children bent the knee. They brought King Gerrick to their deer and allowed him to slaughter half the herd. After the war, she was summoned to Winterfell and again knelt before the King. For her charity her family was granted that same piece of the Southern Wolfswood and even lumber rights to the sentinel trees within its borders. She and her children took the name Tallhart and the sentinel trees as their sigil.”

Jeyne clasped hands with Eddara. “That’s amazing, Eddara!”

“Thank you.”

“Does that mean Torrhen’s Square wasn’t yours originally?” Sansa wondered.

“You’re correct, though we were given the lands by the Starks we were in fact sworn to House Ryder, the former Kings of the Rylls.” Eddara explained. “When the Rylls rebelled, a prince of Winterfell rode against them. Torrhen Tallhart was Lord at the time and he led a rout against what was once the keep of Red Stables on Bridle Lake. After the war, Red Stables was renamed to Torrhen’s Square and the Tallharts were made its masters.”

“Do you still have your herds?” Jeyne asked.

“Indeed we do, as we are only a Masterly House we have to sustain ourselves somehow. My mother,” Eddara gestured to Lady Tallhart, who had a fine deerskin cloak draped over her chair. “is in charge of the harts. They are essential to our House’s prosperity. We do a lot of leather working and sell it to merchants from the Westerlands and Riverlands.”

“And Lady Tallhart oversees it all?” Jayne clarified.

“From breeding, to feeding, to butchering and tanning. Mother ensures that the skins are delivered to our port.” Eddara confirmed. “Working the skins is one reason I love leatherworking so much.”

“Jeyne is excellent at it as well.” Sansa told her.

Jeyne blushed, “Leather’s not like lace though, it can’t be used for proper dresses.”

Ignoring her, Sansa passed over her satchel to the other girls. Then sat back as Jeyne was complicated on her work and enjoyed their shock when her friend revealed she’d made the whole thing from scratch in less than three days.

A hand gently landed on Sansa’s shoulder, looking up she smiled at her mother and made room for her to join. All in all it was one of her favourite days she could remember.

‘I wonder if Father would let Eddara and Alys stay for longer?’ Sansa thought. ‘I wonder if they could bring their Matrons?’

////////////////////

Robb blinked down at the trail of ink that trailed off halfway through his word. He was learning very quickly that writing reams and reams of text was not easy on the hand or the mind. He had no idea how Maester Luwin did it. 

Leaning back, Robb cracked his neck while taking in Winterfell’s library. He’d spent dozens of hours in here, sometimes with Father and sometimes alone. None of his family would label him a reader, yet he pushed past his own boredom to study the Stark Histories.

One condition of being given access to the books was that he had to make a sincere effort to learn the Old Tongue. A necessity if you sought to browse anything written before 1000 BC. If you wished to read the older texts you had to contribute to making a new copy. 

Robb and Jon had made it somewhat of a contest on who could learn the fastest, and he was intent on winning. For his first copy, Robb had selected the writings of Theon “The Hungry Wolf” while Jon parsed through the records of Brandon “The Shipwright.” 

Father had been surprised at his choice and Mother somewhat unhappy. Regardless, Robb had to face the truth, he was half-Andal. Despite the First Man origins of House Tully, his mother’s line had left their pasts behind when the Seven came to the Riverlands. Theon Stark was one of the reasons the Andal Warlords never conquered the North. That was a man who interested Robb, a King who saved his Kingdom and was forever remembered.

Reaching over, Robb slid the ancient book into his lap; though it was not as ancient as they first assumed. A careful examination of the runes inscribed on the cover revealed that it was a copy made a decade before the conquest. Maester Luwin suspected it was a regular practice at one time. Another practice that Robb was helping to revive.

Carefully flipping to his marked page Robb recalled where he’d left off. 

‘Right, Theon had just received another report about the Andals clashing with the Petty Riverland Kings. He was particularly worried about the rumors that the Gardener Kings had welcomed the invaders to his court.’

The Hungry Wolf did not write often and he had the annoying habit of not providing exact dates. Robb flipped through lazily, but sat up straight when he saw a crude drawing of the Bolton Sigil at the header of the next section.

///////////////////

This is a day to remember. A messenger arrived at court, whose coat bore the Flayed Man. 

I stayed my blade long enough to learn he bore a message from the hand of the Red King, that cur Rogar, asking for my aid.

How I laughed, even my friend Barris could not withhold his humor. A rare sight from the Mountain Bear. 

Word has reached Bolton from the Flints that a fleet of these Andals has sailed through The Bite and made camp at the mouth of Weeping Water. The Huntsman fears they mean to take the Dreadfort.

While my gut tells me to leave the Flayed Men to their graves, I cannot deny that I yearn to test the mettle of these foreigners. Refugees from the Riverlands tell of some warriors called “nyghts” that break the flanks of men like water upon the sand. I’d like to see them break a line of Stark Riders. They would find our long spears and thick shields not so easy a foe.

I will admit, I fear their closeness to Skagos if the Dreadfort did fall. I have sent word to the Great Shepherd, though I doubt they have not already heard. 

Regardless, I have ordered a muster and bid messengers ride hard for Last Hearth. 

I shall return to Winterfell with blood on my axe and perhaps more.

--------

I sit now in my solar. My leg cramps horribly. The cut in my knee itches despite Dysa’s careful bandaging. 

These swords, “Iron” the Andals called it, are incredible. It almost made me believe they were gifts from their strange Gods. Though the prisoner’s say it is widely used across Essos. Their secrets shall be ours soon enough. The Wull and his scouts captured some craftsmen when we assaulted the Andal camps. 

As I’ve written before, the Weeping Water was truly a great battle. Now that the bodies have been burned and the maneuvers of the field accounted, I find it prudent to write on the greater achievement. The crown of the Red Kings now sits upon my hearth.

Rogar’s stubborn pride was easily my greatest asset. As expected, the Boltons would take nothing less than the vanguard and were determined to bloody the Andals. The Umbers say that Rogar wrote to me after weeks of debate. It is undoubtedly a signal of weakness for a King to seek the aid of his sworn rivals.

Just recalling the battle has my blood pumping. I shall write quickly and then return to Dysa.

Rogar and his footmen met the Andals head on and it was just as described. The metal-clad knights fell into the Flayed Men with ease that took my breath. The Bolton spears may have warned them off in some places, but the bronze tips only bent and cracked the enemy’s armor. Rogar eventually ordered what men he had left to wrestle the knights to the ground. They were an effective stoppage that allowed my army to secure victory. Though it was not a rout or even a slaughter, a true battle. 

(I would note the brave actions of Harryn Hornwood, a minor vassal of the Boltons. When the Andals cut down part of my guard and threw down my banner, he and his men reclaimed it and returned it to me. A sensible man, Hornwood, and supposedly one of the Bolton’s “least-favoured” bannermen.) 

It was that night, after I gave suitable rewards to my commanders and arranged a betrothal for my brother, that I bid Rogar take a meal with me in private. 

(For bringing me Sevenstar’s head, my old friend, Barris, shall see his daughter wed to my House. Karlon always did enjoy stouter women and his Mormont bride will be with child soon enough.)

The Huntsmen joined me with the crown of the Red Kings shining upon his brow. Such swagger he had. The idiot plainly hadn’t taken stock of his losses. When I pointed out that he had less than 2000 men remaining the man looked fit to break guest rights. Though he was quick to catch on. The Glovers and Umbers were camped between us and the Dreadfort, far enough away that they’d not shared bread and salt that day. He’d never make it there in one piece.

I will give him his due, he blustered and haggled for another hour before finally seeing the bloodbath that would follow. 

What would my forefathers say if they were there that night? To see the Red King cast his crown down before the King of Winter. 

Such a curious title, perhaps unfitting, it seems too small. 

For what foe would dare stand against me now?

Yes. These Andals have challenged not just one Kingdom, but the whole North. 

They shall see what happens when Winter Comes.

--------------

It is good to be home again. Andalos is a dirty, dry place. A land without weirwoods.

I will not write of what I have done. I doubt any of my sons or grandsons will need a reminder of my victories. 

I return to the North to find a new daughter born and a brother who has made me proud.

In my stead, Karlon ruled as the Stark in Winterfell. Joren has just learned to pronounce his own name and was safer under his care. 

What I did not expect was for betrayal to rise in my absence, more so after the Boltons came under my rule. The Ryders have always chafed, it seems they could not ignore my consolidation of the Kingdom.

As for the Boltons? Rogar will not march while both his sons live within Winterfell’s walls.

The traitors expected the Barrowlands to follow them to war for their own crown, but their hope was hollow. The Dustin instead sent word to Winterfell and joined Karlon on the march.

Honours and privileges were given and the last of the Ryders to bear the name waits in the dungeon. I shall sentence him tomorrow. Then the arduous process of remapping the Rills begins.

For Karlon though, more is needed. I have not told him yet but already I have spoken with Lord Umber and defined a border that will make up the western edge of his new lands. He shall keep a watch on the Narrow Sea and Andalos, while taking land and power from the Boltons.

We are powerful now and I plan to wield the power of the North as it is needed. Our neighbours, these Andal Kings, shall learn what it means to earn our fury. I await their insults with eager breath and an empty stomach.

/////////////////////

“Robb!”

The heir of Winterfell rocked back. Snapping his gaze up to see Theon, Theon Greyjoy, laughing at him from the doorway.

“Got your head in the books, Stark?”

Carefully, sliding his copies back in place, Robb rewrapped the Stark Histories.

“The words of ancient kings can be enchanting, I will not lie.” Robb replied.

Theon watched him tidy up the library, doused candles and refilled ink. “Bran said you were going through the life of The Hungry Wolf. Learned any lessons?”

Robb chewed his lip. Theon was making another joke but it was not a pointless question. Theon Stark had a taste for war, that much was clear even in the folk tales. His victories led to a thirst for it that had been seemingly unquenchable. Robb was eager to reach the writings about the Ironborn invasions and his battles Beyond-the-Wall.

Warring with the Ironborn. Robb’s father had continued that fine tradition, as had Theon’s he supposed. Time changes many things, but Robb wondered if some traits were dug too deeply into the blood to be forgotten. After all, the Boltons had given up their crown for thousands of years. But not even 500 years ago they had struck their banners and fought against Winterfell, with the help of the Greystarks no less! Were men trapped by time? It wasn’t a happy thought. 

Robb smiled as he half-listened to Theon’s newest story about a rumble with some lads at the tavern. They eventually make their way all the way into Wintertown and find their usual seats at the tavern.

“You’ve got more and more on your plate, Stark. Your Lord Father isn’t giving out breaks every once and awhile?” Theon took a quaff of his strong ale. 

“Aye.” Robb nodded. “I think he’s realised that he’d been giving me a second son’s education rather than an heir’s.”

“An heir’s education. I suppose I should be getting one of those.” Theon commented.

Robb frowned. “You are. Father doesn’t exclude anything just because you’re in the room.”

Theon pushed his third empty mug to the side. “I know. A good man, your father. What he’s teaching me...” The Greyjoy looked morose, a state he only showed in public when he’d had too much to drink. Mercifully, the tavern was empty save for a few sleeping greybeards. “I can’t help but feel like a waste of space. How much can I learn about the Iron Islands from a solar in the North. Maester Luwin has given me some books, but books written by Maesters from the Citadel are hardly going to tell how to captain a ship, how to rule my future lands. If I ever rule any future lands.”

Robb leaned forward. “What do you mean, if? You’re Lord Balon’s only living son. You're his only heir!”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Theon argued. “I’ll be kept here until my father dies. That could take years! Look at the Freys! I’ll be an old man with nothing but bastards and no wife. What a glorious Lord Reaper I’ll be, to have never sailed a ship in my life. At best one of my Uncles will rule in my name. What a glorious life that’ll be.” Theon was devastated and Robb had never heard such hurt from his friend.

“You should tell my father about your worries. He’ll help you find some way around this.” Robb insisted.

Theon shook his head. “Lord Stark has always kept his distance for a reason. All it would take is one raid, one word to the King that my father has broken the accord and my life is forfeit. If that day came, Lord Stark would do his duty.” Theon reached for his refilled tankard, but Robb pulled it out of reach. “I’m not a toddler Robb. I know that me being here is meant to bring the Iron Islands closer to the throne once I become its Lord. I wonder sometimes, though, if I’ll not make a mess of it all.”

“Fuck that!” Robb stood and slammed his hand onto the table. Theon rocked back and tipped off his chair. “You can’t just sit there and mope, with nothing but tears and drink on your feet. We are going to go to my father and speak to him. He’ll have some kind of idea. You can’t just give up now, Theon.” 

The redheaded Stark jumped over the table and pulled the taller boy up to his feet. “Your namesake was called The Hungry Wolf, not because he laid on his back and waited for a meal to be dropped into his belly. His enemies gave him that name because when he saw a prize, he opened his jaws and devoured it whole! Now get moving, the sun won’t wait.”

Robb shoved his foster-brother out into the road and paid for their meals. Taking a deep breath as they walked back to the Keep, Robb reflected on his earlier assumption. Time changes things, Theon Stark was the King of Winter one day, and the King in the North the next. If one Theon could earn glory, then who was to say another couldn’t do the same?

///////////////////////////

Chapter Text

A broken tower sat empty behind the walls of Winterfell. It was all but abandoned save for the crates and bags stored in the lower floors. This afternoon there was a young girl hiding among the nails and old leather. 

Arya looked through a crack in the main door, sweeping her gaze over the grounds, listening for any hint of her parents. Satisfied, she slunk back into the tower. Carefully climbing up the weathered stairs, Arya hopped into the makeshift bed she’d made for herself. The cot was nestled into the corner of the first floor’s chamber. Giving her a warm place to rest without being too far from the door.

Mussing up the old blankets and sheets she’d covertly pulled out of her mother’s storage chests, Arya eased back and took a deep breath. It was getting easier and easier to find Berena. She reached out, like she was trying to remember the details of a dream. The heartbeat of her wolf grew stronger in her chest until the rhythms matched. Just like that, Arya was in the Godswood laying with her mother. The smells washed over her, familiar now after weeks of living with them. 

Getting up, she gave her mother and father a lick before padding through the trees. The sun was high in the sky and there were plenty of people milling about. She could tell which servants worked for her family and which accompanied the visiting Lords by how they treated her. Winterfell natives gave her enough space to move by unhampered whereas the visitors sometimes changed direction or crossed the room. 

Taking the stairs into the main keep, Arya smelt her father. He was sitting at a table sharing a meal with a great big man with a neat beard and some kind of fish-man on his tunic. Making her way over, Arya nosed at her father’s knee. He looked down for a moment before smiling and giving her a satisfying scratch while he continued his conversation.

“I’m sorry, what did you ask, Wyman?”

“I was simply curious, my lord. While your offer is one I am very receptive to, I can’t help but wonder what might have motivated it. I won’t speak ill of anyone specifically, tongues wag as you well know, but there are whispers of young Lady Arya perhaps visiting the Cerwyns or even the Reeds. Regardless, Whiteharbor would welcome Lord Bran with open arms.”

Father took a sip of his wine. Arya wished she could understand what they were saying. The sounds were familiar yet when Arya tried to understand them she could only make out that certain words meant actions. 

“My children are no longer babes. I’ve been looking to the past just as much as the future. I must do what is right for my family and my bannermen. It would be good to have my family know the North and the North to know them.” Her father replied.

The large man nodded with a sly smile, “Then I applaud your wisdom, Lord Eddard. On another note, I reviewed the proposal you sent. A road leading to Moat Cailin is certainly an interesting idea.”

Her father’s hand returned to the table and Arya quickly lost interest. Leaving the dining hall behind she took a side passage down into the kitchens. There were always some leftover scraps for her and her siblings.

What she got instead of meat was the sight of her brother gnawing on a bone by the ovens. Walking over she got ready for a bit of play when she noticed there was something strange about Summer. No, it wasn’t Summer. Laying in the kitchens was someone else, someone behind Summer’s eyes!

Her heartbeat skipped and Berena’s didn’t, Arya was back in the tower. Pushing off her blankets Arya ran out of the tower. She bumped past a few guards and made her way into the family wing of the Keep. She ran right up to Bran and Rickon’s door and started knocking frantically.

Bran tore the door open and pulled his sister inside. The boys quarters were messy, with Rickon’s toys spilling across the floor and the desk covered in Bran’s drawings. Her younger brother’s eyes were wide as he settled her onto his bed.

“Was that you in the kitchens?” He whispered.

“Yes, you can see through Summer?” She smiled back.

He nodded, “I started dreaming a while ago. I thought I was just making it up but then I tore into a shirt and woke up to find the pieces still in Summer’s teeth.”

Bran and Arya took a moment to just smile at each other.

“Do you know what this means?” Arya asked, “We’re wargs.” 

Bran gasped, his seven year old mind taking in her announcement. “Have you told anyone?”

Arya frowned, “Not yet, I didn’t want Mother to get mad.”

“That makes sense.” Bran agreed. “”What else have you dreamed into?”

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean other than Berena. I go into Summer lots but sometimes I dream about this raven that’s nesting near the stables.” He explained.

Arya made plans to meet up with her brother the next day and talk more. With a goodbye she fled to her own quarters. After ensuring Sansa wasn’t around she crawled into bed and stewed on her jealousy. Bran was younger than her and he was already a better warg! 

It wasn’t fair, she could be just as good as Bran. She got up and went to the small window overlooking one of the courtyards. Ignoring the people, she scanned the roofs of her massive home. Winterfell was the biggest place in the whole world to her, there had to be more than a single raven roosting here. There! A grouse! The brown feathered bird was Theon’s favourite practice target when out hunting. Taking a deep breath, Arya kept her eyes locked on the bird. Her heartbeat grew louder and louder and she eventually heard the rapid pace of another heartbeat. One quieter and fainter than Berena’s. 

Arya started sweating, her vision was darkening as her heart attempted to catch up with the birds. It became harder and harder, Arya was running out of breath. The light from the window grew dimmer and dimmer until all was black. 

//////////////

“Arya? Arya, please wake up.”

A voice that sounded like Mother drifted to her ears as Arya slowly felt her body shift and move. She reached out and grabbed onto the warm hand resting on cheek. Arya opened her eyes and looked up at her mother, who smiled down at her. 

“Are you okay, dear?”

Rubbing her eyes, Arya thought she felt like Green Eyes had trampled her. Her muscles felt sore and her head had a dull ache.

“I’m fine. What are you doing here, Mother?” Arya lied.

Catelyn pulled the wet cloth from her daughter’s forehead and exchanged it for a goblet of water. Carefully bringing the cup up for Arya to sip.

“Your sister found you unconscious in your chambers. When you wouldn’t wake, she panicked and fetched us.” Mother explained. “Arya, what happened? Maester Luwin was unsure what could have caused this.”

“What do you mean?” Arya asked.

“You were in a dreamless sleep for the rest of the day and night.”

“A whole day!” Arya exclaimed. 

The door to her chamber opened and her father entered with Beorn and Maester Luwin not far behind.

“That was my reaction.” Her father knelt at her bedside and held her hand. “You had us worried, very worried.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.” Arya caught her father in a desperate hug. “I don’t know what happened.”

“I believe I can answer that, my lord.” Beorn added. “Arya, how long have you been skinchaning for?”

The Stark parents turned to their guest, who was staring at Arya. The young wolf tried hard to keep a straight face but crumpled under the intense stare of her teacher.

“Two moons.” She admitted. 

“Into Berena, I assume.” Beorn guessed which was answered by Arya’s slow nod. “May I ask what was different this time?”

Arya pulled her knees to her chin. “I was trying to go into a bird.”

Beorn sucked a harsh breath in. “That was very dangerous, my lady. Very dangerous and very unwise.” He rebuked. “Lord Stark, I’m afraid this is ultimately your judgment, but I must ask that Lady Arya be forbidden from any warging until she is deemed ready.”

“You can’t!” Arya protested.

Her father firmly held her shoulder. “Arya, this is a serious matter. You are meddling with things without our knowledge. You could have been injured or worse.” 

“I won’t do it again, just don’t say I can’t dream about Berena anymore!” Arya pleaded.

Her father sighed, “I’m sorry Arya, but until Beorn and I permit it, you are to cease this… magic. If you don’t you will be punished.” he declared.

Tears welled in Arya’s eyes. “It’s not fair!” she screamed. “Why do I have to stop when Bran can still do it?”

“Bran?” Her father said.

Arya realised her mistake too late. Beorn and Father both leaned in, “Arya, tell me the truth, has Bran also been skinchanging?”

It took only an hour for her parents to wring every last detail out of her; about her early dreams, her hideaway in the broken tower, meeting Bran in the kitchens and his bragging about the raven. Mother was obviously disturbed while Luwin seemed curious.

By the end of it all, Beorn looked amazed and troubled. He was explaining to Father something about how fast it took her and her brother to harness their gifts, whatever that meant. He was obviously surprised and Arya felt some pride in that.

On the downside, her mother informed her that she and Bran would be dusting the crypts for the foreseeable future. Worst of all, she had to miss out on the next camping night with Beorn! Life really was unfair sometimes.

/////////////////

“One last shot, Jon.”

“Alright, Ser Rodrik.”

Taking a deep breath of the chilled air, Jon pulled his bow string back to his chin. His callouses throbbed as he lined up his aim. The target had five arrows scattered across it. Jon let out his breath and released the string simultaneously. The arrow flew down the range and slammed into the target a few inches from his tight groupings near the top. They weren’t hitting the eye but Ser Rodrik looked satisfied.

“You’ve made significant improvement, Jon. A commendable job.” Ser Rodrik complimented. 

Jon unstrung his bow and set it back onto the rack. “Thank you, Ser. You’ve been very patient with me.”

Rodrik clapped his shoulder. “Patience has nothing to do with it. All masters-at-arms wish for eager students. Just a few moons ago you were still occasionally missing the targets entirely.”

“I’m afraid I’ll never be a master marksman.” Jon commented.

“No one expects you to be. What matters, is that if you're ever cornered with nothing but a bow, you won’t be at risk of killing a tree rather than the enemy.” Rodrik advised. 

Jon wrapped up his used arrows and bid his instructor goodbye. The morning light was waning and it looked as if an afternoon shower was rolling in. Taking a path back through the courtyard Jon stopped to observe the group of nobles gathered around Winterfell’s training yard.

The bannermen would be leaving at the end of the week, closing their half-moon visit. For Jon, seeing Father interact with his vassals was the most important part of the event. It was one thing to hear about how a Lord should interact with his men but another to watch Lord Stark weave between casual conversation and diplomacy. The few nights his father could spend with his children showed just how fatigued he was. Being the most powerful Lord in the North came with its own stresses in equal number to its privileges. Jon had a better understanding of the duties and expectations of leadership now.

Jon was still a young boy, so he couldn’t deny the pride he felt when the Lords and Ladies showed his father such respect and loyalty. They sought his opinions, his approval and vyed for his favour. Old dreams of being Lord of Winterfell were long dead, tucked away with childhood heart breaks. He couldn’t deny it though, and reasoned it was not a treasonous thought to yearn for that type of prestige. In truth he didn’t desire to steal Robb’s birthright. What he wanted was respect, authority and to inspire loyalty in his peers. 

“Lord Robb!” Greatjon Umber called out to the heir of Winterfell, who swiftly joined their conversation, while Jon watched.

Robb had done well to ingratiate himself with their visitors. Some of them, most notably Lord Umber and Karstark, had been taking his brother’s measure; subtle questions about the Old Gods, some comments on Northern history. Beorn explained that the Lords, in their own ways, wished to ascertain just how much of Lady Stark’s influence was present in her son. The building of the Sept, while seen as a kind gesture, was nonetheless a worrying piece of information for the bannermen. 

Robb had taken the initiative to crush any doubts about him. He and Jon had been permitted to join the Lords on their last hunt of the celebrations, and Robb had the honour of felling a sizable buck single handedly, impressing the Lords.

Robb caught sight of Jon and beckoned him over. Jon smiled but shook his head and turned inside. As he paced through the keep he saw Sansa and Arya sitting in one of the inner courtyards. His sisters had a collection of instruments spread out with them. They weren’t alone either, a number of noble daughters were there. Jon noticed the Manderly sisters dancing to Sansa’s flute tune.

The contingent from White Harbour had arrived a few days after Sansa’s celebration, apparently a storm had damaged the docks of their seat and Lord Manderly had been delayed. They were polite enough and Lord Manderly was a sight to behold all on his own.

He chuckled as Arya picked up a drum to play along with Sansa. It made him happy to see his youngest sister laughing alongside the other girls. He’d heard no words of complaint from Arya about any name calling in weeks. It most likely helped that the girls Sansa was becoming close to were not great beauties or perfect dancers either. 

Jon made his way deeper into the Keep, taking a longer path around the walls toward his father’s solar. Seeing his brother and sisters distracted Jon from the swell of nerves building in his spine. He’d confirmed with Steward Poole that his father would be handling some finances after he broke his fast, it was one of the few times Lord Stark was free of other company. It was his best chance to garner a private moment.

The young Stark would have preferred to amend this meeting until the Lords departed but last night’s announcement had backed him into a corner. It was fortunate that Lord Stark had taken the children aside to inform them of his decision before the feast.

//////////////////////

“Lords, Ladies, Northmen!” Lord Stark’s voice silenced conversations and froze dancers. “Please be seated. I wish to make an announcement.”

The benches and tables filled quickly.

“As we share this last feast I wish to thank you all for your gifts, both in objects and friendship. I see before me a finer collection of noblemen and women than any other kingdom in Westeros.” He proclaimed.

Cheers and toasts ran out with shouts of “Stark” and “The Quiet Wolf” echoing inside the ancient stone. 

“I have been blessed by the Gods with strong walls and swords. Above all that, I am most thankful for my beautiful wife and my many children.” 

Lady Catelyn blushed when toats to her were called, some even named her “The Mother of Winterfell.” The cold demeanor of some had been warmed by the wine and ale.

Lord Stark continued in a somber tone, “Many of you knew my father, Lord Rickard, and my older brother, Brandon.” His solemness resonated with the audience. “Some of you may even remember Brandon and Lyanna riding in the Rills and visiting the Barrowlands. My father ensured that as a Stark, my brother would know his lands and it was a sad fate that he never had the chance to rule it.” No tears fell from Lord Stark’s eyes but his grief swam in his tone.

“I look back on my own fostering with fondness and I would not deny my own children the opportunity to forge bonds of friendships and more with their future allies.” The mentions of fostering sent the entire hall into a storm of whisper and chatter. “Lord Karstark?” he called out.

The tall man rose from his seat, his grey beard pooling across his chest. “My Lord?” Rickard Karstark called back.

“Would you bear the honour and the responsibility of fostering my son, Robb? He has much to learn but I hope you have seen firsthand his convictions and spirit. I believe that the descendants of Prince Karlon The Noble would help him grow into a good man.”

The lord of Karhold’s gaunt face stretched into a smile, “I would bear it gladly Lord Stark, Karhold shall be a place of safety and plenty.” he responded.

The hall erupted in applause, a mixture of genuine pride and some begrudging jealousy. Lord Stark was not done however, he nodded to Lord Rickard then shifted his attention to another table. 

“Lord Manderly! My second son, Bran, has ambitions to become a master of the sword and saddle. White Harbor has always held steadfast and your warriors are among the North’s finest. Would you bear the honour and responsibility of fostering him? Your forefathers landed on our shores a thousand years ago and never once have the Wardens of the White Knife failed us.”

Lord Manderly’s large cheeks were folding in on themselves to contain his grin. “We would, my lord. The white walls of New Castle shall give young Brandon all the skills he desires and more!”

Lord Stark nodded in thanks and allowed Lord Wyman to enjoy his praise.

“Lord Robett Glover!”

The man’s deeply-lined face barely twitched as he stood and bowed.

“In the place of your brother, Lord Galbart, would you agree to take on the honour and responsibility of fostering my younger daughter, Arya? She has heart and a great love for the land. Can I trust your House to nurture and educate her, so that she may become an exemplar of House Stark? Since the fall of the Warg Kings, Deepwood Motte has served as a shield of the West, and the Glovers have been valiant Masters.”

Lord Robett nodded, “In the name of my brother, I accept this responsibility.” 

His solemnace might have earned scorn in King’s Landing, but Robett received some of the loudest applause, and far and away the most congratulations. Likely the Lords around him thought it proper that House Glover be rewarded for the actions of Ethan Glover during the Rebellion.

Lord Stark noticed the attention Sansa was now garnering, with some minor Lords even casting their gaze to Jon, who sat with the Stark guards. If Rickon had not already been put to bed he’d likely be more of a focus.

“As for my eldest daughter, Sansa shall remain here at Winterfell, but not alone. I shall be inviting Ladies to act as companions for my daughter and Winterfell shall be open to visits from a number of Houses in the coming years.”

With a final nod, Lord Stark gestured to the minstrels and the music rose while he sat back and leaned to his wife. The hall was bustling and no doubt the next day would see Maester Luwin busy, as documents and letters flew from ink to raven then across the skies.

/////////////////

Jon had been shaken by the news. Living in Winterfell without Robb and Arya was unthinkable to him. Despite Sansa’s improved demeanor towards him and Lady Stark’s somewhat tolerant attitude, Jon knew that by the time Robb rode out in a few years, he wished to already be gone.

Clutched in his hands was the letter of introduction Beorn had been kind enough to write for him. The Shepherd adamantly refused to send the message to Torrhen Wolftongue without Lord Stark’s express permission and approval. Thus, Jon now stood outside the solar, working up the courage to enter. 

Swallowing, Jon knocked quickly on the door. 

“Enter!” his father commanded.

Slipping into the warm chamber, he bowed to Lord Stark out of habit. The formality, which only a year ago separated the Lord and his natural son, had been warped by the strengthened ties of the Stark family. His father smiled and leaned back from his desk, covered with account books and missives. Sticking out on the corner of the surface were two open books, Cregan Stark’s journals. 

“What did you need, Jon?”

Looking back to his father, Jon shuffled forward, keeping the letter tucked behind his belt.

“The news about the fosterings went well.” He noted.

“Yes, the Lords have been waiting for this. More than I first assumed.” Father admitted.

Licking his lips, Jon pushed on. “Do any of these plans involve me?”

Lord Stark’s eyes snapped to Jon’s. He frowned, “No, Jon. If they did I would have told you with the rest of the children.”

Jon stopped himself from mirroring a frown, keeping his mouth shut, he pulled the letter out and placed it in the center of the desk. 

Noticing his son’s silence, Lord Stark plucked the letter up and unfolded it. His forehead creased as he parsed through Beorn’s writings. Looking up from the letter, Jon decided to cut his father off first.

“I want to leave Winterfell. I want to see the North.” Jon ploughed forward. “I would love to serve Robb one day. This is my home, some days I can’t even imagine waking up somewhere else. Now though, with everyone leaving, I don’t want the castle to become a cage. I want to belong somewhere, somewhere I can be more than just ‘Lord Stark’s other son’.” 

Jon stopped, and took in a number of deep breaths. It had come out without much control on his part. The fear he’d pushed down earlier had rushed back up and taken control of his lungs.

Coming back to, Jon watched his father for a reaction. Seeing nothing but a blank look and sad eyes, Jon suddenly felt like a foolish toddler. Turning on his heel, he charged out of the solar. He prefered to receive chastisement later than to have his wishes broken before his eyes. 

/////////

The room was empty and undisturbed, Jon’s visit so abrupt that Ned took a second to look at the letter left behind to reassure himself it happened at all. Rising, Ned walked over to his hearth and contemplated throwing Beorn’s letter into the flames. Kill the idea when it was still nothing but words on a page. 

Taking a deep breath, his mind turned back to the books resting on his desk. Cregan Stark, “The Old Man in the North,” was one of the few Starks that was well known to the Southern Courts and smallfolk alike. His writings proved that the general perception of Cregan being a dangerously cunning man and a bit of a brute, was nearly true. As far as any outside reputation can be.

Creagn had not lived a stable life. Deaths, successions, famines and a number of crises mostly gone unremembered by the Maesters, had wizened the elderly Lord. Ned had already begun copying down pages of information and maps made by his forefather for future reference. In particular, the extensive section of Southern politics from his time as Hand to the Targaryens.

Unlike some other journals, Cregan wrote little of his personal thoughts and emotions. His children being one of the few subjects that elicited a semblance of prose from the man. Grief over his heir’s death in Dorne led to a streak of protectiveness for his second son, Jonnel. In his waning days of health, Cregan lamented that Jonnel had been kept in Winterfell, sheltered but also isolated from his peers and younger siblings. Cregan felt that Jonnel had missed out on something and admitted that his heir had come to resent him for chaining him so tightly to his side.

Ned looked out into Winterfell’s grounds. There, in the small clearing of the Godswood visible from his chamber, he saw the form of Maw herding his pups. Where the rest of the wolves were lunging and tumbling, the clear white pelt of Ghost stayed pressed to Maw’s side. 

Ned felt a throb in his chest, his heart quickened for a few seconds. Ghost should be out among his brothers and sisters, he wouldn’t be able to hunt if he did nothing but cling to the legs of others. Pressing a hand over his breast, Ned took deep breaths to calm his blood. Maw, meanwhile, leaned down and pushed Ghost forward. The pup was unsure and turned back, which prompted Maw to give him a firm lick and another push. Cautiously, Ghost trotted off into the fray and in no short time was howling and jumping like the rest of them.

Smiling, Ned looked down at Beorn’s letter. Striding to his desk, Ned pulled a sheet of parchment from its drawer and refreshed his quill. If his distant cousin was going to be watching over Jon there would need to be expectations and a measure of trust established first. 

Pausing, Ned realized he would need to come up with some reason for sending Jon to a supposedly vicious island, ruled by nobles who only barely qualify as “Lords.” Whatever trouble he’d have to face, for Jon, for Lyanna’s son, Ned would cross any obstacle.

////////////////

Chapter Text

Time flies as quick as a raven and slow as a snail, or so Old Nan liked to say. The elderly caretaker was focused on the youngest Stark at the moment. Rickon had fussed all day. Father had taken their youngest sibling aside and explained that Bran, Jon, and Arya had left and would not be back for quite a while.

If Robb was any younger he’d be as miffed as Rickon. Age did not permit him such immaturity, he was the heir to Winterfell. He’d hid any tears and trembles in the strong embraces he’d given Bran and Arya, only letting some of his stress escape when he and Jon had bid each other farewell. Jon’s mop of hair riding away from the castle had nearly broken his composure. 

The entire castle felt empty. Breakfasts were over quickly, with less conversation and even fewer arguments. Mother concentrated on Rickon and Sansa while Father focused on him. It was a new experience, having Father’s undivided attention. In the short months following the separation, Robb’s parents took an unexpected amount of time with him alone. Days of lessons with Father, trips into Wintertown, and calming nights by the fire listening to him recount tales from the Vale.

Theon quickly left for his own adventure, accompanying Steward Poole on a visit to Torrhen’s Square. Winterfell’s “ward” was set to spend the next few moons learning about the art of sailing first hand, along with a number of other topics related to trade and agriculture. His friend had been so excited for the trip he’d barely stepped foot in the Wintertown brothel, though his taste for ale hadn’t disappeared.

Now bereft of the other boys, outside of the yard Robb spent his downtime either in the stables or the library. Walder was a well-meaning man, not to mention a deft hand with the horses considering his size, but there was only so much Robb could monopolize his time. The stablemaster had a family to look after. Thus on stormy nights, when the castle had settled down, Robb found his comfort in the library.

The secret Stark histories that had once seemed so insurmountable were now manageable. Thanks to Maester Luwin, Beorn, Jon, and Robb, not to mention Father, the thick volumes were steadily being sorted, organized, and most importantly, copied. 

The Hungry Wolf had fascinated Robb and he’d devoured as much as he could find written by and about the notorious King. When that well ran dry, he’d turned to some of the names that Theon Stark himself had mentioned; Kings of Winter who had ruled in the truly old days, back before the Andals and before the North as Robb knew it was formed. Starks who had looked at their borders and saw not neighbours, but vassals-to-be. 

Men and women like King Jon and Queen Delra, who scoured the coast of the Bite of both raiders, pirates, and disloyal nobles. Their crowning achievement, The Wolf’s Den, cemented Stark hold on The Bite for thousands of years. Jon’s son, Rickard “The Ranger”, built on his parent’s legacy and annexed the Neck, defeating the Marsh King. 

Conquest was more than just winning a battle, as Robb was learning from both his own ancestors and recent history in equal measure. The only reason that King Jon was able to build the Wolf’s Den was by winning the allegiance of House Rudel, the ancient rulers of the Sheepshead Hills and owners of deep quarries. 

That stone did not come cheap. King Jon’s initial forays in diplomacy were met with blatant hostility. House Rudel’s grey-bearded patriarch and prideful heir had no desire to submit to House Stark, and their proximity to the Widow Kings gave them a measure of leverage in negotiations.

Rudel’s eldest daughter, however, had a different idea. Robb was shocked as he read Queen Delra’s account of the planning and negotiating with the Lady of Sheepshead. Bribes were given, secrets passed and mercenaries hired. 

In the end, the Starks orchestrated for Lord Rudel and his heir to have a chance encounter with a band of suspiciously well-armed raiders, that ended in their tragic passings. Before the surviving vassals could begin fighting for the right to marry the newly named Lady Rudel, King Jon arrived in force to protect and ensure the Lady’s rule.

It was dishonorable to say the least. Robb wouldn’t have called it assassination yet the entire affair stank of it. Except the results spoke for themselves, the quarries were opened, the Sheepshead Hills swore fealty to Winterfell, and The Wolf’s Den was built. 

Ruthlessness went hand in hand with mercy. The logs made to account for the deaths and births during harsh winters proved that. Honour and justice existed in times of plenty with little problem but Robb was learning that the Starks of old had a little problem with discarding their pride for victory.

The account of the Greystarks and their rebellion was especially poignant. As a cadet branch granted rule of The Wolf’s Den, they served as a powerful extension of royal authority and maintained a strong presence at sea. “Fierce as Winter” were their words.  From what Robb could find, they had held little wealth, most of their resources going toward skirmishes with both pirates and Valemen. A letter to Winterfell indicated their fleet and men suffered heavily during the War Across the Water.

It was during the reign of King Bened Stark that the Boltons rose in rebellion for the first time since they had bent the knee. Their war was carefully planned and to accomplish their goals, the Red Kings reached out to the disgruntled and envious Greystarks.

There was little written about the rebellion aside from a small mention of King Bened receiving a warning before the traitors first struck. The Bolton Lord who’d orchestrated the uprising had certainly been skilled with words but was outclassed on the field. Key battles were won quickly and overwhelmingly in the King’s favour. This military might was attributed to King Bened’s close advisor, Venned Cerwyn. The Boltons crumbled and the Dreadfort surrendered when the would-be Red King was paraded in chains. 

The Greystarks put up a token effort but their own armies faced mass desertions after the taking of the Dreadfort. It only increased as the King of Winter closed in on The Wolf’s Den. What few battles they had fought left the cadet branch whittled down to a trio of brothers with no issue of their own. All three would be the last to bear the name Greystark and were sent to serve the rest of their lives on the Wall. 

All in all the fate of the Greystarks was a well-told tale that had survived through the centuries relatively in-tact. The message was all too clear. The Stark’s were not above removing threats to their rule, even if those threats shared a name. 

At least the Greystark’s punishment ended at the Wall.

Robb had found a vague fragment from an even older journal that described exploits of House Stark when they were subjugating the Mountain Clans, their first vassals. The most vicious of their enemies were called “The Hornhelmed” and rather than bend the knee to the direwolf, one of the first Stark Kings chased the clan all the way across the Bay of Ice. Exiling them Beyond-The-Wall, forbidding their return south upon pain of death.

Coming back to his senses, Robb reached up and checked the buckles on his saddle. His horse was one of several waiting in Winterfell’s courtyard as guards and stablehands rushed around them. He noticed Father speaking with Ser Rodrik, who had already mounted his own steed, then he made his way over to Robb.

“You have everything?” Father asked.

Robb nodded, “Nothing but my old clothes were left behind.”

“Good, good.” His father bent down to give Grey Wind a parting pet. 

Making eye contact, Father stepped forward and gently gripped Robb’s shoulders.

“You are my son, Robb. I am proud of you and your future holds so much promise, I’m sure of it.” Father’s quiet resolve had Robb holding down a blush.

“I’ll try my best, Father,” Robb vowed.

“The North is a harsh place, son, but it is the hearts of our people that keep the cold away. Don’t forget where you come from or where you will return.” Father said.

“I could never.” Robb protested. “I’ll be the Warden of the North one day, I can’t well do that from Karhold.”

 “You certainly picked up Benjen’s wit.” His father laughed. “Take this opportunity to learn, out of my shadow, what kind of Warden you will be,” Father advised. “The North is a heavy burden, not borne easily.”

Father’s smile was strained now, tight. Before Robb could respond, he was pulled into an embrace and then left behind as his father ordered for the escort to make ready.

Soon they were on the road towards Karhold. Robb took in his last sights of Winterfell. The strong walls, familiar halls and the image of his father, shoulders hunched and eyes strained, flashed before him. 

Robb kept his worries hidden.

What would Winterfell, and The North, require of him? 

What would it take from him? 

Could he give it, when called upon?

//////////////

The lands of the Karstarks were much the same as his own family’s. There were differences. The air had a more persistent chill and you could occasionally catch the scent of the sea on the breeze. The endless sight of the Wolfswood was absent, replaced by hills dotted with brush rising between thick patches of trees.

They’d taken the long route, following the King’s Road up to Umber lands and after a short visit to Last Hearth, they took the older tracks east. After two weeks they crossed into Karstark territory. 

A few members of Robb’s escort had been there before, both as guards to Lord Stark and as message carriers. There wasn’t much to say according to them, though he was warned that the vassals of Lord Karstark tended to be more vocal, more “belligerent”, than what Robb was used to. The frequency of Wildling raids and the more common bandit groups made the Lords of these lands fully willing to take any advantage they could get. 

It was something to keep in mind at the very least.

His first sight of Karhold was interesting. Unlike Winterfell, Karhold was a smaller castle, built strong but compact. It laid across two tall hills above a forested river, with the keep connected to the main gate by an ironwood drawbridge. A smaller hill sat a ways away from the castle, dotted with houses and buildings. 

The countryside was certainly active. They passed by fishermen, merchants and laborers every so often. Each group slowed when they caught sight of the Direwolf banner, briefly paying their respects. Robb noticed none of the travelers were unarmed, even the occasional elder had a small knife or hatchet strapped somewhere.

Robb took note of a large party emerging from Karhold’s gate.

“They are prepared for us.” Ser Rodrik said.

Father had given him 30 men for the trip and 10 were to remain permanently. Well over 50 guards approached on horseback, with at least one Karstark leading them. From this distance, Robb knew it wasn’t Torrhen or Eddard, so it must be Harrion, the heir.

“Lord Robb, welcome to Karhold!” The noble proclaimed.

Harrion was only a few years older than Robb but he already had the beginnings of a thick beard with a fierce slant to his features.

“Your hospitality is greatly appreciated, Lord Harrion. Lady Alys sends her regards.”

Harrion smiled, “I expected as much. Her letters have been thick as bark lately, she and Lady Sansa are not ones to be idle.”

The two parties merged and moved uphill. 

“Not a day went by where they hadn’t found some new inspiration,” Robb commented.

Quick chatter filled the air as they passed across the drawbridge, the courtyard beyond was filled to the brim. It seemed Lord Karstark wished for every member of his household and staff to witness Robb’s arrival. 

It was a pleasure to reunite with the other Karstark sons. In quick order, he was bundled off into a tour of the castle complete with introductions to the Steward, Master-of-arms, Captain of the Guard, and on and on. Robb barely had a moment to breathe before he was seated at a feast. His fostering began at a brisk pace and would not slow down for many weeks. It became apparent that even without the library, there would be little time to rest. 

Over the next six moons his days were filled with training, riding and dozens of hours spent either with Lord Rickard or Harrion. Robb saw every inch of Karhold, doing his best to learn which servants were in charge, which guards had the most sense and who was favoured. 

Harrion Karstark took his duties as heir seriously, urging Robb to tag along as he kept a close watch on his home. Gossip, rumor, feuds; Harrion kept abreast of it all. To be sure, the man rarely intervened or meddled. Robb questioned all the effort it took, but Harrion proved the wiser when an envoy from a farmstead arrived, bearing an official plea for assistance. A large number of their cattle had been stolen. Harrion stepped forward and added that hunters in the same area were also noting suspicious tracks and a lack of game.

Whereas normally Lord Rickard might have sent out a small party to assess the situation first, with both the farmer’s word and his own son’s confirmation, Robb’s host had all the proof he needed. Harrion, Robb, and Torrhen set out two days later with 30 guards and a trio of hunters. With Grey Wind at their side, hounds were unneeded.

Their search eventually led them to a sparsely used patch of land northwest of Karhold, running close to the Bay of Seals. They found evidence of temporary camps and the bodies of two herdsmen. Harrion had declared their prey Wildlings, crafty ones too. Likely experienced, since fresh raiders usually kept close to the Wall. “Experienced” was an understatement. The raiders had caught onto their hunters and ambushed Robb’s company days later. Small pits in the trail tripped the front riders and in the confusion, arrows peppered them. Harrion rallied the men and on foot he charged the hill the raiders had hidden in. 

The battle was a blur to Robb. He recalled moments. A bronze spear, skewering a Karstark man. An axe, crashing into Torrhen’s arm. A woman’s neck, crushed in Grey Wind’s jaws. The blade Father had given him, cutting into an old man’s gut.

Of the twenty wildlings, four surrendered. Robb was surprised when Harrion declared that they would judge the survivors there and then. They hadn’t the time or the manpower to bring the prisoners back with them, not if they wanted to keep their own injured men healthy. 

Normally, Harrion’s word would have been final. He was in essence acting with Lord Karstark’s voice. Robb however, was technically acting with Lord Stark’s. He could have pushed for the prisoners to be brought back to Karhold, but Robb knew he was the follower in this case, and to usurp Harrion’s authority would be an insult. He agreed and took two of the heads himself. The first time he had given the sentence and swung the sword. 

/////////////

Lord Karstark was understandably proud of his sons and his ward. Torrhen’s wounded arm scarred quite badly but otherwise, he would recover fully. Robb’s relationship with Harrion and the other men of Karhold shifted upon his return. A few weeks passed before he noticed. They were freer with their interactions, whereas before there had been a noticeable distance, now the guards and servants treated him more like Torrhen and Eddard, as a true member of the household. It implied a level of respect and trust that was earned in combat, a unique relationship that was formed in spite of his House name. 

Regardless of the new dynamic within Karhold, Robb still longed for his family. Especially so after sending off a batch of letters home, with details of the Wildling ambush to his father. Jon’s letter went unsent, he wasn’t even sure where to send it.

Memories prompted Robb to take a day’s trip to the town of Hilltop. A modest market offered nothing special and the ale was average, bordering on poor. It took two pints of that mediocre drink to embolden Robb. He tried to subtly question the innkeep as to where he might find some Shepherds. Subtlety was not his strong suit and the innkeep was most definitely having a laugh at his expense. Awkward emphasis and double meanings rewarded Robb with directions to an older building along the outskirts of the town, placed right by the path to the Godswood.

The home had two floors over a sturdy stone foundation. The door was inlaid with a striking carving, depicting a sun over what Robb guessed was a Heartree. Grey Wind was relaxed as he approached. Robb took a deep breath then knocked on the door.

A woman with brown hair and thin eyebrows answered. She was dressed in a thick coat and skirt, with a sheep pelt drawn over her shoulders. Any greetings were interrupted when her gaze locked onto Grey Wind. She pulled her shoulders up, straightening as she addressed him.

“Lord Stark, I presume?” She passively asked.

He gave a slight bow, “Robb Stark. I was hoping to speak with a Shepherd.”

“Truly? Then we would be honoured to host you. I am Kara, please come in, my lord.” She answered. Robb caught her eyes still sliding over the direwolf.

“Stay,” Robb ordered Grey Wind, while he moved inside.

The door was shut softly and Robb took in the large common room. A healthy fire sat in a pit in the middle of the room. The pit itself was surrounded by carpets of thick furs with low tables covered in wood, stone and some kind of tools. 

“We have a guest, Addys. Lord Robb Stark has come to speak with a Shepherd.” Kara had walked over to a younger girl, probably in her twenties. Addys, he supposed, bowed from her place at a table dipping strips of linen into some discoloured liquid. 

He accepted her greeting but stayed focused on Kara. His host had drifted over to the stairway nestled in the corner and disappeared onto the second floor. Addys offered him bread and salt, which he accepted graciously. Just as he swallowed his mouthful, Kara returned leading another woman, perhaps a few years older than his mother.

She sat down at one of the low tables and gestured for him to join her. The furs were evidently set over some kind of straw pillows, they were quite comfortable.

“Lord Stark, welcome to our home. I am Derwyn Redhand. Kara said that you were seeking a Shepherd?”

Robb nodded. “Yes. In truth, I would normally have written to the Shepherd of Winterfell but a letter seemed too impersonal. I was hoping you might have some wisdom.”

Derwyn smiled, “Depending on the subject, I worry we may not be of much help to you.”

“Are you not a Shepherd?” Robb asked.

“Oh yes, and unlike Kara or Addys, I grew up on Skagos.”

“Then why would you be less capable than my home’s Shepherd? A young man, less experienced by all accounts.” Robb wondered.

“It is the nature of our people. Roots grow to fit their soil and while a tree’s trunk may mirror its neighbors, beneath the ground they are unique. If you wish to know of war or perhaps swordwork then you will find disappointment here.” 

“Is your name not Derwyn Redhand? That title strikes me as one born of battle.” Robb commented.

Addys hid a laugh.

“They call me Redhand, Lord Robb, because I have delivered so many children and animals. They joke that my fingers have been dyed red from the wombs.” Derwyn answered.

Robb’s blush was caused by the fire and his own cloak, certainly not by embarrassment.

“Healing may be just what I need.” Robb insisted. “It has been nearly half a year since I left home and every day I learn more and more what it takes to fulfill a Lord’s duty.”

“Do you fear your birthright?” Kara asked.

Robb swallowed. “I fear I may fall short of it.” He admitted.

“Then leave,” Derwyn said.

“What?” Robb was shocked, that had been the last answer he’d expected.

“Put together a nice little chest of coins, hire a ship and leave. You wouldn’t be the first Lordling to buy a life of comfort rather than duty.” Derwyn added. 

“I would never!” Robb exclaimed. “Nothing could force me to abandon my duty, not to mention my family.”

Derwyn looked at him closely, “You seem so certain.”

“Of course I’m certain!” Robb asserted. “I may be uncertain of my ability but I have no doubt in my conviction. Nothing could make me stray from my duty.”

“Lord Stark, you are a man, a mortal man.” Derwyn told him.

“My father is a man, a dutiful and honorable man!”

“Your father has never made a mistake? Has never strayed from his role?” Derwyn asked.

Jon’s face flashed through Robb’s mind. The stories that Septa Mordane used to tell about bastards being born from sin. He’d never truly thought of Jon as a burden, less so had he considered that sin to be his father’s.

“There will inevitably come a time, my lord, when you will be forced to choose between what duty dictates and what you desire.” Derwyn counseled. “If you hold too tightly to either motivation, you will find nothing but tragedy.”

Robb stood abruptly. His face was closed off. “Thank you for your hospitality, Shepherds. I bid you a good day.” Robb threw open the front door. “Grey Wind! To me!”

As the young Stark strode back towards town. He resolved to push the Shepherd’s words from his mind. 

“I’m a Stark.” Robb reassured himself. “I will always do my duty.”

//////////////////

More moons passed, life continued. Robb grew more skilled while he became closer to his foster brothers. Grey Wind grew larger and had the run of the kennels, the other dogs learned quickly not to challenge the wolf; though the people of Karhold had not truly taken to his companion. Grey Wind himself wasn’t enamored with Karhold. The Godswood was quite small in comparison to Winterfell’s and he missed his pack as much as Robb missed his family.

Robb must have shown progress, because soon enough he’d been instructed to accompany Harrion on another journey, the trust of Lord Karstark was not easily given. Their goal was to mediate between two feuding Houses in the south. House Tarmad and Brookbirth were minor houses that both held territory near a plentiful river. Their disputes had grown in magnitude over the years. This was the fifth time in 15 years that House Karstark had been forced to intervene. 

Their party arrived at Tarmad Tower quickly, only to find an encampment of Brookbirth soldiers within eyesight of the keep walls. Robb watched Harrion cloister himself for a week with both Lords, fending off the looming battle with reams of papers, complaints and accusations. Robb kept the guards on their toes and ensured their party was fed and watered.

He learned quite a lot from the negotiations. Particularly how reason and authority could be thrown into the dirt by sheer pride. It became clear that this new dispute concerned a dozen different matters, some new, some old. All of it seemed irrelevant to Robb. These Houses were being ordered to set down their arms and if they refused, House Karstark would force them to. 

He was confident that Harrion would eventually force their compliance. The Karstark heir was skilled at arguing people into submission. That certainty was why Robb was surprised when the Tarmad Steward approached him one evening, two weeks into their visit.

“Lord Stark, forgive my interruption.” The Steward was middle-aged with traces of grey in his scant hair. 

They were not alone; four Karstark guards stood by Robb and a trio of Tarmad men had entered with the Steward.

“It is no bother, I was just going to enjoy the night air.” Robb replied.

The Steward checked the hall they stood in. His followers were armed and nervous.

“I must ask you to accompany me, my lord. I have just received evidence of yet more Brookbirth crimes. Their guilt is now certain.” The Steward declared.

“Why come to me then? Lord Harrion shall pass judgment, not I.”

“I will, my lord.” The Steward insisted. “But I wished to ensure there was another who could verify my words. If you’ll follow me?”

Robb was swiftly taken down to the small dungeon underneath the tower. More Tarmad guards watched a cell, where four men sat chained to the wall, rough bandages covered their arms and faces.

“What is the meaning of this?” Robb demanded.

“These poachers were captured on the edges of our lands. That one,” The Steward gestured to the prisoner in finer clothes, “killed one of our woodsmen.” He handed Robb a small knife. Its hilt was covered in dried blood but visible on the pommel was the Karstark sigil. 

“The woodsman was one of Lord Karstark’s favoured men?” Robb guessed. He’d seen a few smallfolk with these treasures, rare rewards for exemplary service to their liege lords.

“Yes. He’d fought under your own Lord Father during the Rebellion.”

Robb frowned and looked to the cell, the prisoners had noticed him and the supposed-killer had pulled himself up straight. “Whoever you are, I beg you, see sense. The Tarmad’s have imprisoned me under baseless claims.” The man yelled. “I am a cousin to Lord Brookbirth, he will not stand for this!” 

If that was true, Robb had just stepped into a truly dangerous situation. The Brookbirths were already baying for blood and an imprisoned kinsmen was more than enough of an excuse. 

He looked at the knife clutched in his hands. The chances were high that these men were murderers and poachers, which could not be ignored. Robb was duty bound to see them tried for their crimes, heedless of the current tensions. He was unsure of the Steward’s motivations. 

“Open the cell, the prisoners shall be leaving with us.” He commanded the Karstark guards. 

Robb turned to the Steward, the man’s face was pale. 

“My lord, what are you doing?”

“Go find Lord Harrion.” Robb told Karls, the senior guard.

Robb left the dungeons with the prisoners chained between his men. The Steward ran after him, upset and afraid. “You cannot do this, Lord Stark. These men were to remain in the dungeon!”

“If you wished them to remain hidden, why did you involve me?” Robb demanded.

“You were supposed to inform Lord Harrion! This was meant as leverage against the Brookbirths.” 

Robb turned down the hallway and caught sight of Harrion arrayed with the rest of their men by one of the doors leading to the courtyard. Ignoring the Steward, Robb walked up to his foster-brother and motioned to the prisoners.

“Harrion, these are Brookbirth men.” 

“Murderers and poachers, Karls said,” Harrion commented. “The Tarmad are truly bold, to risk open battle like this.”

“Should we take them back to Karhold?” Robb asked.

Harrion nodded. “Yes, now that they’re out of the dungeons I doubt they’ll go back quietly. I only wish we could have done this later.”

“Why?”

“The Tarmad and Brookbirth men are still awake, the feast went long tonight. Possibly to give the Steward a chance to find you.” Harrion explained.

“They're both still in the castle?” 

“We must be quick. Our horses are being readied, we’ll ride hard for an hour and make camp.” Harrion informed him.

Robb was relieved to hear the plan. He wondered what the Steward thought of all this. He checked the faces around him, noticing a lack of grey haired men. 

“Where’s the Steward?” Robb panicked.

A cry echoed through the castle, it was swallowed by the crash of steel and splintering of wood. Robb threw open the nearest door. Across the courtyard the feasting hall doors had been thrown open and men were spilling out with weapons drawn. The chaos only grew and Robb watched as men in both Tarmad and Brookbirth colours were killed without mercy, the melee spun out of control.

Robb’s shoulder was jerked back, Harrion dragged him into the circle of guards. Karls and another man were laying on the stone, their backs marred with blood. The prisoners ran past with their stolen weapons.  

“We need to reach the stables.” Harrion drew his own blade, Robb mimicked him.

Their small group went largely unnoticed, but still, in the dark of the night, they were forced to put down a handful of men from both Houses. When they finally thundered out the castle gates, the Brookbirth’s encamped forces were streaming in. Robb watched from his saddle as the flames began to peek through the roof of the Keep. People were screaming and servants fled in droves, he doubted half the castle staff had made it to safety.

“Robb!” Harrion shouted. “We must make haste!” 

Off they went, the dark clouds obscuring their trail as they left chaos behind them.

/////////////

To my Lord Father, 

Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.

     I have finally returned to Karhold alongside Lord Rickard’s army. Reassure Mother that the only injury I bear is a sore knee. Please also convey to Lady Alys that she may rest easy, her brothers and father are likewise in good health. 

    Our siege of Castle Brookbirth lasted a month in total. The experience was very different to the tales written by the Maesters and our ancestors. I suppose that no one found it interesting to extoll on four weeks of sitting outside the enemy walls, watching and waiting for those inside to grow hungry. 

     At the beginning of the siege, Harrion led a small force (including myself) into Tarmad lands to restore order. Tarmad Tower was a ruin and a group of surviving guards had resorted to banditry, occupying a number of small villages. We tracked them down, slew those who fought back and took the others prisoner. The men who had simply returned to their families in peace were granted pardons.

     It was quite extraordinary to see a Lord muster an army for war, to see the ranks of Northmen arrive under their banners. It was a sight from my imagination when the Karhold heavy cavalry was arrayed in the field. My own armor was a set that Harrion had outgrown, it sat awkwardly and I would like to have my own commissioned soon.

     The siege itself ended when Lord Brookbirth surrendered. As I understand it he had not anticipated such a violent response,most of his men were left outside his walls to be captured. I suspect Lord Karstark had tired of the constant hostilities and would brook no more defiance from such weak vassals. 

     Lord Brookbirth and his brother were both beheaded for their act of rebellion and the breaking of guest right. While the rest of their family either took the black or were given into the care of loyal Lords. Lord Rickard has decreed both Houses are stripped of their titles and holdings, they are noble no more.

     Their now unruled lands are being given to Lord Rickard’s second son, Eddard. He will marry the daughter of the nearest Lord and hold the former Castle Brookbirth as his seat. While Eddard appeared confident at the proclamation, he came running to Harrion and I later that evening. He was anxious and genuinely worried about his new responsibilities. I am hardly a Lord myself, so I left the task of assuaging Eddard to Harrion. 

     In truth, a part of my heart tells me I am responsible for this. For the destruction of two Houses, two families. It’s entirely possible that had I left the Brookbirth poachers in the Tarmad dungeons that night, Harrion would have used them as intended, staving off the feud for another few years. It wracks my mind to consider those possibilities. Nevertheless, it persists. More so after seeing the state of Tarmad Tower. 

     Father, the maids and the serving boys were killed alongside their liege lords, because of my mistake. What is my honour worth when babes and mothers lay dead at my feet?

     I look forward to your letters, they have helped to reassure me in the past and I need your advice now more than ever.

Your loyal son, Robb, 

Heir to Winterfell and House Stark.

/////////////

Robb had woken early this morning and dressed in one of the finer doublets he’d brought with him. The rest of the family were dressed in similar finery, they were all expected to be presentable. Including Lady Alys, who had arrived earlier that week from her year-long stay in Winterfell.

Lady Alys’ return coincided with the Karstarks traditional visit to their family crypts. It would be the first time Robb participated in the ceremony. He suspected it was due to the documents Alys had brought with her, which included a copy of their betrothal agreement. 

Marriage was inevitable for Robb, but he felt no dread over his eventual nuptial. In fact, he had grown genuinely excited at the prospect. Alys was a charming woman who was well-liked by his family, especially Sansa. He considered Lord Rickard a mentor and Alys’ brothers were close friends. In the same manner that Theon Stark bound the Mormonts to his family through marriage to Prince Karlon, Robb and Alys would reinforce the blood ties between Winterfell and Karhold. The last Lady of Winterfell to hail from Karstark stock was, coincidentally, another Alys who had wed Brandon, the fifth son of Cregan.

Alys looked striking in the morning light. She waited at the bottom of the Keep stairs while Eddard and Torrhen milled about near the gate.

“Are you ready, Robb?”

“I am, Alys.” He replied. “Though Lord Rickard has been somewhat reticent on the details of the ceremony. All I know is that we’ll be visiting your family crypts.”

Alys smiled, “Not just visiting. Father and Mother will be bringing gifts to place over the tombs.”

“You do this twice a year?” Robb asked.

“Once near the beginning and one close to the end,” Alys explained. “Typically, Father will choose a particular ancestor to place our tributes to, but the sentiment is meant for all of them.” 

“Who has he chosen this time?”

“I’m unsure, before I left for Winterfell he chose our Great-Grandfather, and before that was one of our distant Aunts.”

Their conversation was interrupted by Lady Karstark.

“Robb, Alys, come along, we’re ready to depart.” The Lady called out.

Accompanied by the most experienced and senior household guards and a small number of sworn swords, made up of cousins and other distant relations, they made their way across the drawbridge and down the hill. Robb chatted with Alys and her mother as they walked around the base of the castle, their destination was a small walled section built into the hillside underneath the drawbridge. 

A heavy iron gate, inlaid with bronze was unlocked and pulled open by pairs of men. Beyond it was a cramped tunnel lined with rough stonework leading to an ironwood door much like the one that guarded Winterfell’s own crypt. 

Robb was shocked when he stepped into the crypt proper, though there were a few torches lining the chamber, they were unlit. The light that bathed the tombs came from shafts of sunlight! Some kind of channels were dug into the roof, judging by the angle, they must have led to the hillsides above. 

Alys took his hand, which ensured he didn’t fall too far behind. The tombs of the Karstarks were laid out similarly to the Starks though it became clear that the Lords did not have the statues Robb’s own family commissioned. Instead, plates of bronze were laid atop the tombs and bore a likeness and list of titles. He listened intently to Alys as she pointed noteworthy names and faces. They shared a laugh at the number of namesakes she had. 

Farther and farther they walked into the ancient halls, eventually crossing into what Robb judged to be the oldest tombs. They had the unique look of pre-Andal stonework. The bronze here was remarkably well preserved.

At the end of the crypt, and Robb was quite new to the idea of crypts that had a reachable end, had a single stone statue laid into the wall, at its feet was a stone wolf and across its lap, an ancient sword. 

Above the statue’s alcove was a large bronze plate inscribed with the Old Tongue: 

Magnar Karlon

Ulf-Iud, Marr Faethni, Heral-Skyl

Soln Fer Wintre

“Karlon Stark.” Robb whispered.

“Yes,” Lord Kartark stood before the statue. “The founder of our house, Karlon the Noble.” he stated proudly.

“He has many titles,” Robb commented, more to Alys than anyone else.

“Can you read them?” Alys asked. “Sansa said you were being taught the Old Tongue.” 

“You cannot?”

“I know some old poetry and a few sayings, I was learning the alphabet from Sansa. Father was taught more but even he will admit to not be a master of the language.”

“The inscription says ‘Lord Karlon. Wolf Son, Horse Slayer, Justice Bearer. The Light of Winter.’” Robb translated.

“Wonderful, you’ll have to teach me.” 

“Of course, my lady. Our children will need to learn one day, it would only be fitting that their mother help them do so.” Robb said though he didn’t truly think about his words. They were bold, he snuck a look at Alys to find her staring at him before grinning. Alys and Robb shared happy smiles.

Stepping forward, Lord Karstark lifted a bundle from his wife’s arms. Inside the cloth was a helmet with the sun of Karhold presented proudly upon the face. Robb recognized it as Harrion’s old helm, there was a significant dent running along the back of the scalp. Harrion had worn it during the siege, the helm had absorbed a spear thrust from a Brookbirth soldier during the first clashes. Harrion had been on horseback so the full force of the enemy’s thrust lessened if the strike had been a little lower the tip would’ve skewered his throat instead. 

The helmet was placed reverently upon Karlon’s lap, a token of thanks. They watched on silently as a nearby shaft of sunlight shifted across the floor. The other men and women walked forward and arranged their own items at the statue’s feet. It took roughly half an hour for the ceremony to end, during which Lord Karstark led his family in silent prayer. Finally, the light climbed up Karlon’s shins and found a resting place upon the helmet and sword, giving both items an ethereal glow that awed Robb.

“The sun indeed.”

//////////////////

A/N: Time for some time skips. I’ll be taking a peek at most of the Stark children and show some stuff from the time during the fosterings. As for timeline purposes, the ages have been slightly tuned. 

For those wondering about the year, Beorn met Lord Stark in 294 AC, and the Starks left for their fostering in 295 AC. In canon, King Robert will be arriving at Winterfell in 298 AC. 

Thanks for all your support. Next chapter we’ll be returning to Winterfell to see Sansa!

Chapter Text

For the first time she could remember, Sansa wondered if there was such a thing as having too much fun. Fun wasn’t truly the right word. As the eldest daughter of Lord Stark, Sansa was expected to ensure any guests in Winterfell were properly taken care of and entertained. Alys, Eddara, Oma Umber and the recently arrived Manderly sisters, made up the six women that Sansa was ostensibly in charge of. It was difficult to be serious when her “charges” were the same age or older than her.

The weeks passed with hours of laughing and learning. Days spent running around the castle or cosying up in one of the rooms. Conversations became chances to learn more about each other and naturally friendships formed. Alys and Sansa became the closest of friends, sharing their dreams and fears under the cover of night. Eddara was surprised to find Jeyne Poole a constant companion and the Steward’s daughter was strongly attached to the confident and competent girl. Wylla and Wynafred were the oldest of their group, the sisters had polite personalities embedded with a streak of meanness that struck a chord with Arya.

Just when they all had settled into a normal schedule, things shifted; Bran and Jon departed for White Harbour, Robb and Arya took their leave next. Their absences were noticeable and it shocked Sansa how much she missed them. The gaps in her life were set to be filled with the arrival of two Matrons from Karhold and Torrhen’s Square. Looking back, the Matrons were likely the last push for Septa Mordane.

The Septa had been, for all intents and purposes, abandoned by Septon Chayle. The young man had departed for an extended visit to White Harbour. According to Lord Stark, Chayle had requested leave to perform a “re-examination of his faith.” 

The rumors in Wintertown said that Chayle was sweet on Old Tovan’s daughter but the two had kept their distance from each other. Beorn’s arrival had drawn more than one maiden’s attention. When Old Tovan and his daughter started keeping to the Godswood over the Sept, Chayle started spending his time in town. The castle staff were betting odds on whether Chayle would come back short a seven-pointed necklace and gain himself a wife.

With the Sept temporarily closed to anyone but the Starks and Mordane, the Septa must have felt desperate. 

It all culminated when Lady Stark discovered Mordane rifling through Maester Luwin’s correspondence during an evening meal. She intended to sneak a letter to the High Septon in Old Town, which contained a furious rant about “Wildling heathens” entrancing Lord and Lady Stark with tree magic, making blood sacrifices to wolf demons, and a fictitious account of Beorn encouraging Lord Stark to march burnt the only Sept in the North. 

Sansa could hardly believe it. The Septa may have been rude at times but she had encouraged Sansa’s talents and complimented her often. It shocked Sansa to see her former teacher ranting and raving about “corrupting trees” and the damnation of House Stark's souls. Lord Stark barred Mordane from the castle and arranged for an escort to see the woman to White Harbour.

Wynafred and Wylla gossiped later that from White Harbour, their father had been instructed to send the holy woman off to a coven of Silent Sisters the Manderlys sponsored in the Vale. Sansa could only hope that Mordane would find it a more peaceful life, obviously the Southerner just wasn’t cut out for the Northern climate.  

/////////////////

The matrons were a breath of fresh air for Sansa. Whereas Septa Mordane got her teachings from either Lady Stark or straight from one of her holy texts, the matrons drew upon both years of tradition, their own memories, and careful consultations with both Lady Stark and Old Nan.

While the types of subjects (dancing, singing, instrument playing) remained much the same, the other parts of her education radically changed. Where Mordane dismissed extensive accounting, studying of trading and techniques for supply management as “stewards” work, it could very well fall under a Northern Lady’s purview. Especially for girls of lower status like Eddara, or younger daughters like Arya, who may be married to a House with less wealthy households. 

Also, the Matrons insisted on the girls spending at least some time every week outside, weather permitting. The air and the rush of blood was good for their health. Eddara’s matron even offered to teach the girls archery to pass the time.

The lack of instruction in the Seven left time for Sansa’s new favourite past time - poetry and song. Sansa dove into learning the Old Tongue with vigor once her Father presented her with a collection of songs and poems written down by a Stark Queen. She outright laughed when Arya learned that even in the old days there were still Ladies. The tales of sword-maidens were restricted to accounts of women trained when plague or war had taken nearly all of the men or from places like Bear Island where every sword counted.

Inspired, Sansa has taken to composing her own works. At first, she based them on the stories Beorn has been teaching; slowly she branched out to the tales Old Nan repeated when watching Rickon. 

At the end of the year, Alys announced her intention to return home, Wylla Manderly said the same, though her elder sister Wynafred would remain. It was at their farewell dinner that Sansa decided to perform two original pieces.

The March of the Noble Son depicted Karlon Stark marching from Winterfell to Barrowtown, then into the heart of the Rylls. Sansa dramatized the final battle of the rebellion (which was in fact a siege) as a charge by the Noble Wolf Prince down a hill with the sun behind him, blinding the cavalry of the Ryders and allowing him to destroy the enemy. 

Sansa’s nerves washed away when her poem received raucous cheers from all the men and women in the hall, especially the Karstark men. Emboldened, she moved onto her first song.

The Knight of the White Knife was based loosely on an older legend about a traveling warrior banished from the Riverlands. He ventured up the coast of the North. The unnamed warrior fought a cruel chieftain for the right to rule the White Knife. Sansa changed it to be a shipwrecked knight from Andalos who was nursed back to health by a local noblewoman bound to a cruel king. When the king came to take the women’s wealth and force her into marriage, the knight leapt to her defense and fought a duel knee deep in the river. He slew the king and took the lady as his wife.

Sansa’s parents gave her a standing ovation and she received dozens of compliments throughout the evening. The Manderly sisters even embraced her and appeared genuinely flattered. They begged for a copy of the lyrics and tune to send home. 

It was a pleasant end to their visit and Sansa watched them leave the next day. She made sure to give Alys an especially tight hug and reminded her that Robb particularly enjoyed the colour blue. Her future good-sister blushed and they shared a heartfelt goodbye. 

/////////////////////

“Any messages, Maester Luwin?”

“Nothing that requires your attention, Lady Sansa.” Luwin looked up from his desk and smiled at the young woman. “Is there anything I can help you with, my lady?”

“No news of Father then.” Sansa looked down at her hands. 

Luwin stood up and led Lady Sansa out of his study. “Lord Stark is no greenboy. He will return safe and sound.”

“I recall Ser Rodrik telling Bran that even the most skilled warrior can fall prey to bad luck.” Sansa retorted. “That means that even common bandits may win a battle.”

“Lord Stark is a wise man. By now he should have reached Torrhen’s Square. With Lord Tallhart at his side, these bandits will not last long.” Luwin concluded.

“Do you think the guards are right? The bandits were sent North by Lord Lannister?” Sansa asked.

Luwin shook his head. “Pay no mind to gossip, Lady Sansa. Lord Lannister gains nothing by sending criminals to pillage the Stony Shore. His reputation alone would have pushed these brigands out of the Westerlands.”

They chatted back and forth as they traveled through the keep. They stopped outside Lady Stark’s chambers. Sansa took a moment to force a smile onto her face before she entered.

“Mother,” she called. “it’s morning.”

Lady Catelyn was buried under piles of furs and blankets. Her room wasn’t quite sweltering, but the large pile of wood and kindling kept the fireplace in constant use.

Sansa gathered a plate of food from the table and Luwin kneeled at the Lady’s side. Unfortunately, her health had not improved but by the grace of the Gods it had not worsened. Her fever burned low, but uninterrupted, and her stomach would accept only liquids and small amounts of bread. Luwin feared her weight loss more than her sweats.

He stood back as Sansa fed her mother. The young woman had impressed everyone in Winterfell. When it became clear that Lady Stark would not be recovering anytime soon and that Lord Stark could not return, in the absence of Robb, Sansa had stepped into the role of managing the household. With plenty of help from the servants and her friends of course. Luwin thought they were fortunate that the last of the guests had left the month before. He shuddered to think of Domeric Bolton or the Mountain Clan heirs witnessing such a moment of weakness.

Bidding Lady Stark goodbye, Sansa promised a maid would be by to help her bathe later. With her routine started, Sansa thoughtlessly made a visit to the kitchens to check on the larder. Steward Poole was confident that their stores were healthy and there would be no risk of running out but Sansa needed to reassure herself. With so many of the men-at-arms accompanying her father, Winterfell was lacking in manpower for hunting if something were to go wrong.

She exited the main keep, her steps drew toward Godswood. Lady couldn’t contain her excitement and bounded ahead, no doubt searching for Rickon and his wolf, Shaggy, for a spot of play.

Her youngest brother was found sitting in Old Nan’s lap, twisting twigs into little figures, chatting away to the Shepherd. Green Eyes was content grooming Lady and Shaggy.

“How are you, Lady Sansa?” Old Nan called out.

“Well enough, Nan.” Sansa replied. “I actually wished to speak with you.”

“About the herbs?” she asked. “The Flint told me they should be arriving within the week. His message would have arrived before they returned home.”

Sansa sighed in relief. “Good.” 

She gave Rickon a quick kiss and left to attend her next task. Eddara and Jeyne kept to her side for the rest of the day. Letters needed to be written and ledgers updated. Steward Poole and Maester Luwin could hardly cover both her father’s work and her mother’s. 

Eating dinner in the solar next to her mother was easier than waiting for the hall to be set up. Eddara and Jeyne did their best to lighten her mood with jokes and gossip. It often helped ease the stress in her shoulders as the sun set. 

“Sansa?” Eddara shook her shoulder.

“I’m sorry. I was daydreaming.” 

Eddara frowned. “Do you want to take a walk? There’s still some daylight out.”

Sansa looked down to Lady who was already up and pacing to the door. A sign if there ever was one. “That’s a good idea. Would you make sure Jeyne gets to bed?”

She left her friends behind and informed Ser Rodrik on her way out of the keep. He insisted on walking with her to the Godswood entrance and even cajoled Old Nan into waiting for her. Surprisingly, Lady and Green Eyes stayed with Old Nan. Bathed in warm light, the weirwoods glowed with orange and red, deep colours that lightened the shadows. The heartree’s face has a gentle angle to it. 

Sansa had spoken to Jon about it once. She asked him why he preferred praying after sundown, or the few times when the moon rose high. He’d spoken of how the moonlight shifted the great heartree to appear like a statue. It’s bark appeared stone grey, the whole grove enveloped in a blanket of darkness. Jon was so caught up in his description he let slip how the night comforted him, it welcomed him without expectation or preconception. 

Her half-brother had blushed and stammered an excuse, he was embarrassed at the comment and Sansa let him leave with his dignity intact. Rather than thinking less of Jon, she’d never felt closer to him in that moment. The warmth of the Godswood and the carved smile reassured Sansa, gave her strength when she doubted herself. Sitting with her small satchel of writing supplies, she let herself breathe.

‘Father would return when the bandit group was dealt with. Mother would recover soon, the herbs from the Mountain Clans were on their way.’ She repeated quietly to herself, with every passing second she felt calmer, more at peace.

Her eyes were unfocused, the light and leaves drifted slowly in front of her. Thoughts of her parents and responsibilities fell away, unbidden her mind meandered from one memory to another. The leaves on the ground were swept away by a slight breeze, a single leaf, darker than the rest flew one way and the rest another. 

A lone wolf. Separated from the pack in a great storm.

Sansa likely never noticed her hand gripping a stylus and sweeping across the tablet in her lap.

She found herself stranded in the South.  The winter winds echoed across the land but could not reach her. 

Thick brambles of words and wishes blocked her way. Thorns of gold, thorns of black, thorns of green cut her fur, bled her flesh. 

Their poison weakened her, starved her. They made her weak and vulnerable. She was too young to be able to protect herself, forced to wander alone.

The runes were neat and clear as they covered the page.

First, a lioness hunted her. 

With no pack, the predator tore at her throat. Leaving the wolf alive within her jaws. Unable to escape without fearing the snapping of the jaw. 

A flock of birds seemed to come to her rescue, it tricked the lioness into releasing the wolf and lifted her away.

Sansa never felt the tears dry on her cheeks.

The mountains of the flock were treacherous and cruel. The wolf grew wings and pretended to be a bird, for her saviours were greedy and selfish, they didn’t want a wolf. 

It wasn’t until the echoes of the winter winds found her, carrying the howl of her pack, that the wolf woke from that terrible deception. 

The wolf ripped apart the birds and leaped from the mountain tops. Her false wings carried her over the bramble, which was now alight with fire and ash. She set down among the snow drifts of her home and she tore her own wings to shreds.

The wind howled, the trees shook, the heartree bled.

Though the wolf had feared the North would reject her, would scent the summer and spring that had been mixed with her blood, would look upon the scars along her back, and turn away. She was wrong. 

The pack enveloped her, the wind called to her.

Winter embraced her.

The Godswood settled. Sansa gave a silent prayer and looked down at the song she had composed. It felt good to see the runes, to see the pain of the lone wolf put into word. It was liberating. Sansa took her leave, bid Old Nan a good night, and slept soundly that night.

///////////////

For another two weeks Sansa did her best to keep Winterfell running smoothly. Her age and lack of experience didn’t stop her from keeping the castle’s morale up, or visiting Wintertown with Ser Rodrik and Jory Cassel to reassure the smallfolk. 

A messenger from the First Flints arrived with bundles of herbs that Old Nan believed could help Lady Catelyn. The fever abated and the cough drained away. Day by day Catelyn recovered. It was to Sansa’s great relief that her mother was finally well enough to join the household for a meal in the hall. 

To her own surprise, Sansa didn’t fade back into her old role. From then on if Lady Stark was unavailable, the castle staff wouldn’t hesitate to seek her out instead. Eddara and Jeyne insisted that she now had a glowing reputation among the smallfolk. 

All of that change was dwarfed by her father’s return. He accepted her tight hug with grace and kissed her forehead. He likely had no hint of how much his presence comforted her. 

Though Lord Stark had been gone a mere month, his daughter had undergone her own challenges and exceeded any expectations. Her maturity must have shown through somehow because the next night both her parents invited her to a private dinner. They took Sansa's hands in their own and asked her opinion on a betrothal, between herself and Smalljon Umber. 

Life was moving fast and just because Sansa’s siblings had gone off to the far corners of the North, didn’t mean Sansa was being left behind.

///////////

A/N: I am still going back and forth on marriages for the Stark kids. Next up we have Arya, who has gone off to the Glovers. Thanks again for the comments and feedback.

Chapter Text

Deepwood Motte was pretty great, maybe even as great as Winterfell. Arya decided she was going to get her father a great present the next time she saw him. She pushed away the homesickness attached to that thought. 

It hadn’t set in until the fourth or fifth night on the road, just what leaving to foster meant. No more mornings playing with Rickon and Bran, no sneaking around to watch Robb and Jon spar, no more lessons with Beorn… no evenings with Sansa and Mother. She did her best to hide her tears and the maids Father sent to escort her were kind enough to not mention them.

When Deepwood Motte finally came into view, Arya was no longer sad or mopey, she was just bone tired. 

The castle was old and definitely looked frail in comparison to the massive walls of Winterfell. Its longhall sat on a hill with a flattened top, along with a watchtower. One of the guards claimed it was the tallest building this side of the northern mountains. Arya decided she’d ask to see the top of it, Bran would love to hear about the view. Below the hill was a bailey packed with the stables, paddock, smithy, well, and a sheep pen. It was all surrounded by a large spiked wall. Deepwood's outer walls were covered in moss and flanked by two square towers. Arya wondered if this was how Winterfell looked centuries ago when all that stood was the First Keep and the Broken Tower.

Her introduction to the Glovers went smoothly enough. Her parents instilled a serious warning that her conduct was going to reflect on her family. Normally Arya made a point of ignoring the rules if she thought they were dumb. Acting a different way just to get on someone’s good side was a lot like lying. Then Jon pointed out that Arya was polite to Eddara and Alys, in return, they were nice to her; he had a way of making things sensible.

With that in mind, Arya curtsied and made sure to address the Glovers properly and by name. That had taken some time to memorize. If she hadn’t prepared ahead of their arrival she definitely would have said something improper.

Lord Galbart Glover didn’t have a wife or kids, which meant that Lady Sybell, Robett Glover’s wife, acted as the Lady of the castle. That couldn’t have been easy what with Sybell being pregnant. Lady Sybell was kind enough to answer Arya’s questions about the baby. She’d been a lot smaller when her mother had been pregnant with Rickon.

On the topic of family, it was during her first dinner with the Glovers that Arya learned they had closer ties than she knew.

/////////////

Arya finished eating her soup, making sure not a single drop spilled onto her dress.

“How was your journey, Lady Arya?” Lady Sybell asked. The older woman had fair skin and long hair, which was very similar to Arya’s own dark brown colouring.

“It was long, but I saw a lot of really amazing sights. I’ve never been this far in the Wolfswood. I’ve never even seen the ocean!” Arya explained.

Lady Sybell laughed. “We’ll have to fix that. I’m sure we can arrange a trip to one of the fishing villages on the coast.”

“The waters may be cold but they are a sight to see.” Sitting beside Lady Sybell was another brunette, Ondra Locke, Sybell’s younger sister. Ondra was acting as a handmaiden to Sybell and a nanny for Robett and Sybell’s son, Gawen.

“Is Oldcastle near the ocean, Lady Ondra?” Arya asked.

“It is,” Ondra said. “The castle itself overlooks the Bite. On clear days you can see all the way out to the Three Sisters.”

“It sounds beautiful.”

Ondra smiled at her, “I’m sure you’d be welcome to visit. You have some Locke blood in you after all.”

Arya blinked. “What do you mean?”

“From what I remember your Great-great-grandmother was Marna Locke.”

The rest of their meal was spent talking about Oldcastle and House Locke, a family that Arya had rarely heard of.

“Lady Sybell, I was wondering if I could meet Deepwood Motte’s Shepherd?” 

“Oh, I’m sorry Arya. We don’t have a Shepherd here at Deepwood.”

Arya frowned. “Then who tends to the Godswood?”

“Every few weeks one or two from Bear Island visit. I’m sure they’d be willing to speak with you.” Sybell replied.

“Is there a reason there’s none here?” Arya asked.

The adults at the table frowned and Lord Galbart coughed to draw Arya’s attention. “The family of Shepherds who tended to Deepwood perished in an Ironborn raid many years ago,” he said.

Arya picked up on the somber mood and quickly moved on to a different topic. 

In her desperation, she started talking to Gawen. The boy was two years younger than Arya and didn’t seem to have a problem hanging out with girls like Bran sometimes did. He’d been following her around since her arrival. He was kind of annoying, but there weren’t many other kids at Deepwood.

The rest of her night and the next week was awkward for Arya. She spent most of it exploring Deepwood with Gawen right on her heels. Unlike Winterfell, the stablehands and most of the castle staff were all older than her; the youngest were closer to Robb’s age.

Once she was settled into the castle and had unpacked her new room, she got up the courage to pull out her most prized possession. A small dagger. The sheathe was wrapped in plain grey cloth, dangling from the simple pommel was a small amol . Both were gifts from Jon. He’d taken her down to the crypts a few days before he left for White Harbour. She’d cried into his chest and demanded, again, to know why he had to leave. Jon had only told her he was going to see more of the North, looking back Arya shouldn’t have taken so much joy when he revealed that he didn’t want to stay at Winterfell without her. It was comforting that her brother needed her as much as she needed him. Jon promised that the next time they met he’d have a dozen stories, a set of armour, and gifts for her. She supposed that was worth the wait.

Deepwood quickly turned into a busy place to be. Ondra was acting as her Matron, she was loads more fun than Septa Mordane! Arya wasn’t yelled at, and if she didn’t do a great job, then Ondra took the time to fix it. She acted a lot more like Mother or Father when they taught her. 

Even with better instructors it became clear that Arya was no great seamstress but she got a handle on the basics pretty quickly. She even started helping Lady Sybell and the other maids weave and stitch for the household. 

Without a Shepherd around, learning the Old Tongue was put on hold. Lord Glover and Lady Sybell didn’t have the time, and Ondra had only ever learned the basics. 

When her mind wandered during work and lessons, Arya would dream about her future. Though everyone else denied it, Arya felt she just wasn’t suited to being a noble lady. That opinion used to stem from Mordane and Sansa’s harsh words. Reading stories in Father’s lap about ancient Stark Queens who were described as “plain” had comforted her, even when Father insisted she’d change as she grew. Now her inadequacy stemmed from the fact that she didn’t even possess the talents her ancestors had. She wasn’t graceful, she wasn’t a genius of sums and she didn’t possess the patience to master an art or craft. 

In her fantasies, Arya was a sailor on the Narrow Sea. She sailed to Braavos, fought pirates, and brought back treasures by the chestload. Yes, that would be great and then people would write her name down in their books.

Lady Arya, The Navigator, The Sea-Wolf. They’d remember her like Queen Lyra and Queen Brehys. Arya would make sure of it.

////////////////

“Lady Arya! Lady Arya!”

Arya froze. Looking around the trunk of a massive oak tree, she listened for another call.

“Lady Arya!”

It was Ondra. Jumping back, Arya hurriedly picked up the scarecrow stuck into the ground and shoved it into the hollow underneath the oak roots. Almost forgetting to pull out her dagger first. Secured it in its sheath, she hid the weapon under the folds of her dress. She brushed off any stray clumps of dirt and wiped away her sweat.

“I’m here, Ondra.” Arya jogged out of the treeline. 

It’d been half a year since Arya’s arrival at Deepwood. Once she gathered the courage to start practicing with her dagger, she found a secluded part of the Godswood that was far enough away from the main keep but still within the walls. Ondra and Lady Sybell knew she went to the Godswood sometimes, they probably thought she was praying (which she sometimes did) or writing letters to her family (which she finished earlier that morning). 

“There you are. Come along, Lord Glover says that the Mormonts are arriving soon.” Ondra explained. She took a moment to adjust Arya’s sleeves.

“Is Lady Maege coming?” Arya wondered.

“I believe so. Though I wouldn’t be surprised if her heir, Dacey, was accompanying her.”

“Why is Lady Maege the head of her House? Doesn’t she have a husband? Or a brother?” Arya prodded. She could only remember Maester Luwin saying that the Head of House Mormont was Lord Jeor.

Ondra grimaced. “Her nephew, Jorah, was the Lord of Bear Island until it was found he had broken some very important laws. When Lord Stark went to bring him to justice, he fled into exile. Now Lady Maege has stepped forward to fill that role.”

Arya made a note to add another page to her message home. What kind of crime was bad enough that her father would go personally?

Her eyes were drawn to the Heartree of Deepwood. A large weirwood, similar to Winterfell’s. The face carved there appeared to be grimacing in pain, with one eye carved rougher than the other, mimicking a battle wound. Underneath its mouth, the sunlight was glinting off the most unusual aspect of Deepwood Motte.

Set into the trunk was an ancient skeletal arm. From the wrist up, the bones were coated in dulled silver that had flecked off with age. Gawen had shown it to her during her first time praying in Deepwood. When she’d gone to touch it, Gawen tackled her away. He apologised, but took the time to explain that it belonged to the first Glover King, from before the Long Knight. Arya learned that the ancient Glovers used to dip their hands in silver to stop the Children of the Forest from enchanting them.

Beorn told her the First Men warred with the Children for generations. It wasn’t until they made the Pact that the hostility faded. Arya wondered if that was when the Glovers stopped, well, “gloving” themselves.

“The Mormonts are House Glover’s friends right?” Arya questioned, thinking back to old lessons.

Ondra nodded. “For many centuries. The two Houses have often allied to fight off the Ironborn, and given aid in dire times. It upset Lord Glover immensely when Jorah Mormont was exiled. Inviting Lady Maege here is a way to show House Glover still trusts them.”

They entered the castle proper, swept up by the staff as last-minute preparations were finished. An hour later, Arya stood in the courtyard alongside Gawen. She checked over her shoulder quickly to make sure Berena had stayed in the kennels. Normally, Arya would have let her wolf run free but Berena tended to get excited when she met new people. Her direwolf was firmly out of the puppy stage and could knock overgrown men if they weren’t prepared for her.

With the blow of a horn, a group bearing bear banners walked up to Deepwood’s doors. Leading the party was a trio of men-at-arms in well-worn armour. Behind them, amidst the rest of the escorts was a group of women.

The oldest woman was presumably Maege Mormont. She was a short, stout, grey-haired woman, dressed in her own set of battle leathers with ringmail peeking out from the collar. Arya was drawn to the wickedly spiked mace that hung from her belt. Towering over her was another woman, they shared enough features that Arya guessed this was Dacey Mormont. She was at least six feet tall, lanky with long features. Maybe those were from her father? At their heels were two more girls, closer to Arya’s age. 

Their introductions were curt but Lord Glover embraced Lady Maege with a gentle hug. Dacey introduced her younger sisters, Jorelle and Lyra, she informed Lady Sybell that their other sister Alysanne had remained behind at Bear Island with her own children and Maege’s youngest daughter, Lyanna. Arya was tempted to ask if there was some kind of magic on Bear Island that made everyone have daughters. She couldn’t imagine having so many sisters and aunts. 

Any doubts or thoughts Arya had were discarded after an hour with the Mormonts. They were just so interesting! Their stories were great and Jorelle and Lyra were hilarious. Lady Maege even allowed Berena to rest in her lap by the fire.

“A fine name” she’d said.

Arya wondered if Lady Maege was what a grandmother would have been like. The next day she and Gawen gave the girls a tour. That evening Ondra had to drag Arya away from the yard where Dacey and the Mormont guards were training. 

Unfortunately, it wasn’t all winter sunlight. Jorelle and Lyra liked to play in the Godswood but, much to Arya’s frustration, they also liked to spend time inside sewing or singing. When Arya opened up about her dreams of the sea, they didn’t understand. Dacey didn’t approve either, she indulged Arya, but made it clear that some dreams must be tempered by reality.

Days later, Arya got into another argument with Lyra. It was so bad that Arya ran off with tears streaking down her face. She was so upset she didn’t notice the massive thunderclouds roll in from the west until it was too late.

///////////////

“Don’t worry, Berena. We’ll be back inside soon. I’m pretty sure Deepwood is this way.” Arya reassured her wolf.

The pair were soaked through. The rain had come out of nowhere and the forest floor was already filled with puddles. The wind and clouds only made navigating the woods worse. Arya could barely see and it was hard to think. Berena had stopped her from tripping more than once. 

Jumping over a pile of roots, Arya slipped on the mud and fell sideways. Rather than the ground, her arm slammed into something hard beside her. After steadying herself, Arya looked at the strange tree she hit, only to realize it wasn’t a tree at all. 

“It’s a wall, Berena!”

Following the old brickwork, Arya was amazed to find an ancient keep. The structures were covered in mud and vines. In the downpour, she could barely make out the layout of the ruins. There might have been a few wooden buildings reduced to foundations, a tower with a doorway left standing, and what might have been a moat was just a slight dip in the ground. Deeper into the ruins was a massive tree growing through a knocked-down wall, forming a canopy.

“Finally.” Arya sighed.

The two ran over and plopped down in the relatively dry dirt. Arya did her best to dry off Berena, with little effect. She decided that rather than stumbling through the forest, she’d wait out the storm and walk back later. That plan lasted all of an hour.

Berena snapped up onto all fours. Arya stopped herself from chiding the wolf when she felt Berena’s heartbeat in the back of her mind. It was racing, thudding in her chest. 

Her muscles were tensed. Behind the sound of the storm, she heard the scrape of claws on the bark and the air had a faint whiff of a large group.

In a burst of noise, they were surrounded. Backed into the corner by a group of wolves. They were smaller than her. She could rip them apart normally, but she wasn’t alone and there were at least a dozen of them. The rain had masked their approach, letting their pack back her into a corner. When their hunters caught sight of her, they hesitated. Even outnumbered, she was an intimidating sight. Hopefully, a knife could protect her other half while she fought them off. 

Tired of waiting, she lunged forward, catching the pack leader off guard. The lead wolf’s throat was broken before it could react. Two others tackled her. She threw one off her back and opened the other's belly. Whirling around she caught the remaining wolf mid-air, latching around its leg. She slammed it into the ground feeling its back break.

The rest swarmed her and she lost herself in the claws and bites. Out of her eye, she saw her other half pressed up against the earth, a wolf bleeding out across her chest. The knife was buried to the hilt in the animal’s chest. She was screaming, she was howling and the rain thundered on. Another two wolves fell dead and the rest, now that half their original number, retreated. They’ve been cowed or killed. Their ambush ended in a massacre.

Arya felt her heartbeat slow down. The cool rainwater spilled down her face, washing away the streaks of mud and blood. The wolf corpse was dragged off her chest, finally letting her breathe. She sat up, holding her arm gingerly. Most of the sleeve had been torn away by the wolf’s jaws. She didn’t want to look at it. 

“You were great, Berena.”

Her wolf came up beside her, allowing Arya to shift her weight on her. Berena had her own fair share of wounds. They took a few steps together before Arya collapsed, Berena laying beside her. She was just so tired.  

Berena began growling, Arya kept her eyes open long enough to look up and see a huge bear looming over them. She almost screamed when it reached down. Instead of clawing her to pieces, two hands carefully lifted her and Berena up.

The bear’s face had two very human eyes, and a beard, and a nose. Maybe it was a magical bear?

“ Yrkka Neyf? ” Arya asked. Her body was throbbing, her words came out in the Old Tongue. She thought she asked for the bear’s name. That was silly, bears didn’t have names.

The bear raised its eyebrows. Not a very bear-like expression.

“Harad,” it replied in a rumbling voice.

It was a nice voice, combined with its warm fur, Arya fell asleep; wondering whether this bear had a woman for a mother.

///////////////

Chapter Text

Arya woke up wrapped tight inside a mass of blankets with Berena draped across the mattress, her arms immobilized. She noticed Jorelle and Lyra cuddled up tight beside them. Her two friends were sound asleep even after Arya wiggled out of the covers. She laughed when they transferred their grips to Berena instead.

Lady Maege came by not long after and escorted her down to the hall for something to eat. She could hear the thunder outside, the storm was still going. She’d been asleep for over a day but was in good health. Lady Sybell delivered a lengthy talking to, including a laundry list of punishments to make up for her disappearance. Arya wouldn’t be going out into the woods any time soon. 

“Who found me, Lady Sybell? I was so exhausted that I imagined a bear saved me.”

Lady Maege laughed, “I guess from a certain point of view, you were saved by a bear!”

“What do you mean?”

Lady Maege only pointed towards the door slowly opening into the hall. A bear’s head leaned out around the door frame! Arya fell out of her chair with a yell. Without thinking she rushed to Lady Sybell and hid by her arm. 

The door opened fully and instead of a furry body, a man walked in. He was enormous, at least as big as Greatjon Umber but shorter than the Umber Lord or Walder back home. He had a massive mane of deep brown hair that was tied into a long braid going down his back. The bear head that had given Arya such a fright, was a bear fur cape clasped over his shoulder. He had a muddy complexion with a squat nose and wide jaw. Seeing no one else being alarmed, Arya relaxed.

The newcomer stopped before the table and bowed to Lady Maege and Lady Sybell.

“My ladies” he softly greeted. It was the same voice that Arya heard in the forest!

Arya jumped up and ran towards him. He smiled down at her.

“Did you save me and Berena?” She asked.

“I did, Lady Stark.” he responded.

Suddenly reminded of her manners, Arya dipped into a proper bow, just like how Ondra had taught her. “On behalf of House Stark, I thank you for your aid.”

Rather than laugh at her, the bear man bowed back. “Your gratitude is appreciated, Lady Stark.”

Arya paused and took a breath. “Is your name… Harad?”

“Indeed.”

“So it wasn’t all a dream.”

“Come, there’s some food left for you.” Lady Maege said.

Everyone sat back down and the meal continued. Arya tried to subtly get a longer look at Harad. He’d taken off his cape and cloak to eat. He wore roughspun pants with a fur lined jacket. What caught her eye was a thick leather cord wrapped around his massive wrist, it was threaded with teeth and claws from different animals. It looked very familiar.

Arya gasped loudly, “You're a Shepherd!”

Lady Maege leaned forward, allowing Harad to eat uninterrupted. “Harad lives on Bear Island.”

“Is he House Mormont’s Shepherd?” Arya wondered.

Maege shook her head, “No, there’s a good two dozen Shepherds that have lived on Bear Island for many years. Harad and a few others make regular visits to Deepwood.”

“Will you be staying long?” Arya asked Harad.

The Shepherd finished his broth before answering. “I actually came to deliver a message to Lady Mormont. I was planning on returning at the end of the week.”

Arya tried to hide her disappointment.

“Was there something you needed Harad’s help with, Arya?”

Arya hesitated, “Sorry Lady Sybell. I don’t want to take up his time, it's just that Beorn was teaching me the Old Tongue. I promised my father that the next time I saw him we’d be able to have a whole conversation without using Andal.” she admitted.

“Beorn?” Harad asked. “Beorn Son of Wolftongue?”

Arya smiled, “You know Beorn?”

Harad nodded, “He was a close friend of mine for many years. He’s at Winterfell?”

“Yes! He showed up with Green-Eyes while she was pregnant and helped her give birth to the litter in our Godswood.” Arya explained. 

“When I heard that Beorn had gone Beyond-The-Wall, I feared it would be the last I saw of him. I’ll have to get a message to him.”

As Arya and Harad shared stories about Beorn, something stuck out to her.

“If you’re not the Mormont Shepherd, then why did you bring a message to Lady Maege?”

“Because the man turns into a loyal hound whenever my sister calls” Dacey commented as she walked into the hall. 

“Your sister Alysanne?” Arya clarified.

Dacey took a seat beside her mother. Harad didn’t look insulted by Dacey’s jibe, more resigned. Kind of like how Father looked when Arya and Sansa got into a disagreement.

“All she has to do is stick her head out the hall door and Harad will drop everything.” 

Arya wrinkled her nose, “Are you trying to marry Alysanne?” 

That question had Maege and Dacey roaring with laughter and caused Harad to blush, though it was hidden by his cup.

Dacey leaned forward, grinning madly, “The poor man already tried that, little Arya. My sister is too much a Mormont to let herself become a bride. She didn’t want to become a crone though.” The Mormont heiress winked, much to Arya’s confusion.

Alysanne Mormont had two children. Arya knew the old stories, “Mormont’s are fathered by bears.” she muttered. Her eyes jumped back to Harad. “You're their father!” she declared, prompting another round of laughs.

It was a pleasant night. Arya’s accusations were proven true when Jorelle and Lyra arrived and whispered stories of a bear-man trying and failing to sneak out of Bear Hall early in the mornings.

In that warm hall, surrounded by her friends, Arya couldn’t stop herself from feeling strange. For the first time in months she didn’t miss Winterfell one bit.

//////////

Time washed by like the current of the ocean. Two months later Arya was taking her first trip to Bear Island alongside Robett Glover. Bear Hall was a warm welcoming place and the Mormonts accepted her with open arms. Dacey and Alysanne took the time to train her in archery and with her dagger. Arya learned quickly that she didn’t have the size or the strength to win, so her speed was the only thing she could rely on. If it came down to Arya and someone else, the first move was her best chance. Hunting and hiking became Arya’s favourite past times and the rest of her year was spent at Deepwood with the occasional visit to the Mormonts.

It was on the return from one of these trips when Maege and Arya got to talking about her family back in Winterfell.

“My mother sent me a letter. Have you heard about the trouble in the Stony Shore?” Arya asked.

“The bandits? Yes. House Ryswell has a constant watch on their border.” Maege replied.

Arya looked over the edge of their boat, watching the river water run over the rocks. “Is it true there’s over 500 of them? The fishermen say a whole army sailed from near Banefort.”

Maege laid a hand on Arya’s arm. “Rumors can be more wild than a stallion. From what I understand, at most it's a few dozen brigands. Men like that can only last so long. There’s nothing to worry about.”

Soon enough Arya was back in her room at Deepwood, alone. Berena had taken to spending more and more time out in the Wolfswood. Berena wasn’t just traipsing around in the wilds alone. Arya had seen other wolves in her dreams, the most she could figure was they were the pack that moved in after Berena defeated those dogs on that stormy night.

Arya yawned, blew out her candle, and huddled under her furs. Instead of slipping into darkness, Arya sank into the heartbeat.

The trees weren’t thick but she could hear the panting of her pack behind her. She’d been drawn out of their deeper haunts because of the noise. It was too dark for the hunters and the screams weren’t from any prey. It was the human homes on the edge of the wood. They were aflame! Shapes moved frantically through the ash. Blood was heavy in the air. People were running towards her, a group of them. Women and the children, like her and Mother and brothers back home. 

Arya came back to herself with a cough, her lung felt scalded. She stumbled out into the corridor and ran through the halls. After sundown the keep was quiet and Arya desperately searched for anyone. Finally, she threw the doors of the hall open. 

“Arya?” Maege Mormont sat by the fire with Lord Galbart, goblet in hand. 

“There’s an attack! On the village to the south, the one by Shaleshore.” Arya spat out.

Maege kneeled before Arya and took her by the arms. “You’re not making sense, girl.”

Arya took a deep breath, “The village east of Saleshore is under attack, it’s on fire, people are dying!” 

Lord Galbart joined the two. “Did you have a nightmare, Lady Arya?”

She shook off Maege’s hands. “It was real. Berena is watching it happen.”

The doubt was clear on both adults' faces. Arya thought desperately of a way to prove it, to get help before it was too late. She ignored Maege and Galbart’s questions and focused on the heartbeat in her soul. She was vaguely aware of Maege swearing.

The women and children finally reached the tree-line but had stopped to help their wounded catch up. They hadn't been fast enough, there were dangerous men following them, covered in blood not their own. 

She growled, catching the attention of the villagers. Her muscles tensed and she burst forward, pack in tow. The enemy wasn’t expecting them and her first leap knocked the leader down. He was lightly armoured and his throat was unprotected. The other murderers were similarly shocked and fell quickly. 

Arya came back to the hall to find herself laid on a bench. Her vision was bleeding between light and shadows. Her tongue felt heavy and pungent. 

“Arya, Arya dear.” Maege soothed. “We’re assembling a party, Lord Galbart will lead it personally.”

“Good, but there are people…” Arya whispered “People who need help.” She sank back into Berena. 

The women were frightened, they’d put the children behind them to protect them from the attack. She tread forward slowly with her jaw closed and eyes down. The bravest woman clutched a small knife in her hand. She motioned with her head towards the woods, to the north. The people spoke frantically among each other. The only word she understood was “Stark.” 

With a bow, the brave woman followed the pack into the woods away from the massacre.

Arya lost track of the journey through the woods. They cut across the smoothest terrain. Their path rejoined the rough road leading to Deepwood, it also brought them into contact with a party of armed riders bearing Glover colours.

She took her pack back into the woods as the women and children were corralled and taken to safety. Her heart slowed and split apart. Arya didn’t even wake up back in the keep, she faded straight from Berena’s body into a deep slumber.

The story was all over the castle grounds for the next day. The guards drove off the bandits, killing some but many escaped into the night. A message had been sent to Winterfell.

The young Lady Stark was also the talk of the kitchens and stables. She’d been unusually quiet and not even the young Lord Gawen could rouse her to troublemaking. Lady Sybell and Lady Ondra had been very worried, yet it was Lady Mormont who insisted on leaving the young girl to her own peace.

Hours spent in the Godswood on her own, Berena calmly at her side. The only company she accepted for long periods was Harad. Two weeks passed before Arya opened up to the large Shepherd. 

“I was scared.”

Harad looked up from the leather stitching in his lap. “That makes sense.”

“I attacked those men. I… killed them.”

“You and Berena together.” Harad elaborated.

“Does that make it right?” Arya wondered.

Harad fixed another thread, “It makes it just.”

“Father once told me that a good person can kill but only a monster enjoys it.”

“Lord Stark told you that?” Harad asked skeptically.

Arya smirked, “Well, he told Robb and Jon.”

The Godswood was quiet.

“When it was done, I felt excited. I felt strong.” Arya muttered.

The Shepherd looked over to the young girl, who tucked her knees close.

“Berena is a direwolf, a strong creature. She is vicious and it serves her well. Men can be just as wild, there’s no shame in skinchanging.” Harad smiled at Berena, who was curled up in the leaves. “My grandfather taught me that when you bond with an animal, you take some of them into you and leave some of yourself in them.”

Arya kind of liked that idea. She and Berena shared something more than just a girl and a dog. 

“Can you help me get better?” she pleaded.

Harad held up the cloak in his lap. It was a wolf pelt fixed with a bronze clasp, quite small, not big enough for himself. He stood up, then kneeled before Arya. The pelt was thrown over her shoulders as he affixed it.

“I would be honoured to.” He promised.

/////////

“Little Arya, it’s time for dinner!” Harad called out.

“Coming, Harad.” Arya responded.

She ran into the wood hall situated at the center of the small village. Bear Island was a different place from the mainland. It was small, confined, isolated. Arya was going to celebrate her two-year anniversary at Deepwood soon, it was ironic since over the last year she’d spent most of her weeks on Bear Island with Harad and the other Shepherds.

It turned out a whole village of Shepherds had existed on Bear Islands for centuries, built on the most western part of the isle. Harad had taught her the history of their community over dinners under the stars. 

Bear Island has always served as a remote place where the Shepherds store valuable items and can send the sick to rest. In the truly ancient days, when House Woodfoot ruled, Bear Island was where the more violent Shepherds, the ones who served as warriors, would gather to duel and gain renown. Harad had even shown her the stone circles still standing on the hills overlooking the seas. They had abandoned it when the Ironborn came to conquer and their descendants fought the Drowned Men constantly. 

Harad said the first Lord Mormont was supposedly a Shepherd’s son who fought with King Rodrik Stark and earned the seat. He immediately resettled it with his own folk and new Shepherds. Since then it has been an important symbol for the vitality of the North.

“Did you see Ien or Iud ?” Harad asked Arya while she filled her plate.

Arya shook her head, “I saw their tracks by the river this afternoon.”

Harad lived up to his persona in many ways, he was a powerful warg and bonded to two juvenile bears. The other Shepherds joke when he’d found them abandoned as cubs he’d fed them milk from his teats. That had forced Lady Maege into a very awkward conversation with Arya about the “bears and bees.”

Ien was the bigger of the two, hence his name “Parent” and Iud as the smaller of the two was called “Child.” Arya thought Harad wasn’t very good at naming. It was a good thing Alysanne was in charge of their children or else they might have ended up as “Son” and “Daughter”.

“I could have Verros and Aira go looking for them.” Arya offered. 

Two wolves of Berena’s pack had become closely attached to the direwolf. They were so tight-knit that Arya started to unconsciously connect with them while in Berena’s mind. Harad said it was a great opportunity to take a new animal without relying on the special connection she’d shared with Berena. Verros was a rusty red while Aira had a shinier bronze coloured coat. It made sense then, to call them “Rust” and “Bronze”, especially since they sounded more impressive in the Old Tongue.

Arya and Harad drawled on for the rest of the night, flopping between Andal and Old Tongue with ease. Other Shepherds joined in, most of them were quite old so Arya had learned to see most like Old Nan. She suspected that the only reason Harad had stuck around was because of Alysanne and the kids. Dacey hadn’t been kidding about them, although Arya had on a few occasions seen Alysanne just as eager to see Harad.

The next day she made sure to finish her chores early, Lady Ondra was picking her up for a trip back to Deepwood. After the wolves half-way cleaned she set off with some of the Mormont guards for the docks.

The fishing boats drifted into sight when Ondra came galloping up the path red in the face and out of breath. 

“Lady Arya! Come quickly.”

Without a word, Arya was scooped up into the saddle flying back to the water.

“Ondra, what’s going on?”

“Sybell has gone into labour! We have to get back!”

“Labour!” Arya shouted, “She’s having the baby!”

Ondra was too focused on the reigns to answer.

Lady Maege was waiting on board, she ordered the sails up the moment Arya and Ondra touched the deck. The small vessel shot across the open water faster than a fish. Maege wouldn’t let the Captain get a word in about “reefs” and “grounding”; they made anchor and were inside the castle walls before noon. 

Gawen practically crushed her in a desperate hug on sight. He’d been sitting with his father and Lord Glover outside the room. Lady Sybell’s scream were quite loud, sending chills down Arya’s spine.

She sat down with Lady Maege. Questions circled through her thoughts, slipping out before she could stop them. “Is that going to happen to me?”

Maege looked down at her. “What makes you say that?”

Arya shrugged. “Father wrote to me.” she admitted, “He talked about setting up a betrothal between me and…” Arya leaned in close, “Gawen.” 

“The pain is hard, you’ll probably never feel anything like it,” Maege explained. “But children, even those born of duty can bring great joy.”

The door was thrown open and the midwife exited with a bloody apron tied to her waist. 

“Your wife and your baby are in good health, my Lord.”

Lord Robett and Galbart entered first before Maege, Arya and Gawen were invited in. 

It was quite the scene. Lady Sybell was laid out exhausted in the bed. Held against her chest was a small pink shape. Arya thought the newest Glover looked like a piece of pork that had been taken out of the oven early. Maybe that was harsh, she didn’t say that to Lady Sybell of course. 

“Hello Arya, this is Erena Glover.” Sybell said, angling the baby so Arya could see the infant’s wrinkled face. “I want to ask you to help me look after her, Arya. She’ll need someone to look up to.”

“Me?” Arya was shocked.

Agreeing would make her a big sister. Arya thought that may not be so bad. She could be like Jon, a protector, someone to make Erena feel better, feel loved.

Arya looked up at Sybell and smiled. 

“On my honor as a Stark, I’ll do my very best.”

///////////////////

Chapter Text

Jon's first breath outside the gates of Winterfell was unique. It was clear, it was cold, and for the first time in Jon's life, he felt like he was taking a step forward. The trip to White Harbour was far from easy. Their party was quite large. Fitting as Bran's fostering with the Manderlys was an important diplomatic gesture. Jory Cassel led their guard while Beorn and Jon kept Bran company. 

His brother was excited but clearly nervous. Bran had been even further removed from the smallfolk than Jon and wasn't old enough to go roughhousing with the younger servants like Arya. The young Stark admitted by the fireside that Sansa's name day had been his first chance to speak with other nobles his age. Jon did his best to reassure him that he would make fast friends and that if he paid attention to his lessons, he would make connections quickly enough.

Before their arrival, Bran huddled next to Jon and watched as Summer and Ghost scrounge for dinner. 

"Jon?" Bran whispered, leaning his weight into his brother's side. "Can you stay with me in New Castle?"

The request didn't shock Jon. Bran's nerves ran thin the further they traveled down the White Knife. 

"I'm afraid not." He replied. "You've got an important duty ahead of you."

"Is that why you can't stay? You have a duty too?" Bran asked.

The fire filled the silence. "I have to take a different path, Bran."

"Is it because you're not trueborn?"

Jon blinked down at Bran, who was cuddling Summer.

"Yes," Jon admitted, "but you're still my brother. I'm going to find a way to help our family; be someone Father can be proud of. Eventually, we'll both return home. You'll be a knight, clad in plate with a great lance on a heavy steed." Jon poked his brother's stomach, "With maidens clutching your cloak and throwing flowers at your feet."

Bran laughed. His eyes were shining, but ever so slightly, they faded in colour. The fire was low, the birds and insects muted. Bran's smile slacked, and he drank in Jon's face.

"You'll wear a heavy cloak of many names and wrap it around a snow-touched bride. War will echo in your home, and peace will break at your word. The wolves shall circle in iron and bring forth blood from the frozen stone."

With his final words, Bran's eyes fell shut, and the boy was fast asleep. Jon held his brother close, but nothing seemed amiss. 

Beorn slowly sat up from his cot and helped Jon set Bran down. The two didn't speak but contemplated the strange pronouncement in silence. Jon knew that Beorn suspected Arya and Bran had extremely potent dreaming, but prophecy was a dangerous thing.

He'd read through "The Shipwright's" memoirs. The ancient King had been enraptured with the sea from an early age. That interest turned to obsession when a wandering Shepherd told him that a Stark would one day sail west from the North and land in its east. Instead, the King disappeared, and his son burnt the Northern Navy in his grief. Vague words and desperate hopes were a poisonous mixture.

Thankfully, the young boy showed no memory of his trance the next day. Bran's nerves settled overnight, and he was eager to take in all the sights of White Harbor. 

The seat of House Manderly held little resemblance to Maester Luwin's descriptions of other Northern centers. It was the only proper city north of the Neck. Filled with straight cobbled streets and rows of white stone homes. They were treated to the sight of the inner and outer harbours. The field of sails and flags caught the sunlight over the waves like a portrait. New Castle itself was wide and tall. The Merman's Keep sat on the hill overlooking the city, the Wolf's Den and The Sept of Snow stood out among the landscape. 

Their horses were taken away, leaving Jory and Jon to escort Bran into the Manderly court. Beorn took the majority of the guard to one of the lower halls for a meal. Jon very nearly joined them before the Manderly Steward cleared his throat.

"Lord Bran, if you and yours would follow me."

The halls and court were filled. Not just by minor houses, Jon saw the many smaller sigils of knightly houses. By chance, Summer and Ghost slipped past the Steward's notice and kept close to their partners. 

The Steward announced their arrival to the court proper, "All rise for the son of Lord Stark, Brandon Stark!"

The court turned their full attention on wide-eyed Bran, who swallowed and stepped forward.

From his throne on the dais, Lord Manderly stepped down and met their party on the tiled floor. 

"Lord Manderly, on behalf of my family, I thank you for your hospitality." Bran did his best to stand tall.

Lord Wyman was gracious enough to take Bran's declaration with gravitas. He leaned down and gently grasped arms with the boy.

"It is an honour to have you here, Lord Bran." 

A few other public comments were made. They were directed towards a side corridor that led up into the castle proper, where Bran's provided chambers were.

Jon was prepared to let Bran get settled and rejoin Beorn when he was stopped by the maid.

"Lord Manderly has set aside a room next to Lord Stark for you, Ser."

Jon frowned at the older servant but followed her nevertheless. True to her word, a smaller room down the hall had been aired out. Bran's room had been fully furnished, this chamber had the basic amenities, but it was better than the barracks room that Jory and Beorn would be housed in. The maid watched Ghost with some trepidation; the wolf was the size of a full-grown hound. 

After washing his face, Jon changed into some fresher clothes. Setting down his personal bag, he reached into the bottom pocket, pulling out a small silver medal and chain. A gift from his father. Hardened bronze shaped into a round disc. On one face, a leaping wolf was plated in silver above his House words, reversed, a sword above some faint runes; "Blood of Stark" they read. Jon attached the chain and medallion to his chest.

Their first evening in White Harbor was a pleasant reprieve from the road. Lord Manderly allowed Bran to take an early supper, and soon enough, the Stark party was asleep.

Beorn had planned to spend a week or two in the city waiting for a ship that often frequented Skagos to make port. Bran was happy enough to have Jon and the Shepherd on hand. The young Stark settled in quickly and found several playmates among the Manderlys and their more prestigious sworn families. Many of these boys had older brothers who were squires or were squires themselves. 

Every afternoon Bran dragged his companions to watch the men-at-arms drill and the knights drill. The training fields outside of New Castle were large and well maintained. They clapped as Ser Verrick, an older Knight, expertly smashed aside the shield and helmets of several dummies. Jon was amazed by the dexterity of the veteran warrior, his own skill on the horse was acceptable, thanks to Ser Rodrik.

Bran was definitely impressed. He leaned back from the fence and looked to Beorn. "You never talked about jousting before, Beorn. Did the First Men do it?" Bran asked.

Beorn adjusted his jacket, a Stark Guardsman suit that he'd been leaned to blend in.

"They didn't." He responded.

Bran scratched his head, "Was it because they didn't have knights?"

Beorn shook his head, "More so due to tradition and materials. In the old days, the cavalry was lightly armoured. One of the old mounds on Skagos has a wonderful portrait of a horseman. They carried double-ended spears with either maces or blades at their waist."

"No lances?" Bran said.

"First Men horse rarely charged. Their duty was to be swift and responsive. There's an account by House Roil about how they trained their men to reinforce weaknesses in the battleline or sweep to the flanks." Beorn explained. "Of course, if the enemy also had cavalry, then naturally, the two forces clashed."

"What about after the Andal Invasion?" Jon interjected.

Beorn laughed, "Then the joust was a pastime of the invaders. They also heard rumours about deaths and accidents. More than a few Magnars refused to risk crippling their cavalry in a contest."

Jon nodded. It made sense to him and his very northern worldview. Bran frowned. 

"I was hoping there'd be some Stark prince who was a master jouster." The boy admitted.

Beorn cringed, "Just because they didn't joust didn't mean they had no competitions." The Shepherd clasped his charge around the shoulders. "What the Andals called the melee was already an ancient pastime for First Men." 

Bran brightened up instantly.

"During festivals and grand feasts, the Magnars would host great Groufs . Pit fights with blunted weapons. Looking back, it was a bit hypocritical to shun the joust; a fair share of sons died all the same." Beorn outlined.

Jon chuckled, "I bet it was cheaper than buying a horse and a full set of plate."

"True, true." Beorn agreed. "If I recall correctly, the Grouf was most popular in the Stormlands. There were even a few champions who made their living traveling across Westeros."

"Were the Groufs the only sport?" Bran asked.

"Far from it!" Beorn exclaimed. "Towns across the kingdoms held contests every year."

The rest of the afternoon, the Stark boys laughed along as Beorn described ancient games of lumber throwing, target calling, horse mounting, and more.

Day by day, Bran became more comfortable with White Harbour. Lord Wyman had a keen sense and quickly filled in as a paternal figure for Bran. Taking time to include the Stark son in family activities and discussions.

What surprised Jon was that the Lord of the White Knife spared attention for him as well. He encouraged Jon to make use of the training field and even lent him some sparring weapons. Beorn cautioned him to keep in mind that bastard sons raised alongside the heir of a house are not easily ignored. The Manderly's were nothing if not cunning and adaptable. Jon blushed when Beorn suggested that a distant Manderly cousin would not be a bad match for him.

Nearly a full moon had passed in White Harbor when Beorn informed him that their ship had docked. Bran took their departure surprisingly well, giving Jon a tight embrace before running off with his band of friends. 

His final night in New Castle was nerve-wracking. After a hearty dinner, Jon took a stroll along the castle walls to be met by the considerable shadow of Wyman Manderly.

"Lord Manderly." Jon bowed.

"Please stand, young Jon, stand." The Merman asked. He guided Jon along the battlements. "I must say, I'm quite impressed with Lord Bran."

Jon nodded, "He does the Starks proud. I know how excited he is to be here."

"It's difficult not to notice how he stares after the lances and horses. I've already begun planning his tutoring. You can be sure that he'll master the saddle by the time he grows his first chin hairs." Lord Wyman certainly loved to laugh. "You've also made an impression, Jon. I won't lie; many in my household were surprised that Lord Stark would send you to accompany your brother."

"I was making my way east regardless. It was convenient for me to accompany Bran." Jon responded.

"Lord Stark made it clear to me that he holds you in high esteem," Manderly informed him. "I can see for myself your excellent manners. My Master-at-Arms has commented more than once on your skill in the yards."

Jon distracted himself from the compliments by petting Ghost.

"In fact, were you not already on an errand, I'd extend an offer to you to join my household." Wyman finished.

Jon tripped over his own feet as he jumped to attention. At a loss for words, Jon sputtered out some mangled apology.

Wyman held up a hand. "Worry not, I'm unsure if Lord Stark would approve in any case. I have a notion that you have quite a future ahead of you, Jon Snow."

Jon stared into Wyman's eyes. "What makes you say that, my lord?"

His host smirked. "There aren't many places to visit in the east. Word from the dock says that your companion has bought passage aboard the Ice Tide . A peculiar vessel. It makes frequent trips up the coast, always light on cargo but laden with passengers."

Jon very deliberately kept his shoulders relaxed. "My father, Lord Stark, was hoping to gain insight into the farthest corners of the North. He's quite busy, so he sent me in his stead." The story was not wholly false. Jon's father did want to get insight into the goings-on of Skagos.

Wyman stroked his prominent chin. "A wise choice. I'm sure you'll enjoy the brisk waters. Do be careful though, I've been told that many years have passed since a Stark has visited those shores, not to mention one accompanied by a member of the… older stock."

His final advice meted out, Lord Wyman bid Jon and Ghost a good night and walked off. Leaving behind a nervous Snow who began to reconsider his assumption that because the Manderly's followed the Seven, they were blind to the business of the Shepherds.

//////////////////

Packed away on his first actual ship, Jon allowed the worries of the mainland to fade and embraced the awe of the sea.

Ice Tide was a moderately sized vessel that cut swiftly through The Bite and up the rocky shore. It was crewed by Captain Thrin and his three sons. By all appearances, they were a typical trading vessel. Their true affiliations shone in the intricate carvings along the inner hull. Runes could be felt above each doorway, and amols hung from the sail rigging. The boys would often slip into Old Tongue by accident only to be scolded by their father.

"Thrin is one of our best sailors. He cut his teeth making trade voyages to Braavos when he was younger, then started doing business on Skagos. Now he's content with being a Shephard's ship." Beorn explained.

"I didn't think the Skagosi traded with outsiders," Jon stated.

"Make no mistake, Skagos is a wild land. The Stone Men are as hard and vicious as any story of the Wildlings. Despite what some call their "savagery," the people still need to live. The Boltons, Karstarks, even the Night's Watch have dealt with them for many centuries. Depending on who holds power among the clans, trade or raids come and go with the tide."

Jon thought back to his lessons. "The last time Skagosi were widely seen was during the reign of Barthogan Stark, the son of Cregan Stark, correct?" The Skagosi Rebellions tended to be quick and brutal. Maester Luwin only covered them briefly. The Stark Histories had even less to say on the matter. "Father had mentioned that Barthogan Stark wrote little of it. In fact, his writings were scarce for most of his reign."

Beorn pulled out supplies for a new carving, a gift for Captain Thrin's wife. 

"On Skagos, the title of Lord changes hands easily," The Shepherd explained. "Age or illness will weaken the seated rulers, then rivals will gather power through disputes and small skirmishing. Finally, an open challenge will be called, and a rebel fights for the seat. When they succeed, they usurp not just the power and authority but also the name. Who knows how many bloodlines have been called Magnar, Crowl, or Stane?"

Beorn's carvings tended to be palm-sized; his new work was closer to a forearm in length.

"During Barthogen's generation, a rising chieftain usurped House Magnar, but he didn't stop there. This Chieftain was cunning; through tactics, and some say sorcery, he conquered the whole isle." Beorn said.

"All three houses fell to him?" Jon was entranced.

"The Stone King, he called himself. His detractors whispered that he drank too much weirwood sap, a cup with every meal. Others said his parents were brother and sister, that his madness and ambition were born from the womb. Regardless, this Stone King wished to rule over the mainland too, so he rebelled against distant Winterfell, setting his ravagers loose from the Bay of Seals all the way down to The Bite."

"The Wildlings have never been that effective. How did he expect to win?" Jon inquired.

Beorn cut away large pieces, letting the slivers of wood pool at his feet. "Rather than burning villages, he turned them into forts and built strong wooden walls," Beorn revealed. "The Northern Lords thought this a poor tactic stemming from arrogance. House Ramheart among them. They sallied out to attack one of these captured villages in full force. They broke through the walls easily enough only to find the fort was nothing but a sham; just a huge pit of spikes and filth hidden by sticks and dirt." Beorn grimaced. "When the Ramhearts rushed in, they fell into the trap, killed at the Skagosi's leisure. The Stone King went on to sack Ramsgate."

Jon could hardly imagine it. "You said they invaded up and down the coast. Did no one else meet them in battle?"

"Strangely, the Bolton's refused to ride out," Beorn mentioned. "Likewise, the Skagosi never strayed too far into lands of the Flayed Men. Instead, their strength focused on Widow's Watch, Karhold, and skirmishes with the Manderlys. Ramsgate fell a year after the Stone King declared independence."

"I find it hard to believe the Starks would stand idly while a castle was occupied," Jon interjected.

"The course of fate was against them," Beorn replied. "A few weeks before news of the rebels reached Winterfell, Lord Jonnel Stark passed from an infection. Jonnel was not well-liked, his younger brother Barthogan even less so."

A whale's head was forming under Beorn's fingers.

"All families have their disagreements, Jon," Beorn reminded. "At the time of Jonnel's death, he had no heir. The children of Cregan Stark feared that their cousins, the descendants of their Great-Uncle Bennard, would contest the rule of Winterfell. Bennard's line had married into the Karstarks, you see. Barthogan and his siblings had distanced themselves and made other allies. Likewise, relations with the Manderlys were hampered by the passing over of Serena Stark, Cregan's eldest Grandchild, and the death of Sansa, Jonnel's wife. Serena Stark and her mother, Rylin Manderly, returned to White Harbour. House Stark was divided." Beorn explained.

It was astonishing, Jon thought, that suspicion and disagreement could cripple the most powerful family in the North to the point of inaction. "Even a rebellion could not forge a common cause between them?" Jon clarified.

"You'd be surprised what a noble family would allow when their authority is in danger." Beorn chuckled. "All three branches of the family were wary of going to war. Change can happen quickly when Lords are stuck on the front lines, and death comes without warning."

A tail swooped out of the wood's end, curling into a full circle.

"Thankfully, Barthogan was pushed into action by the sack of Ramsgate and the burning of Karstark farms. He marshaled a small army and rode to White Harbour. The next half-year was spent riding east with the Manderlys and Flints, hunting down the raiders," Beorn recounted. "It all came to an end when Barthogan Stark trapped the Skagosi between his forces. The Stone King disappeared during that final battle. His armour was found in the aftermath, split along the back and caked in blood."

"Barthogan also died there," Jon added.

Beorn nodded, "His younger brother Brandon took charge and drove the Stone Men back into the sea, all the way back to Skagos."

Shouts from Captain Thrin interrupted their discussion. 

Beorn clapped Jon's shoulder, "Speaking of which, we've arrived."

The waves settled as Ice Tide floated onward. A bright overcast sky let streams of sunlight streak across the open water. From the prow, Jon looked upon the Isle of Stone. It was the largest island Jon had ever seen, none of the small outcropping they'd passed, or even the glimpse of the Three Sisters compared.

High stone peaks sunk into the sky, and by all appearances, the land beneath was similarly edged with high rocks and sparse greenery. Sharp outcroppings, violent waves, and treacherous shorelines warned away any passerbys. Jon was beginning to wonder how they were going to land if the island itself was prepared to kill them for daring to approach.

Captain Thrin was undaunted. Their vessel circled Skagos until they reached a gap in the rocks. They sailed through a narrow gap between two stone cliffs and found themselves beneath a canopy of thin trees. This was the Woln , Jon would later learn, "the path," a way to reach the eastern part of Skagos without facing the storms of the Bay of Seals.

It crept back and forth inside a slight stretch of forest that lived at the foot of the giant peaks. At its end was a small lake. A village rested on the far shore, equipped with a few docks cluttered by fishing boats. Captain Thrin flew up a small flag that bore a simple whale, which looked quite similar to the wooden carving Beorn had finished on their voyage. Some sign must have responded because the Captain guided them to the single thick dock that jutted out into the water.

Thrin's sons scrambled about, throwing mooring lines to a few people on the dock. Beorn and Jon gathered their bags and supplies. Ghost, who had been quite discontent for most of the journey, was bounding about the deck, eager to touch land.

"I wonder what the Skagosi would think of a Stark visiting," Jon theorised. "Though I suppose a bastard son wouldn't cause that much commotion."

Beorn shook his finger, "I'd hold off on your assumptions. You're a Stark; the people here don't have much of a concept of bastardy. Stay vigilant. If they find out that Lord Stark is your father, I can't predict their reactions."

"They wouldn't try to kill me, would they!?!" Jon yelled.

Beorn shushed him, "Keep it down. I just said I can't guess. Technically, by defeating the Stone King, House Stark regained their place as the rightful rulers of Skagos. On the other hand, by their logic, fighting you would be a way to earn prestige."

Jon paled, imagining a hulking raider aiming to take his head.

Beorn tossed over a waterskin. "Relax, Jon. Unless you seek them out, I doubt we'll see many Skagosi. The Shepherds live separate from the largest villages. We have our own space on the island."

Beorn stepped down from the small ramp and settled onto the dock. Jon made to follow but halted.

"Are there any Shepherds who'd want to fight me?" Jon asked.

Beorn turned back and smirked.

/////////////

Chapter Text

After Father had given him leave to visit Skagos, Jon’s imagination had run wild. His mind couldn’t settle on what the mysterious place would offer: ancient stone circles covered in glowing runes? People in leaf cloaks running with deer? In his nightmares, stern-faced elders ate raw meat and lived in ashen boneyards, while half-men half-birds perched atop carion poles.

His first true experience in Skagos involved watching Beorn haggle with a half-blind greybeard over how much his potatoes cost. Back and forth in rapid Old Tongue, Jon’s friend debated on how many rabbit furs a dozen root vegetables were worth.

Jon could follow their bickering quite well, only losing a few words here or there. He took a deep breath and turned away from the stall to take in the village they’d landed in. Captain Thrin had bid them goodbye and led his sons off home. Unlike on Ice Tide , the sailor had no problems using the Old Tongue. From the docks tight clusters of large homes circled around each other. A wide flat trail led from the water to a roofed clearing that held stalls and tables. People milled about on their business. It perfectly mirrored Wintertown on any given day.

He looked down to Ghost, who quietly sat near the stall corner hidden from view. It would be best if his companion stayed with Beorn, less chance of an accident that way. Jon motioned once with his finger and then moved off alone. 

Taking in the wares on display, his eye was drawn to embellishments present on even simple tools. Engraved knots on a hammer’s handle, careful rune stitches on thick blankets, he noticed even a plow had a stylized ox hammered into the plate. Certainly, their creators were no high court artisans but the simple artistic touches displayed a dedication that Jon admired.

Surprisingly, many people wore accessories with their outfits. Unlike the silver and gold that Lady Stark had, these were pieces of bronze, tin and a kind of strange orange jewelry that reminded Jon of hardened tree sap.

His staring did not go unnoticed. A trio of people off to his left huddled together in conversation. In his peripheral vision, Jon caught their fingers flicking towards him. The last thing he needed was to earn a sour reputation. He quickly moved back towards Beorn. 

A smooth walking stick flashed into his path. Jon halted and looked hesitantly to the bearer, a willowy man with short hair and no beard. He had few wrinkles but a dense field of freckles covered his head and neck. At his back was a woman with arm in arm with a young boy who had similar patches of freckles.

This challenger growled out in thick Old Tongue, “Strangers aren’t free to wander here. Who do you answer to, newcomer?”

Others took notice of these loud questions and likewise turned their eyes to Jon. A bastard learns to sense distrust from a young age. He could practically feel the sentiment swelling by the second.

“That’s a fine piece of steel you carry, intend to use it?” The willowy man asked.

Jon swallowed. He deliberately held his hands away from his waist, “I’m just a visitor,” he said, the Old Tongue came out smoothly. 

The willowy man pulled back his walking stick but kept it in the air, “A visitor you may be, but a spy can wear many faces.” 

Threats were quite clear in any language. A shift of dirt alerted Jon to the bodies that had moved too close in on his back. Jon took a deep breath, then reached into his breast pocket. His fingers clasped around his medallion when the walking stick was pushed into his throat.

“That’s far enough,” This man was very suspicious of strangers.

Seconds before Jon could attempt to argue in his own defense the woman and child behind him shouted and darted away. The willowy man spun on his heels.

Hunched forward, Ghost had his fangs bared. Red eyes stared at Jon’s accuser, who had frozen in shock. His direwolf was the same size as the largest hounds of Winterfell, his coat of bright white fur gave the impression of being even larger.

“Ghost, heel!” Jon commanded. The wolf sat but kept the willowy man square in his sights.

“Denor, I dearly hope you aren’t harassing my guest,” Beorn yelled. The Shepherd pushed through the crowd, a small bag of potatoes in his hand.

The willowy man, Denor apparently, turned on Beorn. “This stranger is with you, Shepherd?”

Beorn stepped up to Jon and motioned to Jon’s pocket. Jon took out the medallion and held it up for everyone to see.

“He’s no stranger, Denor. This is Jon of Winterfell, son of Eddard Stark.” Beorn proclaimed.

His announcement set the crowd into furious conversation. The woman behind Denor was grimacing and rubbing her forehead, the boy at her hip did his best to hide behind her skirts.

Denor himself looked unaffected. “I’ll not apologize for being cautious. Some of us must take care to safeguard our home.” Denor twisted, careful to keep his body facing Ghost. “Neddin, what say you?”

The crowd parted again for a woman in green robes. A string of teeth and claws was woven around a leather belt that also carried a wooden mask. Jon knew that Beorn’s mask and robe were still packed away.

“Your diligence does you credit, Denor.” Neddin responded. “Though I would say perhaps pay more caution before confronting young travelers in public. I trust Wolftongue’s son.” She waved her hand and walked back through the spectators.

Beorn and Jon followed, a quick whistle brought Ghost back to his side. Denor threw one last dirty look at their backs before striding back to his own stall.

“Is this going to be a common occurrence?” Jon asked.

“I doubt it, Denor’s a grump and he doesn’t like visitors. This is Basket, it’s the largest village on this side of the island. It’s also the only village the Shepherds claim sole ownership over.” Beorn explained.

The pair continued walking. There were still stares, now of awe and even reverence rather than distrust. A few people even gave him slight bows, which embarrassed Jon greatly. It was Robb who received the respect of strangers, not him.

Jon distracted himself by listening closely to Beorn describe Skagos in more detail. The people of the island were widespread, outside of the smattering of coastal fishing villages, most people either resided near the House Halls or in small communal homesteads. This included the majority of Shepherds, who mingled with the regular folk. 

The exception was the Great Shepherd and the most venerated of their order. These Shepherds lived in a small valley nestled near the tallest of the peaks. Veidien it was called, which Jon parsed out, was some kind of combination of “tutor” and “birthplace.”

They found Neddin standing at the village outskirts. A strange black bird with bright red flesh covering its head and neck perched on her arm. Neddin was an older woman, with sparse lengths of grey in her long hair. Her nose and cheeks had a rosy colouring to them that rolled through the wrinkles on her chin. 

As the bird flew away, Neddin took off the thick leather gauntlet she’d been wearing and clasped arms with Beorn.

“Jon, this is Neddin Bleakwing. Neddin, this is Jon of Winterfell.” Beorn formally introduced.

Jon bowed, “I’m glad to make your acquaintance.”

Neddin smiled, “And I yours. The Great Shepherd said that his son was accompanying a visitor, I didn’t expect it to be one of The Stark’s own sons. This is a good sign.”

They set out on a well-trodden dirt path. Jon kept silent while Neddin shared news with Beorn. Nothing of consequence; gossip, births, deaths, a small list of fights. The conversation drifted to Beorn’s family.

“How has my sister been? I know she was planning on finding another bird when I left,” Beorn mentioned.

Neddin shook her head, “Mari isn’t on Skagos, she left a few months after you. She did bond again, with a pair of twin eagles. Your father named her Skytongue and sent her on a mission south.”

Beorn looked to his feet and bit his lips, “I’m glad she earned a name. I’ll have to ask The Great Shepherd what errand took her so far from home.”

Neddin looked closer at him, “That wolf’s not yours?” she asked.

Jon felt the need to defend his friend, “Ghost is mine. Although if it wasn’t for Beorn I doubt any of the direwolves would have made it to Winterfell. Beorn guided their parents and another wolf from Beyond-The-Wall to our home.”

Beorn smiled and Neddin spoke no more.

//////////

It took another hour of calm travel to reach the valley proper. It had no special appearance. Great gates did not bar the entrance, and no statues marked the passage. Insead a small row of waist-high wooden idols were sunken into the path. Each bore a weathered carving and a ring of illegible runes. Neddin had left them a few minutes before with a respectful goodbye, her own home was further inland near Deepdown, the seat of House Crowl. 

Beorn threaded between the idols and walked along the steep hillside. A small stone staircase led up to the base of the sharpest rock cliff Jon had ever seen. He feared for a moment they would have to scale it. Thankfully, the staircase curved right into a gap between the hill and rockface. It wasn’t visible from the main path due to the trees and the angle of the rocks. 

The afternoon sun drifted overhead and bathed their passage in bright warmth. The sunlight revealed, to Jon’s shock, ancient weirwood faces sunken into the soil wall to his right. Dozens of eyes and mouths peered out from the dark earth. A select few were nearly crumbling apart, their wooden bodies so corroded by time that their bark was nothing more than soft mulch kept in place by roots and weight.

A sudden gust of wind sped along this narrow corridor, knocking Jon’s cloak back and stopping him mid-step. His skin prickled. Jon shifted his gaze to the faces.

Rows of eyes. Dead Eyes. Living Eyes. 

They were cutting into him, taking his heart and his worth. 

They found him weak, found him wanting. 

His dreams were petty and his wishes were cowardly. 

He would join them there, beneath the earth. 

His skin would split and crack. 

The roots take hold and drink. 

His own face set into the mud, silent, watching and judging the next soul to walk this trail.

A sharp pain broke Jon from his thoughts. He was on his knees, shivering. 

Ghost had grabbed his left hand and carefully teethed his fingers. Beorn stood in between them and the wall of faces. Over Beorn’s face was the weirwood mask, a heavy stream of red sap leaked from the slanted eyes. The liquid flowed over the long nose and tree knot nostril, pooling in the grinning mouth before dripping to the ground.

For a moment, Jon saw a small face among the carvings. A face with dull pupils and dark green flesh; it smiled, revealing pointed black teeth. He blinked and leaned into Ghost’s side. Beorn stepped back and removed his mask. The wind quieted, the sun slid behind the clouds.

“Jon, are you alright?” 

Jon looked up at his cousin, “I think I need some water,” he said.

Ghost and Beorn helped Jon to his feet. The path continued for another ten minutes or so before making another right turn. The second set of stone stairs led down into the open air of the valley. Patches of thick trees painted onto a green grass floor stretched out before them. Smoke trails drifting above the treetops marked the chimneys of quaint houses and the occasional barn. 

Jon’s heart calmed as Beorn led him past a small herd of sheep grazing. There were Shepherds here and there. Well, Jon assumed they were Shepherds, only the occasional person had the green robes. 

Beorn was taking in the surroundings with a bittersweet air. He stopped for a few moments at most of the homes to greet his neighbours. Children would come running up eager to hear about Beorn’s travels or to gawk openly at Ghost. The young ones were unfazed by being introduced to “Jon of Winterfell”, but their parents were suitably interested. No one spoke outright, they simply encouraged Beorn to speak with The Great Shepherd.

“It might not compare to Winterfell, but welcome to Stone Heart.” Beorn declared as he pointed forward.

Ahead of them was a sizable patch of grazing land bordering a thicket of old trees. A small hall and other buildings made of stone sat on a hill overlooking the grounds. 

“Beorn, you’re back!” someone shouted.

Galloping down from the home was a young boy astride a shaggy horse. The rapscallion charged towards them at full tilt. Jon put a hand onto Ghost, praying that the steed wouldn’t rear.

With surprising skill, the boy rode parallel to Beorn and leaped straight from the saddle into his arms. They both went tumbling in the dirt.

“Rogan, what have I told you about treating your steed like a toy?”

The boy couldn’t have been older than 12 years old, he looked up at Beorn with a wide grin, highlighting his handful of missing teeth and dark red hair.

“Stop being such a hen. I can handle my horses just fine.” Rogan complained.

Beorn dragged the two of them back up as the shaggy horse trotted over to them. It was smaller than the horses in Winterfell’s stables and positively tiny compared to the draft horses he’d seen on the ride to White Harbor. 

“Jon, this is Rogan son of Dogan. Rogan, this is Jon son of Eddard, he’s from Winterfell.” Beorn introduced for the tenth time.

Rogan hopped back into the saddle and bowed slightly, “Nice to meet you. The Great Shepherd is meeting with someone right now, but I cleaned out your room, Beorn.”

They followed Rogan back towards the houses.

“What happened to my room?” Beorn asked.

Rogan shrugged, “After you left, we moved most of the workshop out of the old shed inside.”

Jon noticed Beorn’s frown and thought it was strange as well. Although the Shepherds were a more practical people, repurposing empty space seemed sensible.

The house was certainly old. Wooden walls smoothed by wind and weather over the course of decades. Even so, Jon could pick out the intricate craft that ran along the beams and doorway. The doors were adorned with a bronze knocker formed into a wolf’s head.

Rogan veered off back towards the stables, leaving Beorn standing at the door with Jon and Ghost in tow. Their bags were stored inside and Beorn prepared some bread and honey for them. It was a large house with well-cared for furniture. The walls in particular sported many trappings, from pelts to ornaments and even the occasional hide painting. Rogan entered after them and eagerly recounted his adventures over the last year.

A pleasant afternoon, and a welcome change of pace from the ship ride. Beorn himself was in a pleasant mood. Jon supposed most people would be happy returning home. The creak of the front door preceded the arrival of Torrhen Wolftongue, the Great Shepherd himself. Jon and Beorn stood up straight, a hint of nervousness in both their frames.

Torrhen looked remarkably similar to his son. The same build and height, the same dark hair and eyes. He wore a short beard to compliment shoulder-length hair. His robes were a deep green and had silver wire threaded into the chest and sleeves. The Shepherd’s long face gave credence to his Stark blood, though his overall resemblance to Jon’s father was more in likeness than features.

When Torrhen saw Jon he smiled and his eyes lit up, a rare reaction for Jon to see.

“Jon Snow!” Torrhen exclaimed in the Common Tongue. He walked forward quickly and grasped his arms. “I welcome you to Skagos. It is truly an honour for the Stone Heart to welcome the son of Lord Stark.”

Jon stammered, “A-and House Stark thanks you for your hospitality.” Jon hoped that response was appropriate, he’d only had a few weeks to wrap his head around how to act as a ward.

Beorn stepped forward when Torrhen moved toward his eldest son. Jon noticed Torrhen only laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Beorn, you have done well. Your mission is over, consider your duties released.” Torrhen informed him.

“Thank you, Father,” Beorn replied.

“Your room has been prepared, could you and Rogan ensure that the tables are pulled out of the main room, I expect many visitors tonight and tomorrow,” Torrhen instructed.

Beorn nodded and followed Rogan out of the kitchen.

“I’ve had one of our guest rooms prepared if you’ll follow me, Jon.”

Torrhen gave Jon a tour of Stone Heart. It had 5 chambers, a large workroom and an open theatre where Torrhen held meetings and heard disputes. Jon had been given the largest chamber besides Torrhen’s own. 

The tower held a collection of artifacts and heirlooms collected by the inhabitants of Stone Heart over the ages. It was locked but Torrhen said that Jon needed only ask if he wished to inspect their modest treasures. Ghost was exploring the open space when a trio of smaller wolves approached the house.

Jon tensed but stood his ground beside Torrhen. Ghost kept his silence and allowed the wolves to approach and sniff around him, but when they circled Ghost growled and pushed forward. The wolves paused then backed off, going around the Direwolf towards a small shack near the barn.

“Have you begun warging yet, Jon?” Torrhen asked.

“Only in my dreams.”

“A good start but I’m confident you have the makings of a great skingchanger. It’s in our blood after all.” Torrhen declared. “Now come along, we have a busy week ahead of us, there’s much to do.”

//////////

Chapter Text

Living in a castle, especially a castle as grand as Winterfell truly blinded you to the amount of work-life took. The Great Shepherd may command respect and authority, but his family still needed to cut their own firewood and cook their own meals. Jon never imagined he was lazy but struggling to wake up before dawn with Beorn sowed some doubts. Stone Heart had some animals, a small farm, and a workshop that saw constant use. 

Torrhen insisted that Jon was a guest and could focus on things other than chores. Seeing Beorn and Rogan lugging lumber and corralling the sheep prompted Jon to join them. He was a ward, which meant he was expected to contribute to his host’s household. Rogan even admitted the milking was easier with Ghost around to keep the lambs in one place.

The Stone Heart was not an empty place. Torrhen showed Jon various maps of the island, and Veidien itself sat east of the main mountain. Plenty of Shepherds cut through it while moving up and down the coast. Dozens came every week to meet with the valley residents, for advice mostly. After finishing their business, Torrhen would insist on introducing them to Jon and holding an informal meeting. 

Many of these visitors were quite influential on the island, a few of the experienced smiths, the rare stablemaster, even a few scribes. Occasionally, one of the mysterious Shepherds would appear. Elders with hair to their ankles, deep wrinkles, and dark veins under their skin. Beorn told him they went “deep into the weirwoods” and spent days dreaming and warging. 

Torrhen convinced a few to teach Jon. His warging with Ghost grew leaps in bounds once he started using their techniques; rune circles to help concentrate and special brews to deepen the tie between beast and man. 

It took months for Jon to notice how little time he’d spent with Beorn and how little time Beorn spent with his father. While Torrhen kept Jon busy learning the Old Tongue and imparting “wisdom”, Beorn spent more and more time with the young children on the island or hunting on his own. Eventually, Torrhen was called away to settle a dispute on the southern Skagos, leaving Jon free to seek out his cousin.

“Beorn!” Jon called.

His friend looked up from his lap, a bundle of knots between his fingers. The small lake behind him was one of the few scattered within walking distance of Stone Heart and small fishing boats laid strewn across the pebble shore.

“Rogan finally chased you off?” Beorn asked.

Jon adjusted the rough shirt he’d grabbed on his way out. “No, the scamp said his sister was visiting and he headed home.”

Beorn picked up the fishing poles at his feet and set them into his boat beside a small bucket of bait. “I’ll be back in a few hours, then I’ll start on dinner.”

Jon stepped past Beorn, setting his own poles into the boat. Taking a hold he pushed the boat into the water, glancing back at Beorn. “I wanted to come with you. I’ve never fished in a lake before.”

Beorn was surprised, a reaction that upset Jon. Wordlessly he jumped in the boat and the two settled into rowing. The weather was clear and the wind warm. While Beorn set out his fishing lines, Jon leaned forward.

“I wanted to apologize.” Jon began.

“What for?” Beorn returned.

“Your father has been taking up all my time, not to mention his guests.”

Beorn sat back and pulled a few worms out of the bucket, expertly affixing them his hook. “Father has a lot to teach you, Jon. It’s a great honour to be his student.”

“I came to Skagos because of you Beorn, I wanted to learn from you.” Jon insisted.

Beorn looked down and picked at his necklace. The teeth and claws clacked dully together. “I’m afraid I don’t have much to offer you now.”

“We wouldn’t be here if that was true. Torrhen could spend days instructing me on how a Shepherd should act but you’re the one who brought Ghost to me.” Jon said, motioning to where his Direwolf was digging through the rocks ashore. “No one back in Wintertown would disagree when I say you have plenty to offer, and I want to learn.”

Hopefully Jon’s determination was conveyed in his face, the young Stark still had a ways to go on making convincing speeches.

“A deal then.” Beorn decided, “You shall do your best to learn from the Great Shepherd. In turn, I’ll teach you everything I can about Skagos and anything else you’re curious about.”

Jon smiled and grabbed his own fishing pole, “It’s a deal then.”

The two cast their lines into the water and spent a calm afternoon speaking while piling a small bounty of fish into their basket. With a good haul in tow, they walked back to Stone Heart. Pulling together his nerves, Jon broached the subject with Torrhen later that night.

To Jon’s dismay, the Great Shepherd’s first reaction was to deride Beorn’s skills. Not in plain terms, but the older man spent a good chunk of their evening pointing out his son’s inexperience and lack of Greenseer strength, as if those were the only reasons Jon could possibly want Beorn’s company for.

Holding back his irritation, Jon remained steadfast in his desire. Torrhen had no choice but to accept. Jon may have been Wolftongue’s ward, but as the son of the Warden of the North, his wishes had influence behind them.

Duties divided and arguments settled for the moment, Jon immersed himself in life on Skagos.

/////////////////

Six months sped by. For every two weeks spent in Stone Heart, Jon now spent a week with Beorn exploring Skagos. Beorn taught Jon how to build shelters out of bark and branches, find water using moss and to light fires with ropes and leaves. He became a deft hand with a snare and began recognizing certain herbs on sight. 

They would return to Stone Heart relaxed and in good spirits, only to be separated by Torrhen monopolizing Jon’s time or Beorn being called away by duty. Despite the Great Shepherds' lack of attention, the rest of Skagos had apparently taken notice of Jon’s cousin.

Jon’s tutelage in the ways of the Shepherds began increasing in complexity and seriousness. Caring for the Weirwoods was a rather lenient process, the heart trees themselves were hardy and required very little attention, it was the rest of the woods that required care; culling plants that threatened to overtake the soil, rooting out any animals if they threatened to over-populate a grove. It became apparent that a Shepherd’s duty to the Weirwoods was split between the woods themselves and their visitors. Hours of walking from tree to village brought on hours of stories, tales, and songs that all carried important lessons.

Rhymes about which plants to mix to seal a wound, songs about how to ease a case of the Shivers, even (much to Jon’s embarrassment) a memorable story about a farmer’s wife that set out the signs of pregnancy. A Shepherd was expected to carry this knowledge and while they tended to the Weirwood, they would tend to the people who worshiped. Jon wasn’t particularly good at creating salves or drinks, but he grew a keen eye for noticing infection and flesh-rot, his sense of smell seemed to outpace many of his seniors.

Naturally, none of this was in Common (“Andal” to the Islanders), after a month or two, Jon slipped into using Old Tongue exclusively. It was simpler to take other people’s words directly rather than translate them. Though a few noted he retained a type of “accent” that marked him as from the mainland.

Torrhen’s insistence on mentoring Jon took on an unsettling paternal tone. Jon had no need of another father, much less one that seemed comfortable ignoring his own son. With Beorn growing ever busier on tasks from Torrhen, Jon began going out on trips and hunts alone. Often meeting another traveler or Shepherd and sharing camp for a few days. All seemed to be peaceful on Skagos, the stories of Stone Men drifted to the back of Jon’s mind until one frightening evening.

He and Ghost had wandered west around the mountain and decided to visit one of the fishing towns on the coast. A few furs had made it through Ghost’s hunts relatively undamaged and Jon hoped to exchange them for some bread. He’d come into a village later than he would have liked, the sun already slipped past the horizon. The main hall doors occupied by dining townsfolk were shoved open right into his face, sending him stumbling. Followed by a grown man tripping over him and falling to the ground.

The gloom of the evening and the man’s drunken slurs rapidly escalated the situation. Before Jon could get a word out he took a punch to the jaw and a kick to the ribs. A backhand threw his face into a patch of rocks in the dirt and warm blood flowed from his nose. It took all of Jon’s concentration to throw himself forward, not at his assailant but at Ghost, who had been moments away from tearing open the drunk Skagosi’s throat.

Tackling the wolf only brought a moment’s reprieve. The drunk stumbled back but his scream drew attention from inside the hall. Half a dozen villagers streamed out towards the disturbance. In his state Jon didn’t want to risk Ghost going after any of them and earning their ire. He kept a firm grip on his wolf’s fur and dragged the two of them into a dead sprint out of the village.

He stumbled through the foliage and in between trees until his legs gave out and exhaustion washed over him. Ghost padded up and rolled him onto his back. Jon saw the moon steadily rising behind a branch of red leaves above him as the throbbing in his skull washed his vision with black.

It was the wind that woke him. A subtle scent of blooms and sap, familiar enough to draw Jon from his foggy dreams. His left side was smothered underneath Ghost’s weight, giving him an excuse to stay on his back as the world came into focus. Jon grimaced as he registered the hard crust of blood on his cheek and jaw. A Heart Tree stood over him and Jon made a small prayer, thankful that his blind escape led him to a patch of Weirwoods. With a heave, Jon pulled himself out from under Ghost and sat up. Taking a hard look around he noticed his bags were still looped around his elbow. 

There was also someone kneeling in front of him. With a shout, he scrambled back and pressed himself against the weirwood trunk. In his haste, he slammed a hand down onto yet more rocks and for the second time in two days, his skin tore open.

In the blink of an eye, Ghost was in front of the intruder. Hackles raised and teeth bared. The adolescent Direwolf appeared to have no impact on the stranger. Jon leaned to the right to get a better look at them, his eyes widened and his jaw went slack.

Kneeling before them was a small creature. It’s skin rough and dark green, murky yellow eyes surrounded bright pupils that shifted as the light streamed through the tree boughs. Jon’s mind drudged up one impression, a Child of the Forest sat before him, a creature out of legend.

The Child moved first. It tipped its head back, a mantle of leaves ran along its scalp. From the pointed mouth, there came a strange trilling sound. Jon could only compare it to a mixture of a bird’s song and an elk’s cry. The Child’s song echoed through the grove. Ghost’s hackles lowered and lowered until the Direwolf was laid out on the ground. Jon’s face felt numb and his body tingled, muscles and fingers refused to twitch.

The Child stood up. They were tiny, smaller than even Arya. Two split gold pupils focused intently on the drops of blood falling from Jon’s palm to the Weirwood roots. It walked forward unafraid, the concept that Jon may attack did not cross its mind. With confidence, the Child reached into a small moss pouch tied to its waist. Two of its fingers came out covered in what Jon recognized as weirwood paste. The paste was meticulously rubbed into his hand and his forehead, it stung his palm, but the cuts sealed. 

Very carefully Jon swallowed and with great effort, tilted his head down. “You have my thanks,” he said.

The Child made a point of looking at the roots as the blood he’d spilled disappeared into the bark cracks.

Jon sat in silence, too tired to bother standing. He watched the Child back away, turn and climb into the branches of another Weirwood. Its body slipped between the leaves and knots, blending with foliage until it disappeared from Jon’s sight.

It took an hour to muster up the strength to start off home. Jon was fortunate a passing farmer recognized him. Taking the trip back to Stone Heart on a cart was more comfortable than hiking. Unfortunately, his headache returned with a vengeance when Torrhen and Beorn got a look at him. In a rare example of cooperation, the two men agreed that Jon was forbidden from traveling on his own. Two days of silence and remedial lessons was his punishment, to truly let the consequences set in.

The rest of Jon’s year passed quickly. He was never bored and though Skagos was small there was always work to be done.

///////////////////////

Two months into the new year, Stone Heart buzzed with activity. Torrhen had announced that Beorn’s sister, Mari, was finally returning from her pilgrimage to the Isle of Faces. Now dubbed “Skytongue” the entire valley and most of the nearby hamlets were pulled into a grand celebration.

Their first true meeting was in private. Jon let Ghost off to hunt in the nearby field before the Stone Heart was filled to the brim with guests.

“Jon!” Torrhen called from the main house, “Come, it’s time you met Mary properly.” His host had been smiling nonstop since the raven arrived the week before.

Any humbleness from Beorn was non-existent in his sister. She sailed home with bright sails and well-tailored clothes, necklaces of teeth and feathers draped across her shoulders and wrists. Reams of soft brown hair fell to bright amber eyes that complimented her soft features. She shared very little with Arya, Jon thought, and his little sister was the only woman anyone had ever called Stark-like. He wondered if she resembled the late-Lyanna, but tomb statues were not known for their accuracy. She wasn’t tall but neither short, and Beorn mentioned she was of age with Jon and Robb. Above all her presence filled the room, an assured confidence flowed from every word and gesture, contrasted with Jon’s timorous and awkward manners.

Jon fell back into honed instincts, he took her hand, bowed and brushed his lips across her knuckles, “Lady Mary.” he greeted. Happy his voice hadn’t faltered.

She smiled, seemingly pleased at his courtesy. “Lord Jon, a true honour,” she replied. “How has your stay on Skagos been?”

“Different,” he answered, “we’re a long way from Winterfell. It’s taken some time to adjust but the island has its own charms.”

Mira nodded in agreement, “I felt the same way about the Riverlands. The differences were jarring but eventually it’s better qualities shone through.”

They exchanged small talk for a few more minutes before Jon excused himself. There were certainly enough guests eager to speak with Mari that Jon’s absence was quickly filled. Skytongue spent the next two weeks socializing, accepting gifts and giving out her own blessings.

Beorn had mentioned that Mari was considered a prodigy but to see such a young woman have praise after praise heaped upon her was astonishing. Mari’s own talents were very obvious. Torrhen had insisted that Jon should accompany her to pray one morning. The Weirwood Grove “brightened” Jon thought, in her presence. Mari kneeled before the Heart Tree and left her body. As he did for Beorn, Jon watched over Mari. Her return coincided with the arrival of three crows. They perched on Mari’s shoulders and hands, cawing to her. Jon suspected that the trio of crows was linked to Mari’s status. More than a few Shepherds stopped to stare when she took the crows out for some exercise.

Mari was experienced, Jon concluded. She’d seen a fair share of the outside world. By all accounts, she was similar to Beorn in skills. In fact, the major difference between them appeared to be Beorn’s lack of affinity for Warging and Dreaming. Making Torrhen Wolftongue’s insistence that Mari takes over Jon’s tutelage all the more confusing. After Jon’s refusal Torrhen then changed his wish; Mari should accompany Jon on a visit to Basket for supplies, then Jon should ask Mari’s advice on warging with Ghost, and on and on.

It took a week of badgering for Jon to wrangle the truth out of his cousin.

“He wants you to become interested in Mari, Jon,” Beorn stated, his attention focused on the carving in his grip.

“I’m not a rock, Beorn, I guessed that much. I just can’t fathom why.” Jon returned. A crude wolf taking shape from his own block of wood.

“You’re a Stark, Jon. It’s not that complicated.”

Jon slammed his tools to the ground, “It is! Why would your father want to marry his prodigious daughter to a bastard?”

Beorn let out a heavy sigh, “Being the descendants of a Stark gives our family a certain… unspoken prestige. My father wasn’t the only candidate considered to take on the role of the Great Shepherd. His Stark lineage helped secure his title, many believe that same blood resulted in Mari’s exceptional talents.”

“You already have Stark blood, why would your family need more?” Jon asked. In terms of relation, Jon and Mari were fourth cousins, so far removed from each other that Jon’s grandparents, Rickon and Lyarra, had been closer kin.

“Blood that is running thin,” Beorn clarified, “Mari and I are the 5th generation removed from Berena Stark. The Shepherds may acknowledge our claim to the Starks but only to a certain point. If I had children, they likely would not receive the prestige that my father does now. However, a union between you and Mari would not only reinforce the bloodline, it would tie us directly to the male line.”

Jon sat back, “Torrhen’s grandchildren would be the grandchildren of Lord Stark,” he realized.

Beorn nodded, “Exactly, and when Lord Eddard eventually passes, they would be the nieces and nephews of Lord Robb.” The Shepherd hummed, “Alliances have been built on less.”

Jon cradled his head and covered his eyes. The stress was too much.

“Do you not like my sister, Jon?” Beorn asked.

The true problem, Jon was growing to like Mari very much. She was charming, passionate and never dull. The last thing Jon wanted out of fostering was a betrothal. Though that notion may have been naive considering Robb and Arya’s letters. Marriage wasn’t a choice Jon felt ready to make.

“Is there any excuse I could use to get away for a while? I think I just need some space,” Jon was desperate.

Beorn idly picked a splinter from his palm. “A friend of mine in Basket heard the Shepherds from Flint’s Finger were sending a group of children to visit kin on the island. I offered to help guide them, you could join up with us.” Beorn suggested, “It’ll be for a few months and I doubt Mari will have time to spare away from Stone Heart.”

Taking care to leave his departure to the last minute, Jon snuck away with Beorn. Corralling a mob of children was seemingly easier than facing a betrothal. Jon knew it was a delaying tactic, he only hoped that a letter back to Winterfell would solicit some advice from his father. 

Little did he know his plea would go unread. Lord Eddard Stark was facing his own tests, tests far more dangerous than an ambitious suitress. To the south, Stark mettle was set to be tested when dozens of small ships snuck through Ironman’s Bay, around Cape Kraken, and across the Blazewater, destined for the Stony Shore.

Chapter Text

For the last decade, Ned had been unable to find any tranquil part of his castle. There were always children running around, their things cluttered up the floors, their voices filled the halls. Now his children were off in other courts, growing up away from him and Catelyn. After Sansa's birth, he'd come to terms with the inevitable separation from his children. Rationally, that should have been due to marriage and age. In his nightmares, Ned imagined Robb with a chain around his neck, Sansa stranded in a tower, and Jon's tiny body wrapped in a red shroud.

Ned supposed he really had no experience with this kind of peaceful, content separation. His last family had been ripped away from him, a scar that still ached.

Even Benjen's departure for the Night's Watch had caused a vicious argument only soothed by months of apologetic letters. The sheer normality of worrying about fostering and negotiating betrothals sat strangely with him. Cat had been his saving grace once again. His worries soothed with her calm words and shared anxieties.

There were bright spots: Rob's survival in his first battle and budding fondness for Alys Karstark, Sansa's dedication to her growing responsibilities and artwork, Bran's colorful letters of friends and mock jousts, Arya's ever-increasing fascination with land and animals, even Rickon was finally overcoming his bout of loneliness at the absence of his siblings.

Last but not least was Jon. The bane of Ned's heart through no fault of his own. It had been hardest of all to let Jon leave Winterfell. Ned had quietly acquiesced with Jon's wish to join the Night's Watch, hopefully delaying it as long as possible. Watching his son head south to a land and a people unknown to him was paralyzing. The first letters were such a relief, and the last year had banished many of Ned's darkest thoughts and threw his past ideas in plain view.

It would have been cruel, Ned could now admit, to all but sentence Jon to life in Black. A crime to take such a bright and determined soul like Lyanna's son and shackle him away from family, friends, even hope. The Night's Watch had been Benjen's solace, redemption for his younger brother's soul, but it would have broken Jon. His boy claimed to love duty; truthfully, like any other young man, he wished to be acknowledged, doubly so due to his status. Ned was still unsure of Jon's future. Time with the Shepherds could only bring change, both for Jon and their family as a whole. 

A cynical part of Ned, the part that had been devouring the Stark Histories page after page, volume after volume, noticed how easily the Stark lineage had been pruned. Ned and Cat were now afforded the chance to spread their family branches far and wide. To cement the hold on the North that had weakened after Edwyle's death left Ned's father, Rickard, an only child. Two generations of lone Starks may not seem perilous to 8,000 years of rulership. Still, they could have easily sown the seeds of division. Particularly with his father and mother's marriage reuniting two branches of the family rather than expanding it. 

His father had chosen to strengthen ties with the Flints after a series of succession crises had rocked the Mountain Clans. Allowing the Dustins, Ryswells, and Boltons to form the foundation for their own alliance. Subtle things that could reverberate and grow. Perhaps if Robb was Ned's only son, he would see no consequences, but Ned's grandchildren? Great-grandchildren? They would have been forced to confront it. Thinking ahead into the future was becoming one of Ned's frequent past times.

The future he was currently focused on was his experimental expansion of the White Knife. Lord Medger Cerwyn oversaw the initial preparations as Castle Cerwyn controlled that river branch. Ned had hardly needed to explain his goals before Medger had accepted his new obligation. He fondly recalled teaching Robb and Jon about the importance of the Cerwyns.

Robb had understandably been confused as to why the Cerwyns were nobility in their own right when they had less land and men than a Masterly House like the Glovers. It had been critical that Robb and Jon realize there was more to vassals than their holdings or strength of arms. The loyalty and support of a smaller House could dwarf others in the right circumstances. The Cerwyns had served the Starks before The Laughing Wolf conquered the Crannogmen. The stewardship of the northern White Knife gave them sole control over the flow of goods by boat down to The Bite. Their cooperation had been instrumental in the construction of the Wolf's Den. The House had thus been granted the rights of law to acknowledge their loyalty. Ned knew that Cregan Stark had relied heavily on them during his reign as Warden of the North. The Cerwyns even had Stark blood; they were descendants of one of Cregan’s grand-daughters, Argella, by way of his second-son Edric.

The oldest surviving record of them in the Histories had been a vague note made during what he'd begun calling "The Times of Brandon." The earliest period of their House's history when a seemingly endless procession of King Brandons made identifying individual authors difficult. It referred to a new trade agreement between the Stark and the "Axemen" near the rivers. In exchange for aid in constructing a new hall, the Axemen had agreed to "hold their lands under Stark justice, their weapons forever honed and ready to answer the Magnar's call." Ned suspected this formalized the Cerwyns into faithful vassals (or a close approximation of the concept). Robb had suggested inviting Mountain Clans to the castle to learn just how much of the ancient ways had survived through their own practices. Another good idea added to Ned's long list of tasks.

Initial surveys of the planned route proved promising. The proposed path of the extension was across relatively flat ground with little dense forest to remove. Several smaller streams could be diverted to provide extra water. Next, he contacted Rhoynish architects through the Iron Bank. Bravos was the only Free City Ned could morally do business with, and the bankers were nothing if not inquisitive. An increase in his House's yearly deposits in exchange for a meeting and contract mediation smoothed things over. After months, Ned's representative, Vayon's cousin Balon Poole, met with a trio of Rhoynish Architects and began working from the comforts of a small estate in White Harbor. With their expertise, Ned simply needed the materials and the labour to put his plan into action.

That brought him to the letter bearing the Royal Seal of the Baratheon Dynasty and the Eagle of House Arryn:

Greetings Lord Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, from Lord Jon Arryn, Keeper of the Gates of the Moon, Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale, Warden of the East, and Hand of the King.

I cannot describe the joy I felt when receiving the news of your household's good health and fortunes. Too long has there been silence between us, for I look back upon your fostering in the Vale with ever-growing fondness. Unquestionably the Old Gods and New have blessed us for this opportunity to unite our Houses in common purpose and friendship once again.

I write to you in consideration of your previous letter on the Crown's outstanding obligation to the North. Your loan was both generous and vital to the establishment of King Robert's rule. Unfortunately, the Crown was not able to repay that debt before now. Your proposal, however, was warmly received by both His Grace and the Small Council. Few within our kingdom can forget the bravery of your people during the Greyjoy Rebellion. As such, I found little opposition to rewarding the North with both labour and materials in the name of King Robert. In fact, many commented on the foresightedness of your wish to enrich your lands.

The Crown has decreed that a force of 200 labourers shall be sent North upon the beginning of this grand project. Accompanied by shipments of food provided by House Lannister, equipment supplied by House Baratheon of Storm's End, and followed by ships of materials from House Arryn. These labourers shall be placed under House Stark's discretion, and 2/3rds of their pay shall be repaid by the Crown. Many of us hope to see the fruits of House Stark's labour in full.

I am obliged to mention that His Grace has declared Himself and select members of the Small Council to accompany the labourers. King Robert would be honoured to be the first member of his dynasty to visit his staunch allies in the North. We await your response to finalize our plans and routes.

Such a journey appears daunting, but the opportunity to reunite with you lightens the burden. I shall endeavour to bring along my own family so that our wives may have the same pleasure. It shall do my old soul good to speak with you in person and to see my Foster Sons together again.

Always your ally, 

Keeper of the Gates of the Moon, Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale, Warden of the East and Hand of the King,

Lord Jon Arryn

Ned re-read the letter several times. It was a comfort to see Jon Arryn's writing after so long. They'd exchanged only a handful of missives since the end of the Greyjoy Rebellion. His foster father still retained a masterful skill of hiding truths within polite words, a skill Ned had never taken to. The most straightforward statements needed to be deciphered for their deeper meaning, a task Ned now found much easier after-hours reading over Cregan Stark's personal letters.

"Your loan was generous… Unfortunately, the Crown was not able to repay… before now." The gold Robert had desperately needed to stabilize the Kingdoms upon his ascension had come from a few select sources. There were castles to repair, small folk to feed, nobles to reward, not to mention the rebuilding of King's Landing. Ned knew that Jon and Robert were reluctant to extract it from the rebellious houses considering House Baratheon's own precarious position. The North had lost men but suffered little else, and his people found it fitting to support the man who helped depose the Targaryens. The loan had been generous, but Ned had ensured it could remain unpaid and not undermine the North. If the Crown was jumping at the chance to provide alternate compensation, then their Treasury must be suspect. The additional (non-monetary) support from House Lannister and Baratheon hinted the state of the royal coffers may be dire indeed.

Robert also planned to visit Winterfell, and by the sound of it dragging his Hand along too. Ned could use some advice for moving forward, and Jon Arryn had never steered him wrong. He'd asked Cat to write to Lysa. His young nephew, Robin, should have the chance to meet his aunt and cousins. Perhaps she could even convince Lord Hoster to make the trip. A man should know his grandchildren, especially one with Hoster's fragile constitution.

Planning for a royal visit in the future was a pleasant break from his usual duties. Any enjoyment for Ned was drained as a batch of urgent messages arrived. Firstly by raven and then by courier. Sightings of bandits were rampant in the Stony Shore. Merchants from the Rills reported burnt villages and butchered livestock. At the same time, the Glovers had repelled a smaller band that fled back towards Sea Dragon Pointe. It was rare for more than one band of these brigands to exist nearby. They tended to spread out to avoid squabbling over resources. Penning a quick response asking Lord Ryswell for more information, Ned retreated to his solar.

Brushing aside a stack of tax summaries, Ned pulled forward one of the most valuable Histories, The Winter Kingdoms . An intensive document penned by Torrhen Stark's uncle, Barthol. It took great pains to track the fates of various former-Kingdoms after the North was united.

Ned dived into the pages. Past the thick sections on the early wars with the Umbers and negotiations with House Dustin. The Boltons on their own made up nearly a quarter of the tome. Near the back of the book was a heading and rough sketch of the Stony Shore. Before Beorn's arrival, Ned's knowledge of the Shore was quite general. He knew that House Fisher had ruled as Kings of the Shore until House Stark subjugated them following the defeat of the Warg Kings. House Fisher had remained as a prominent Masterly House along the coast. Sadly, the family was wiped out by the Ironborn during the reign of Harrag Hoare, whose son Ravos the Raper had used Bear Island as a base for his reaving. Ned now knew that Theon Stark had used the newly stolen knowledge of steel to drive them back to the Iron Islands.

The book included some other minor details: the Fisher's had retained their noble titles by offering the Starks their knowledge of sailing and shipbuilding. They had never held anything close to the naval power of the modern Manderlys, but for the time, House Fisher had kept the western coast under watch.

Barthol Stark stressed that in the wake of the Ironborn's defeat, King Theon turned his attention to plans of invading the Vale (a foolhardy endeavour in Barthol's opinion). Theon was wary of awarding any of his vassals more power after the Ryder uprising. In the absence of the Fishers, no new Master of the Shore was appointed. The Shore's small population, decimated further by reavers, didn't hold enough sway for any family to seize power. From the time of Theon, the Shore was ruled by small local families who commanded a handful of fishing villages and hamlets each. Barthol named the most prominent Houses as Bloat, Trum, and Pole, but these were unfamiliar to Ned. Doubtlessly, the power had shifted over the long years. House Ryswell would have more up-to-date information on the area's affairs.

Typically, Ned would have left this matter to the closest vassals, in this case, Lord Ryswell and Glover, but with his sons gone and Sansa and Rickon under Catelyn's care, he could set out to deal with the situation personally. It also provided the perfect excuse to meet nobles in the Barrowlands and Rills. Out of courtesy and obligation, the two areas had been left to their own devices. Yet, if Ned's hopes for the future were realized, the groundwork for Dustin and Ryswell cooperation needed to be laid. That was easier said than done. Lady Barbrey Dustin nee Ryswell kept a close relationship with her home. Her personal… distaste for Ned was a prevalent whisper among the nobles. Regardless, bridges must be mended, and if they were burnt beyond repair, new ones built.

/////////////

In a few short weeks, supplies and an escort were assembled. Ned bid his family goodbye, promised he'd return safely, and set out upon the King's Road with a force of warriors at his back. It would have been improper to demand House Ryswell or Glover put only their own men at risk to drive off these bandits. Riding alongside Ned was Maw in all his fearsome glory, Ser Rodrik, Lord Medger Cerwyn, and two newly sworn swords from House Argil, brash Oryn and his brother Danse. 

Out of fear for Jon's safety, Ned had avoided bringing anyone but the most loyal men into Winterfell's service since the Rebellion. It had placed an undue burden upon young Jory Cassel and Ser Rodrik. Sansa's celebration had been the perfect opportunity to approach a few smaller houses and suggest they present candidates to enter his service. House Argil had earned their lands for prowess during the Rebellion; Oryn and Danse's uncle had even been by Ned's side during the Battle of the Bells. Their modest hall, Pitchwall, was north of Winterfell near the King's Road. They were young but eager to prove themselves.

Ned had called 80 men-at-arms and 40 horsemen to muster. Enough to impress upon his vassals his own commitment and remind them that House Stark could fund a sizable force with ease. There were enough soldiers left to keep their borders safe and Winterfell guarded.

The journey to the Barrowlands was smooth. Generous small folk shared their fires, and the Houses along the way were all too eager to make a favourable impression. Ned had little to fear for his men's conduct. They were few enough that well-placed captains kept order. 

The familiar lands of Winterfell gave way to vast flat plains and huge swathes of grass. Large herds of livestock began to dot the landscape when they entered the ancestral holdings of the Barrow Kings.

Past the mounds and ancient battlefields, the sound of the Saltspear tributary forewarned the walls of Barrowtown. Unmistakable from any other in the North. Massive barns and pens marked out the town's sheer size. The various gates were swarming with people going about their business. Ned had been taught that Barrowtown was the largest livestock market in their kingdom. From pork to beef and everything in between. If any larger farmsteads had extra animals to sell, they were quickly sent on to Barrowtown, where Houses from all parts would buy. Some dozen years ago, House Stark had purchased two dozen cows and a bull after a bout of disease had decimated Winterfell's farms.

Murmurs swept through the crowds as the Stark banner and the column of soldiers approached to be met by an escort of men in Dustin livery. Ned directed his force to set up camp while his retinue was led to the town centre.

Barrow Hall was set deep within the town, it's back pressed to the shore. Reminiscent of the ancient style despite its reconstruction a century before Aegon's Conquest. Sturdy wooden walls had been built around the old stone keep, to separate its grounds from the town proper. Four stout towers with their own enclosed courtyards peeked over the fortifications, sparsely manned at the moment but judging from the murder holes and windows, they could each hold three or four dozen men. A bank of thick elms bracketed the perimeter, adding a subtle layer of protection. The most apparent defense was the sheer scale of the hill the castle was built upon. The Great Barrow towered over the walls and loomed across the horizon. Ned had only ever seen it from a distance. This would be his first time actually staying within Barrow Hall.

Appropriately, Lady Dustin herself was awaiting them at the entrance to her castle. The last time they'd met had been at a Harvest Feast after Rickon's birth. The Lady of Barrowtown had been excruciatingly polite then avoided any contact for the rest of the celebration. Behind her, the Crown of the Dustins, quartered with Barbrey's golden horse head sigil, flew over the courtyard.

Barbrey was dressed in a finely-embroidered dress with a high collar covered by a dark yellow shawl. Tall as always, not a hint of apprehension in her posture, Barbrey cut a striking, regal figure. Ned could easily see why many had considered her a candidate for Lady of Winterfell. Her tenure as ruler of the Barrowlands proved she had the skill necessary to manage a realm. He'd feared for her in the years following the Rebellion. In the name of his friend, her husband, Willam Dustin, Ned had held fast to Barbrey's claim to the seat under the Widow's Law. Despite a handful of subtle suggestions otherwise. Those disingenuous whispers disappeared shortly after.

Ned dismounted his steed and smoothly bowed to his host, "Lady Dustin, my thanks for your hospitality."

Barbrey nodded with her own, deeper, bow, then gestured to a servant holding a platter of bread and salt. She waited for him to eat before stepping forward. "My Lord Stark, you are welcome to Barrow Hall."

Maw drew stares like a naked priest but had kept to Ned's side. He was quickly introduced to her Steward, Master-at-Arms, and Head Maid. Noticeably absent was a Maester, meaning the rumors were true.

Taking a risk, Ned spoke up, "Is there a Shepherd within Barrow Hall, my Lady?"

Barbrey kept her reaction down to a subtle twitch. "Our Shepherds have their own hall on the other side of the Great Barrow, Lord Stark. They are typically occupied after sunset. I'd recommend seeking their counsel around midday."

Ned nodded, ordering Maw to rest near the dog pens, and their group moved into the castle proper.  It might have been considered quaint compared to the grand halls of other keeps. In Ned's opinion, that was a mistake. Barrow Hall had no vaulted ceilings or great halls. Tight corridors led to modest chambers, household members fluttering from room to room busy at work. Any plain stonework or dusty floors were covered by reams of beautiful tapestries. Colourful threads burst from every corner, depicting battles, victories, hunts, and dozens of idyllic scenes; farmers at work, sheep grazing, snow-covered forests, and ice-encased lakes. Ned had to refrain from gawking at a select few tremendous pieces. The wealth of the Barrowlands was on display; the sheer amount of dyed wool and craft in these tapestries was the culmination of House Dustin's ancient rule.

Promptly, Ned and Lord Cerwyn were seated in a warm dining room. Ser Rodrick and the Argil brothers remained outside, arranging for fresh supplies at the market. Barbrey joined them for a cup of warm wine. The three awkwardly exchanged pleasantries. Barbrey's grievances with Brandon were understandable, but he knew it was Willam's death that had cemented the rift between her and House Stark.

Logically, Ned should have been aiming to remove her from her position. Leaving a vassal to nurse their grudge unimpeded was foolish. Nonetheless, he was wary of disrupting her rule. The shift would be detrimental to the political balance of the greater North. Even during a mild winter, the Barrowlands' wide plains supported hundreds of herds with grazing land. They exported much-needed wool, hemp, and other fabrics, allowing the North to avoid over-reliance on the Southern kingdoms for many essential goods.

All that omitted the fact that Barbrey had the support of her father. Lord Ryswell backed her to the hilt. Any attempt to shift her out of power would alienate two major Houses, and their close connection to the Boltons couldn't be ignored. Ned resolved to breach his main topic for the visit; hesitation would get him nowhere.

"It's comforting to hear you are in good health. I hope you'll forgive my impropriety, but I want to broach a… sensitive subject with you." Ned began.

Barbrey curled a fist around her goblet and sat back in her chair, "Please, speak your mind, my Lord."

"You and I know that you will not remarry." His first statement drew out a frown. "The Dustin bloodline is thin, and you have not declared a successor."

From Ned's short time with Willam during the Rebellion he knew that a subtle but warm affection had flourished with his wife. Barbrey's grief at his death had not been a ruse. To bring it up now of all times, particularly in matters of succession, was crossing a boundary. 

Barbrey left her wine untouched, preferring to glare at Ned. "Impropriety was an understatement. You walk into my hall and then seek to question my rule?"

Ned shook his head, "Your rule is not in question. We are mortals, Lady Dustin. Our souls will be called by the Old Gods one day. The future of the North must be secured."

"No Stark shall dictate the next Barrow Keeper." Barbrey declared.

Ned took a deep breath. He'd made a misstep. "I will dictate nothing. What I wish for, Lady Dustin, is for you to inform me who shall take up Willam's role after you," he declared.

Barbrey calmed herself, frowning at the silent Lord Cerwyn. She took a quick sip to clear her throat. "The Dustin line was thin even before Willam took up his lordship. Apart from a scant few marriages to the local minor Houses, my mother was from an older branch. Unless we wish to begin looking to the days of Cregan Stark, my brothers and I are the presumed heirs."

Ned noted that Domeric Bolton, heir to the Dreadfort, carried the same claim through his late mother, Barbrey's sister Bethany.

"I've spoken with my father. My younger brother, Rickard, has unofficially been chosen as my heir." Barbrey informed him.

"Will the Houses accept a Ryswell taking the Dustin name in truth instead of through marriage?" Ned asked. "There is a difference between the respect earned through your years of rule and an untested son."

"It is a concern of mine as well. Rodrick is almost of marriageable age. I've arranged for him to join me here next year. He shall take up duties in the castle and eventually act in my stead. Once the Lords and Ladies become comfortable with him, I have no doubt that a betrothal will swiftly follow."

"When a match is made, send word to Winterfell so my support can be announced," Ned added.

Barbrey bowed in her seat. Everyone relaxed as the dour topics were sorted. Arrangements were made for their chambers and dinner. Ned stood to leave and check in on his soldiers. Lady Barbrey escorted him back to the entrance.

Ned stopped before the doors, taking a deep breath of crisp air tinged by livestock. "Lady Dustin, it has not escaped my notice that you have a contrary opinion on Maesters. I won't assume your reasons, but it strikes me as odd that there are Shepherds within your walls."

Barbrey looked out across the courtyard, observing her subjects. "A Maester's first loyalty will always be to their chain; it's an easy tell. They see too much, hear too much, and I find their counsel lacking at the best of times." 

Polite words. If they were more familiar Ned wondered how much more she would say. Ned's own experience with Luwin spoke otherwise. His vague memories of his father's Maester, Walys, crept up from the past.

"A Maester takes no wife and holds no lands,” Barbrey continued. “At best, they are treated as an advisor, an unwanted servant at worst. The perfect conditions to craft duplicitous, bitter men. Shepherds, however… It's easy to keep a Shepherd loyal. The Dustins had it perfected. You provide their parents with a gift, ensure their siblings are well taken care of. When they reach the right age, you introduce them to a few men or women and officiate the marriage not long after. Their children grow to know you as a figure of respect and the cycle repeats."

Ned frowned. It was undoubtedly a cynical approach. It spoke of a wariness Ned had glimpsed in his own line's writing. Perhaps cold on the surface, but House Dustin had always asserted they were the successors to the Barrow Kings, the dynasty that claimed to have once been ruler of all First Men. The crown on their sigil remained for a reason. Indeed, was Beorn's blood connection to him any different? An assurance, a link. If fate had been different. If Berena Stark had not married a Shepherd, would Beorn’s father have become the Great Shepherd? Would his replacement have reached out?

"The Barrowtown Shepherds also carry an important role. They are caretakers of the Great Barrow and the King's Tomb." Barbrey pointed out.

"A daunting task."

"I imagine keeping spirits content would be. I don't know the specifics of their rights. Part of Rickard's tutoring will be instruction in the Dustin traditions, so their history will not be lost," Barbrey commented.

Ned tugged his surcoat straight. "I thank you again for hosting us. We shall depart tomorrow for the Rills and hopefully put this bandit threat to rest."

"Oh?" Barbrey quipped, "Do you assume my family is incapable of handling these outlaws on their own?"

A plain insinuation, that tone of anger had seeped back into her voice. Ned truly had to be more considerate with his words around her. He was not used to his comments being taken with anything other than honest intention. Staying cloistered in Winterfell had spoiled him.

Ned smiled, "On the contrary, I shall be relying on Ryswell prowess in the coming battle. I doubt these thieves will last long against a charge by the Red Rider."

///////////////

A filling dinner, some pleasant conversation with Barbrey's household, and relaxing sleep. Ned felt refreshed the following day. Taking care to leave enough time for a visit to the Great Barrow around midday, Ned ordered Ser Rodrik make ready to march.

The castle was built along one face of the mound. At the western edge, a gated path cut into the slope, leading around to the backside of the Barrow. Overlooking the Saltspear was the dense Godswood, with trees as ancient as Winterfell's. Rather than spread out as in his home, Ned walked between the tightly pressed boughs. The weirwoods were so thick and knotted, they carpeted the ground. Maw was carefully picking his way between them while scenting the air. The Heartree was harder to find. It didn't tower over the rest of the grove. A cleared path led Ned to the base of the Barrow.

Set into a sunken circle, a thick weirwood with an imposing face nestled into the soil. A strained grin and squinted eyes looked out into the world, the expression was rictus. Ned would compare it to the expression of wounded men on the battlefield who felt death creeping into their bones. Its trunk wasn't exceptionally tall. The lowest branches skimmed Ned's scalp. Its growth seemed to have been focused on its roots. They spiraled outward and crept over the edge of the pit, like hands grasping for air. Swathes of moss enclosed the topmost layer. Leaving the root system's underside to fold back in and on itself, mimicking a frozen wave caught in the moment of its churning. Stopping the Heartree's expansive growth was a row of knee-high poles. The roots had obviously reached them at some point and wound up to the flat tops, forming a mesmerizing knot pattern.

He knelt on one knee and began a silent prayer. Ned was interrupted by Maw's bark. He'd been so concentrated he'd missed the slabs of stone set into the mound side. Two straight rocks supported a crossbeam, creating an opening to a tunnel. A lantern pole stood under them. Ned's heartbeat sped up. The thump of feet filtered through the background noise, a subtle waft of sweat and oil.

A figure in green robes with familiar cords of teeth and claws stepped out of the dark into the Godswood. They wore a white-wood mask, different from Beorn's. Rather than an expressive face with clear eye holes and a crest adornment. The Barrow Shepherd (at least that was Ned's best guess) had no mouth, a tiny bulge over the nose, and two slits for eyes. Old Tongue was carved in a circle from the forehead, around the eyes, connecting on the chin.

Feg Magnar Hoif / Odlask nn Ban / Herol dov Eith

'The King Sleeps, Earned in Death, Kept by Words,' Ned read.

The Shepherd stopped mid-step before retreating slightly. Their head snapped back and forth once, twice. Ned wasn't sure if they were wary of Maw or him. He decided to make an overture. 

"My apologies, Shepherd. I simply came to pray," he said in Old Tongue.

"You are welcome, Magnar. Magnar Dustin informed me of your arrival," The Shepherd responded in soft tones muffled by the mask. "I would only ask that you keep it brief. Your presence here may cause some disturbances."

Ned frowned, squinting at the Shepherd. It was an odd warning. There was no one else in the grove. Maw barked once again, stepping in between the two of them.

"Maw," Ned scolded.

The Shepherd shuffled to the right, out of the archway in the sunlight proper. Maw's attention remained fixed on the black tunnel. Ned squinted. It wasn't completely dark. A faint light flickered deep inside the passageway. Hues of blue and white entranced him.

Ned's hand reached out and rested on the lantern pole. He blinked. When had he taken so many steps? He was at the edge of the tunnel, the stone arch pressing down on him. A shout from behind went ignored as Ned prepared to enter. The light was there; it was so strange, so alluring. For a brief second, Ned thought he heard someone calling him. Was it Lya? Was it Brandon? Was it Ashara?

A jaw closed around the trail of his cloak and yanked him back. Ned stumbled and crashed to his back. His face was soaked with sweat, and his head pounded. Maw dragged him further from the tunnel, and the Shepherd leaped forward. They reached into a small sack resting against the lantern pole and pulled out a dozen tree branches, fir trees judging by the needles. The Shepherd squared their shoulders, walked forward, and began repeating a lyrical prayer while tossing the fir branches onto the ground. They took care to crush each branch with their foot before dropping the next one. The light retreated farther and farther into the Barrow, disappearing completely around some unseen corner.

Ned heaved back to his feet. Rubbing Maw after wiping his forehead. He turned to the Shepherd, who had finally come within arm's reach.

"You mentioned a disturbance," Ned stated.

The Shepherd rubbed their hand together, "Yes, Magnar Stark. The Great Barrow…" they paused, "it is a special place. There is power here."

The tomb of the First King was shrouded in mystery. Ned knew its secrets were a combination of Dustin tradition and warped ancient stories. Beorn's analysis of the oldest Winterfell tomes suggested that The First King had been a legend even during The Builder's time. Northern sources depicted the King as leading the First Men across the Riverlands and the Neck but made no mention of crossing from Essos. Luwin proposed that the First King was separate from Garth Greenhand, but perhaps the two were not mutually exclusive. After all, Greenhand was said to have been the High King of the First Men. Powerful rivals would have chafed against that title.

"I've never seen anything like that in the Crypts of Winterfell."

"Perhaps not," The Shepherd agreed. "I really shouldn't say anymore, Magnar. Places of the dead, especially places of legacy, have a power all their own. They're not all as active as the Great Barrow, but that's a good thing, in my opinion."

The Shepherd was obviously reticent to speak; Ned had gone beyond what was proper. "In any case, you have my gratitude for your aid," Ned added.

"May the Old Gods watch over you, Magnar Stark." The Shepherd departed for another path on the opposite side of the Heartree, hurrying but not quite running.

Checking one last time that Maw had calmed, Ned took his wolf and left. He had other matters to attend to, but this experience should be noted. Between his accounts of the Rebellion and invading the Iron Islands, this strange encounter would fit nicely into Ned's own book. 

Something rests beneath the Great Barrow, and it does not suffer rivals. Beware the fel lights and trust in the watchers. Places of the dead have a power all their own.

////////////////////////////////

Chapter Text

“Jon! Jon! Where’s Ghost?”

Jon looked up from his satchel. Basket’s market was barely filled this early in the morning, most visitors wouldn’t arrive for another hour. Calling to him was a trio of women. Out front was a young girl, around Arya’s age, excitedly skipping. Holding her hands were two older girls with identical faces.

“I’m sorry, Jeyse, Ghost is back at Stone Heart,” Jon explained. “Beorn needed his help, some squirrels got stuck in the grain larder.” 

Jeyse frowned, the young girl positively adored the Direwolf. Unlike some of the other children on the island, she didn’t have the sense to be wary of his fangs.

Jeyse’s older sisters, the twins Ysill and Wymma, shared a look. Ysill leaned down, and in a quiet tone, asked: “If you don’t mind the interruption, Jon, we wanted to ask a favour from you.”

Jon ensured the dried meats were properly wrapped, tied the sack closed. “How can I help?”

“We hoped you could pass along word to Mira.” Wymma explained.

Jon bit back a grimace. Two years on Skagos, a full year since Mari’s return; Jon’s friendship with the woman was congenial and it was fair to say he was fond of her but Wolftongue’s meddling had stretched his patience. Going off on errands and trips with Beorn had done the trick for a while. Torrhen himself had been called to an emergency in Bolton lands for a few months, taking Mari with him, earning more reprieve. Now though, Jon suspected Torrhen had reached the end of his rope. Jon and Mari were both five-and-ten, a betrothal would be acceptable and in another five or six years they would both be in a position for marriage.

Back to the present, Jon inquired, “Of course, what do you wish me to tell her?”

Jeyse grabbed onto his sleeve, “We want her to come visit us!” the girl pleaded.

Ysill rubbed her hands together, “We’d appreciate a visit, we haven’t seen her for more than an hour in passing since she returned.”

Wymma, the more confident twin, scowled, “If she’s decided we’re not worth her time, she should tell us in person.”

“I didn’t know you were friends with Mari,” Jon said.

Wymma scoffed, “Maybe we aren’t.”

“Don’t say that!” Ysilla scolded her sister.

Jeyse ignored the brewing argument and leaned against Jon. “I miss her,” Jeyse confessed.

Now that Jon thought of it, Mari had never struck him as antisocial. She was confident and poised. He had seen her visiting plenty of people. Only… those had been made on the behalf of her father, to adults and elders. Jon couldn’t think of time she’d even taken a true leave from her duties. He didn’t spend every moment of the day with her, it was possible Mari simply found time for her own interests when he wasn’t around.

What was it Beorn had told him those years ago in Winterfell?

‘There’s a good chance she’ll be the Great Shepherd one day,’ Beorn had said.

Jon smiled at the trio, “I’ll let her know. In fact, it’ll be the first thing I do when I get back.”

Jeyse smiled, “Thank you, Jon!”

Her sisters settled their argument and nodded as well. A glimmer of hope in Wymma’s eyes.

He bid them goodbye and began the walk back. The route was second nature to him now and people greeted him as they crossed paths. Jon barely paused while climbing the earthen steps to the entrance of Vieden . Faces set in the walls no longer frightened him, he was finally strong enough in his warging to resist their calls.

Jon entered Stone Heart, setting the food to be organized later. He guessed that Ghost had followed Beorn down to the lake for a quick wash. Leaving Jon and Mari alone. Wolftongue was mediating a marriage for The Stane that week. Mari had mentioned she would be too busy transcribing a new text to accompany him.

Jon knocked carefully on the door to the study. Beorn had declined retaking his room, choosing to board with Rogan’s family instead. Tensions over that declaration were still taught. Wolftongue seemed to accept it but Mari had shouted herself hoarse arguing with her brother.

The door opened, Mari stood on the other side. Sleep clung to her eyelids.

“Can I help you, Jon?” She asked.

“I hope I’m not interrupting.” 

Mari shook her head, opening the door wider. “No, no. I was taking a break.”

Jon nodded, “I was in Basket this morning. Jeyse and her sisters flagged me down.”

Mari kept a blank face, her eyes darted to her feet. She looked to be bracing herself. “What did they want?”

Jon thought better of repeating Wymma’s comment. “Jeyse wanted you to visit.”

Mari bit her lip, “I’m sure she did.”

“Ysill mentioned they hadn’t seen much of you since you returned from the South.” Jon commented.

Mari straightened her back and took a deep breath, “I’ve been busy,” she said.

Jon looked off awkwardly, “Too busy to visit your friends?”

Mari took offense to that. “Don’t put words in my mouth, Jon. You’ve been here, you’ve seen how many duties I have. Not all of us can go wandering off into the woods for weeks at a time!”

Jon was taken aback, “Well I don’t see you trying to share the burden with me or Beorn.”

“They are my responsibilities, I will deal with them.”

“Your friends wish to see you. They asked me to pass along a message. If you’re so busy, I’ll let them know not to bother next time.” Jon retorted.

Mari dug her fingernails into the doorframe. “I would very much like to see them. Duty prevents me. I have meetings to make, people to speak with. I don’t have the luxury of being Father’s lazy ward.”

Jon leaned forward, “Beorn finds plenty of time for people outside of Stone Heart.”

“Beorn has chosen a different kind of life.”

“Chosen?” Jon growled. “Beorn does not choose to be ignored by Wolftongue like the scraps off his table. He didn’t choose to be ignored by the elders here. He certainly never chose to be treated second-best to you, as if it’s somehow his fault that he doesn’t meet the standards of your family! If you asked him for help, if you just suggested it, he would bend over backwards to be there for you.”

Mari shoved Jon back out of the threshold, “Beorn has always been too scared to take my side. I have always been on my own, I have always carried Father’s expectations while Beorn ran off to the cliffs. He has never and will never have the spine to stand up for himself, so how can I expect him to stand up for me?” Mari asked.

“That is unfair,” Jon insisted, crowding forward.

“No, it’s true. He ran away when I was born. He ran when I first Dreamt. He ran when I brought home my first bird. He ran when our Mother left and he only came back out of guilt.” Mari shouted.

“Your mother?” Jon whispered, thrown by the sudden topic.

Mari composed herself, both took a few seconds to breathe. “Mother left when Beorn was small. She seldom visited and the next time she stayed was only long enough to give birth. After a year, once I was healthy, she departed again. Beorn has never forgiven her or Father. I think he’s never forgiven me.” Mari told him.

Jon was shocked. Beorn had never mentioned his mother. Jon assumed she’d passed on. He, of all people, had no desire to bring up the subject of mothers in casual conversation.

“Where is she?” Jon couldn’t stop himself from wondering.

Mari sighed, “You’ve met her, Jon.”

“I think I would recall meeting my best friend’s mother.” Jon insisted.

Mari looked fatigued. The lack of sleep was more evident in the hallway. “Our mother is Neddin Bleakwing.”

Jon recalled an older woman, grey hair, typical Shepherd garb, a fleshy falcon circling around her. She’d greeted them their first day on Skagos. Jon’s next encounter had been by chance on a lone trip months later. Neddin had been polite and generous, even kind enough to lend him some extra rations for Ghost.

“I would never have guessed. Beorn spoke with her when we landed at Basket. He said nothing. They acted like acquaintances, nothing more.”

“Like most of his problems, he believes that accepting and ignoring it is enough.” Mari said. “No matter how furious or upset he may be, he thinks that confronting her or Father is pointless. He’s given up.”

Jon leaned against a wall, his shoulders slumped. Beorn’s fatalistic streak was apparent to anyone who truly knew him. Two years together and Jon still found himself desperately dragging Beorn’s confidence up from the pits he put himself in.

“You should visit your friends,” Jon advised. “Not-” he interrupted Mari’s response, “out of obligation. Because it would do you good. You work very hard, Mari. You’ve earned a break. Even your Father takes leaves.” Jon reminded her.

Mari breathed deeply, rubbed her jaw. “Perhaps you’re right.”

“If Beorn and I take another trip, perhaps longer than usual, Wolftongue won’t have a reason to keep you close by,” Jon suggested.

“You’ve noticed it then?”

“How desperately he’s started pushing us together? Yes. I dare say everyone in Veiden knows.” Jon quipped.

Mari looked him in the eyes, a tilt on her lips. “It would not be a terrible union, I think, between us. Only,” she hesitated, “there’s much I want to do in my life. Much I can do as an unattached Shepherd. Marriage, especially to someone with noble blood, would… complicate that.”

It was the strangest dismissal he’d ever heard. Jon had always expected he’d be rejected for a proposal unless it was carefully negotiated by his father. Being discounted for bearing a portion of Stark blood rather than accepted for it, shocked him.

“Aye, that’s fair.” Jon agreed.

They both listened closely when the front door creaked open.

“Jon? Are you back?” Beorn called.

Mari frowned and turned back to her room, closing the door softly behind her. Jon moved to the entrance and smiled at the sight of a dripping Ghost trying desperately to dry himself on the floor.

“I’m glad I caught you,” Beorn said. “A message arrived while you were gone. Something’s amiss Beyond the Wall.”

Jon crouched by Ghost, checked his paws for any pebbles. He nodded for Beorn to continue.

“A Free Folk Shepherd came to consult with Father. There’s a chieftain seeking an audience.” Beorn explained.

Jon looked up sharply, “An audience with The Great Shepherd? He thinks the Skagosi would let a Wildling onto the island? Or is he mad enough to think Wolftongue will go North?”

Beorn scratched his eye, “I’m not sure. But when I asked, the Shepherd said this chieftain is different. Said that he might be the next King-Beyond-The-Wall.”

A chill ran down Jon’s back. Stories of Joramun and Redbeard chorused from his memories; tales of dead Starks, dead Umbers and dead Night’s Watchmen. No King-Beyond-The-Wall had ever brought peace. They arose out of conflict between the Wildlings and inevitably turned to the prosperous lands due south. The last invasion had been under the reign of Willam Stark, and he had died then, facing Redbeard by the Long Lake.

“What will your father do?” Jon dared to ask.

“This has never happened before. No King-Beyond-The-Wall has ever sought out The Great Shepherd. They’ve had Shepherds among their followers, but this is strange. Father will be cautious. If he can meet with this chieftain… I just don’t know.” Beorn was clueless.

Jon didn’t know what could be done. Could the Great Shepherd suss out this Wildling’s intention? Perhaps Jon could send word to his father, giving the whole of the North time to prepare. What state was the Night’s Watch in? Uncle Benjen had always bemoaned the lack of men and supplies. If the tribes decided to cross the Wall, House Stark and all its might needed to be mustered. 

Fantasies kindled in Jon’s imagination. There would be honour and glory in such a battle. Jon recalled more than a few tales of Wildling clashes from the Stark Histories. One had been his guilty pleasure for a few weeks before growing tired of it. It was an account of the invasion by the Twin-Kings, Gendel and Gorn, who dug a tunnel beneath the Wall and raided down past Last Hearth.

King Aldar Stark mistakenly thought he would be confronting a handful of savages who’d run ahead of their army. His small force was brutally crushed and the King was killed. The armies of Winterfell needed a true leader to hold out until the Night’s Watch could meet them. According to Maester Luwin’s lessons, his son and heir had marched and laid waste to his father’s killers.

The passage that shocked Jon was written by Aldar’s “grandson”:

My father does well to act before the Magnars and their families. Every year, he holds a toast to his departed predecessor and rests his old bones in a chair, tears in his voice. In private, by the smile of the moon, he toasts his good fortunes. 

The good fortune that King Aldar had called for his estranged brother from Oldcastle to Winterfell in secret; the good fortune that he was young enough to endear himself to King Aldar’s advisors and prove his skill in the yard. All good fortune, that The Great Shepherd herself had been visiting the castle when the survivors of Aldar’s cavalry returned with his body. My father met privately with The Great Shepherd and instead of chaos and confusion, King Yon was pronounced Aldar’s successor.

My father drove the Two-Headed Wildlings back to their dark homes. In the wake of such a victory, of such vengeance, few would naysay him. It just so happened that rumors spread from ear to ear that Yon was not Aldar’s half-brother but in fact his own son! Such claims were difficult to disprove. My father has the Stark look and House Locke had a daughter of the right age. Many still remark he is the spitting image of my Great-Grandfather. Cousins and other claimants retreated in face of King Yon’s claim. Thus, when I was born, King Aldar was my grandfather, not my late uncle. 

Jon imagined his own prowess granting him a name and title. With Wildling blood on his blade, who would dare speak out against Lord Stark rewarding his bastard son with a Keep and land? Times of conflict presented an opportunity for even a bastard to rise high.

I am a man grown now.  In the care of the Reeds, lives my own “brother.” My wife is yet to conceive. In my heart, a part of my soul rests easy, knowing that if another Wildling cuts me down, the Stark name shall not falter. Though who knows if I shall feel that way when my next child is born.

To be seen as an asset, a valuable member of House Stark, had marveled a twelve year old Jon. With more years of experience, those old dreams soured. The very thought of a raider cutting down Father, Robb, any of his brothers, drove a spike through his heart. Glory could just as easily be won defending his kin.

“Jon,” Beorn called from the kitchen, “there’s nothing to do but wait, come help me sort out the pantry.”

Jon rose and went to help, all the while mapping out the quickest route to the Wall from Basket. He should ask Beorn to help him get a proper weapon.

Less than two days passed. Torrhen Wolftongue and a large retinue of advisors descended on Stone Heart in a rush. Hours and hours of debate followed. Jon paid as much attention as possible before he rested. A decision was made.

A small group of Shepherds would travel Beyond the Wall and meet this chieftain. They would speak with him and assess his character. If they found him trustworthy, he and a very small escort would be brought back to Skagos. The men and women were chosen. Eager to see The Wall and the wild lands beyond it, Jon cajoled Torrhen into allowing him to accompany the party. On the condition that Beorn acted as his guard and no one revealed Jon’s identity.

Within the week, Jon and Beorn met with the leader of their envoy, Shepherd Tilla, a longtime friend of Wolftongue and her two students Brold and Vomm. A force of 20 Skagosi sailors and their vessel, Pride of Stane , would take them past Eastwatch to a safe landing near Hardhome along Knife-Back Shore. From there they would go west to the mouth of the Antler River and await the Wildlings.

When Jon finished stowing his packs on the ship, he finally took a moment to ask Beorn: “Who is this Chieftain anyways?”

“They say he was a man of the Night’s Watch, a deserter. They call him Mance Rayder.”

//////////////////

Chapter Text

The thunder of hooves, typically the warning of a cavalry charge, was a common sound in the Rills. On Ned’s first visit, a brief stop to gather troops for their march south, he’d met Mark Ryswell for the first time. The man was a few years older than him, a cousin of Lord Ryswell. They’d become swift friends and when Ned heard his first thundering, he’d startled and clumsily drew his sword. Mark had laughed so hard he nearly fell from his stirrups. Mark took deep breaths and drew Ned’s attention to the wide plain west of their camp. The thunder rolled closer and closer, until a herd of horses crested the grass. It struck Ned still. 30 to 40 horses charged across the grassland. In their wake a trio of riders kept pace; two men and a woman in thick coats with large packs attached to their saddles. In Ned’s mind, that memory encapsulated the Rills.

Back among the plains and streams again, Ned was unsurprised that the rolling thudding of a herd called up these images. Thoughts of Mark and the Ryswells reminded Ned of the Trident. That battle had been harrowing. Dornish spears and Targaryen troops, bolstered by Rhaegar’s presence, fought viciously.

Ned remembered charging shield-to-shield with a mass of Mooten infantry. The loyalists stalled their advance and Ned prepared to pull back. At the last moment, he saw banners in the wind. The merman of Manderly, the Karstark sun and the Ryswell horse. With a tremendous war-cry, Mark Ryswell led the charge. His red cape and tabard stood out from his dark mare. The Red Riders, the soldiers named Mark and his men, for their bravery.

Upon the horizon, Ned saw the tiny shape of Swift Bank, the seat of House Ryswell. They’d crossed the Saltspear three days ago. Steady progress and flat ground carried them far. The Rill River, like the Saltspear, climbed up from the coast, creating a neat divide within the land. The Rill River forked into two ends, at the center of that split, almost cradled, was the castle. The eastern finger fed directly into Twindrift Lakes, which marked the border of Tallhart lands. West of the Rill River was Stoney Shore proper.

Their trek led them past a number of stable-towns, the most prominent feature of the countryside. Often clustered around noble families, these towns and villages supported the vital studding and training traditions that permeated their land. Many of the smallfolk in the Rills made their living this way. It was joked that Rillmen could mount a stallion blindfolded, gagged, with one hand, and still ride better than a Riverlander.

The sun rose behind Ned’s back. Another stable-town was ahead of them. A strange sight caught his eye. Beside the town was a number of rough tents forming a disorganized camp. 

Following the norm, a small group of small folk emerged from the town and awaited his arrival.  They kneeled when Ned dismounted with Ser Rodrik. Normally he'd simply ride through the town but the camp bore investigation. Ned took in the representatives before him, they were a mix of young and old. Each wore well-made clothes, the women among them had some token pieces of jewelry and the men showed no signs of hunger. This close to the castle, the town would be sworn directly to Swift Bank.

Their leader was marked by the iron chain hung around his neck. It carried a bronze disk adorned with a rearing horse in silver wire. This was the Alderman, the elected speaker for this town. The man in question was older, stout with long legs, a common trait in Rill blood. He had a shock of thin black hair combed back against his scalp. A wide mustache stretched across his face accenting his large mouth. Ned guessed he was an experienced soldier by the worn sword at his hip.

“Rise, good folk.” Ned commanded.

They stood and waited for the Alderman to take charge. He stepped forward, a limp in his right leg, and bowed deeply.

“M’Lord Stark, you honour us with your presence. Be welcome in Riddar, our homes are open to you.” The Alderman’s voice gave Ned pause. There was a hint of lisp in his speech.

“I thank you, we shall not be here long. Our destination is Swift Bank,” Ned explained. “I have some questions before I ride on.”

The Alderman swiftly motioned his people to disperse and led Ned to a larger house near the town center.

“We may talk in my home, m’Lord. Feel free to partake.” The Alderman suggested.

Ned and Ser Rodrik were promptly served a small platter of meat, mead and of course bread and salt.

“First, may I ask your name, Alderman? I think we’ve met before.” Ned inquired.

The Alderman took off his chain insignia, carefully placed it back in a case and sat across the table. He nodded, “You do, m’Lord. I am Orom Stoff, sworn sword to House Ryswell.”

“Stoff! You were one of Lord Rodrik’s guards during the Greyjoy Rebellion.” Ned recalled. 

Orom had been one of several bodyguards. Lord Ryswell had relied on him for several important tasks during the invasion of the Iron Islands.

“You bit through your tongue while the Maesters worked on your knee; it was crushed by a Botley’s hammer.” Ned remembered.

A hint of embarrassment crossed Orom’s face, he nodded stoically, “It’s true m’Lord. When we returned I could no longer ride beside Lord Rodrik into battle. For my long service, I was granted the ownership of the stables here.”

“Now an Alderman as well,” Ned complimented. “A well-earned reward.” 

A hint of pride straightened Orom’s shoulders. “I do my best, m’Lord. My daughter, Sanra, is a Lady-in-Waiting to Lady Ryswell, I hope my sons will serve Lord Roger as I did his father.”

Ned smiled softly and toasted.

“What can you tell me about that camp in the field?” Ned asked.

“Refugees. Driven east from the Stony Shore by brigands.” Orom replied. “Strange tidings from the Shore, Lord Stark. These criminals did not stop after one or two raids, they went from village to village, quickly, leaving no supplies. From what I’ve been told, they asked no tribute. They attacked, stole what they could carry, and marched any prisoners off.”

“Are these slavers?”

“I’m unsure. A few of the young ones snuck back after fleeing their homes and hid nearby. They say the brigands are using prisoners to cut down trees and bring the timber to the water.”

“Strange, are they fools?” Ser Rodrik commented.

He knew as well as Ned that brigand groups typically extort villagers over time. It was better to take a sack of meat and milk every week, then to be stuck with a dead cow.

“What troubles me more,” Orom warned, “is their manner. There’s more than one greybeard that swears they heard prayers to the Drowned God on the brigands’ lips.”

If true, that troubled Ned greatly. Ironborn raiding on any scale meant Balon Greyjoy was flaunting Robert’s decrees. It could be rogue sailors from another House operating outside of their Lord Paramount’s orders. Would that excuse save his ward, Theon, from the block? Was the Lord of Pyke willing to risk Robert’s wrath and lose his only son?

Young Theon had enjoyed his time in Torrhen’s Square, made fast friends and unfortunately he’d made enemies too. After a brief return to Winterfell, Ned had decreed another trip, this time to White Harbor. The Manderly’s were more neutral on the topic of the Ironborn and with the ocean open to him, Theon could gain much needed experience with larger vessels. Lord Manderly had helpfully agreed to keep a close eye on Theon’s leisure activities. The Greyjoy heir was growing, Ned hoped that time among others of the North would blunt his excesses and foster some good sense.

No less critical was the lumber being harvested. The North had plentiful forests, the Iron Islands had none. In the days when the Ironborn ruled as Kings of the Isles and Rivers, the Riverlands provided them logs aplenty. Aegon’s conquest had cut the reavers off from the most essential element of their power, ship materials. The poverty of the home islands had reduced the people in a way Ned had not understood until reading of the devastation the Driftwood Kings wrecked in days of old. The Iron Fleet Victarion Greyjoy led into battle at Fair Isle had been outnumbered by the Baratheon and Redwyne ships. Something unheard of in the days of King Qhored The Cruel, when the Ironborn could lay claim to land from Bear Island all the way to the Arbor.  Even if Balon had gained independence from the Iron Throne, he would have needed to take territory on the mainland to hold it. What good was a kingdom if all it could revel in was rock?

Ned stood from the table to bid Orom farewell, “I’ll inform Lord Ryswell Winterfell shall reimburse you for any supplies used to feed the refugees,” he added.

He and Ser Rodrik reunited with Lord Cerwyn at the ramshackle camp. He spotted the Argil brothers entertaining some of the young children who’d been inspecting the soldiers.

Winterfell’s men were ready to march on, Ned bid them wait on the edge of town. It didn’t take long to spot a Shepherd amongst the people, most likely from Riddar as she had a loop of horse hair threaded through her mask. He asked after the health of the people and was assured they would be taken care of. Messages had begun moving along the coast between small-folk and Shepherds; eyes were being set upon Blazewater Bay. The Shepherd did request that Ned take the time to visit some of the wounded. With some prompting he even offered blessings and assurances to the few unlikely to survive the coming month. It was a sombre task that hardened his resolve.

////////////

Noon arrived the next day when the Direwolf flag reached the walls of Swift Bank. Wider than tall, the Ryswell’s castle was set among prime grazing ground and it’s walls encompassed a massive stable and training yards that dwarfed Winterfell’s. In exchange, the actual Keep was compact.

Lord Rodrik and his sons were genial and accommodating. Quarters for his captains were provided and space allotted to his soldiers. He clasped arms with Rodrik Ryswell and smiled. While there had been tension with the House in the wake of the Rebellion. Mark Ryswell, as cruel as it was to say, was not Rodrik’s son. Lord Rodik’s prominent participation in the invasion of Pyke had gone a long way to smooth relations.

“Lord Stark, I welcome you to Swift Bank. These are my sons: Roger, Rickard, and Roose.” Rodrik introduced.

The boys were close in age. Roger was around twenty-three, Rickard twenty-one and Roose was nineteen. They shared a close resemblance with each other and their father, except for their eyes. All three had inherited the dark green eyes of their mother, Lady Kayla of House Sipel. Ned would not tarry for long and after eating, he met with Lord Rodrik and Roger in private.

“Refugees camped in The Rills, greybeards speaking of Ironborn, this has spiraled out of control,” Ned lamented. “I need more information, Rodrik.” 

“You’ll hear no arguments from me, Eddard. When you informed me of your plans to come personally, I spared no effort in gathering more information. Roger himself began collecting messages and our Maester has been sending ravens by the dozen.” Rickard motioned for his heir to speak up.

Roger leaned forward, slightly hesitant in the presence of his liege lord. “Rule in the Stony Shore is minimal, typically, a family will amass enough standing to approach either us or the Glovers and seek endorsement. The ones who receive it call themselves “Landed” and three or four hold power at any given time. They control a handful of fishing villages and a few farms at most. Currently, there should be four.”

Rodrik pulled out a map of the Blazewater coast, including the Rills, Stoney Shore, and Sea Dragon Pointe. 

“The Hooks and Tills live on the southern end of the Shore, closest to the coast proper. The Spines and Trawls cover the north in close proximity to Sea Dragon Pointe.” Roger pointed out.

“We’ve seen our fair share of refugees.” Rodrik acknowledged. “The worst news came with the first wave. All that remains of the Hooks are two young boys; the Tills have been reduced to a grandmother.”

Ned sat back in shock. 

“Our best guess is that the bandits targeted them first, which means they landed on the southern beaches.” Rodrik summarised.

Looking back over the map, Ned spotted a marker called Lodlif Hall. It was on the border of Sea Dragon Pointe and the northern edge of Stony Shore, the closest place he could see to the territory of the Trawls. “Who rules there?” Ned asked.

“House Gitten, beholden to the Glovers.” Roger answered.

“Send them a message and one to the Glovers. I want men to find the Spines and Trawls, make contact and garrison their villages.” Ned ordered. “What of your own troops?”

“I sent riders to patrol the crossings on The Rills. So far no sightings.”

Ned nodded at Rodrik, pleased at his initiative.

“Do you believe these are Ironborn, my lord?” Roger boldly asked.

“I cannot say for sure.” Ned replied. “What I can say is that we need to know their numbers. If there are more than I anticipated, I may need to call on Tallhart and Glover to support us.”

“Lord Stark,” Rodrik repeated. “If these are Ironborn, we will find proof one way or the other. If they are, I wonder if they come by orders or in defiance of the Greyjoys. Personally, I doubt the latter.”

The Lord of Winterfell knew what his vassal implied. Balon Greyjoy’s actions would ignite a string of political trouble. Robert would be furious at such blatant disrespect, Ned would not stand for the theft of people and property, even Tywin Lannister may involve himself if Balon was rebuilding the Iron Fleet. The Old Lion was not likely to forget the burning of Lannisport.

Unsure and fatigued, Ned excused himself and retreated to his temporary chambers.

He opened his bags and set out a handful of books and stylus. Taking care, he jotted down some thoughts from the day and any new information, then marked a reminder to investigate a solution to properly controlling the Shore. Alone with his thoughts, he turned to two copies of the Stark Histories he’d brought with him on the journey.

To travel light, Ned had been careful in his selection: A condensed collection of writings by Theon Stark and the Hungry Wolf’s father, Theo Stark, put together by Jon as a farewell present; and the writings of King Edrick Stark, which Beorn had copied together from across three different books.

He reached for the words of the Hungry Wolf but paused. Theon’s ferocity and battle lust did not always sit well with Ned. His words came from a different time, his thoughts never strayed from the threats on his borders. Instead, Ned opened the book on Edrick Stark, called “Snowbeard” in later life. Tradition stated that he fought Wildlings, Ironborn, and slavers from the Stepstones for most of his century-long rule. Until in his old age, the slavers captured the Wolf’s Den. In his own words, his kingship had been exhausting and draining. Ned flipped through some of the later entries, before King Edrick’s death.

I cannot see but for vague shapes and colours. I cannot stand but for a few minutes. Time has worn my bones and spirits. My grandson, Brandon, writes for me now. A good boy, one who has taken heed of my lessons and my mistakes. He shall make a fine King one day.

The Magnars say the Wolf’s Den has been captured. Captain Phasyyr’s son came to claim his vengeance. The upstart is lucky I am not 20 years younger. Else I’d ride down the White Knife and kill the slaver-boy like I did his father and uncles!

It is my shame that I have left this burden to my sons. Benfred has taken command, King in all but name until I breathe my last. He will have no time to devote to these pirates. The Boltons are on the cusp of a blood-feud with the Karstarks and our cousins require his support. After that, he or his brother Torreg must speak with the Mountain Clans; Magnar Flint has spotted Wildlings on the Bay of Ice. Their newfound love of the water must be crushed swiftly. On and on the tasks go, but we shall endure.

I think back on my hesitation to eradicate the slavers in those first years. I believed that after a few losses, the scum would sail back to their dens and seek new targets. I showed restraint, to minimise the North’s losses. They never stopped coming. 

Perhaps they saw my restraint as a weakness, an opportunity. I chose to never meet the slavers on their terms, always did I consider them lesser than even the Ironborn, and I treated them as such. In error, I believe. For these slavers have not the sense of honour to leave defeated, they did not have the sense to save their lives and ships for a more advantageous cause. Now this foolish spawn of Phasyyr has conquered a tiny scrap of our land, with no way to keep it. All out of a mad desire for revenge, for glory. Too many stories about ancient Stepstone Kings and their great fleets. He does not realize that Winter will come for him.

Listen well, Brandon. You must never inflate the spirit or standing of your enemies. Always be aware of their capabilities. Do not limit them to your own morals.

The direwolf does not hunt a fox as though it cannot dig a burrow, or try to catch a bird as though it has no wings. People, friends and foes, will never account themselves to your own code. Do not delude yourself, speak to the false smile but always see the true face.

Edrick would pass on some months later. His grandson, Brandon Ice-Eyes, would retake the Wolf’s Den and end the line of Phassyr. Ned put away the book.

If these were Ironborn, true Ironborn raiders, here under the orders of Balon Greyjoy… He must consider that Balon, despite all logic, considered Theon an acceptable loss. Following that thread, it meant there was nothing keeping the “Lord Reaper” from rebuilding his navy. Strangely, that meant Theon was more valuable than ever. The entire point of his wardship was to have a friendly Lord take up the seat on Pyke.

Did Balon learn nothing from his first defeat? Did he know something, see something Ned couldn’t? Or was he so driven by his Old Ways that all reason had escaped him. Did the lords under him think the same? What was it about those barren isles that drove its rulers to such ambition?

Ned could lose himself in these circling thoughts. Answers would not appear from thin air. He needed information. Another message, to be sent to the Flints and one to his good-father Hoster. Someone, somewhere must be watching the Ironborn. If he became truly desperate. Ned might need to reach out to the Lannisters or Tyrells.

An issue for another time, Ned decided. For now, he had men to hunt.

////////////////////////

Chapter Text

 As Pride of Stane slipped past Eastwatch-By-The-Sea, Jon’s blood ran hot. He could taste the difference in the air.

It was by the light of the moon, under a pitch black sky. Jon was watching with Beorn for any hint of activity along the coast. The Skagosi sailors were deft hands at silent sailing: no open flames, little to no rowing and carefully strapped down fixtures. Jon was trying to get a glimpse of the Wall itself. He made out the skeletal docks jutting out from the rocks, took note of the sentry posts near the vague shape of a castle. Jon took a deep breath, thought of breaking his silence to interrupt Beorn, when the moon disappeared.

Jon looked around, wildly, horribly confused. None of the crew bothered to pause in their work. He turned back to Eastwatch, which stood out even brighter with its fires. The light had not fled entirely, a line of silver  spilled unnaturally in a line across the sky.

“By the Old Gods,” Jon murmured. The moon had not disappeared, their ship had sailed into the shadow of the Wall. The monolith of ice swallowed the sky. 

Ghost, quietly sitting by Jon’s side, stood. The wolf was entranced, just like Jon. Cold wind howled across the bay. Jon could taste the frost, his grey doublet and green cloak looked pitch black.

A voice slithered to his ears, “For the Watch.”

Jon fell back, hard onto his back, clutching at his chest. The voice whispered again, clearer this time, “Jon,” it was a kind voice, “-we’re past danger now, we don’t have to stay on lookout for the Watch.” Beorn gently took Jon’s elbow and propped him up.

Moonlight splashed across the deck as their ship passed the Wall. Jon felt relief at the sight of his tunic being whole, his chest unhurt. Ghost padded over and nosed his way under Jon’s chin. Jon gave a deep sigh of relief and let Beorn guide him to their bunk.

The rest of their journey was less horrifying. The ruins of Hardhome, the occasional small group of fishing boats. Beorn had even pointed out a strange wave of water, identifying it as the trail of a real whale. Jon was amazed at the untamed and icy vastness.

Their captain obeyed Shepherd Tilla, who Beorn would mistakenly call “Aunt” if he wasn’t paying attention, to head west after passing Storrold’s Point. They matched the backwards curve of Knife-Back shore, staying in sight of the shale beaches. They dropped anchor at the mouth of the Antler River, north of the Haunted Forest.

Even from there they could see the Wall, looming like a rectangular mountain. Unnatural in its uniformity but so covered by ice that it could’ve sprouted from the earth. A smaller raft took their party to the land. Time was of the essence, Tilla drove a harsh pace. A little over half a league from their landing, they found a Godswood with a moderate sized clearing.

“This will do,” Tilla decided. “Brold, Vomm, Rayder should be nearby. Find him.”

The two Shepherds, Tilla’s son and daughter, took a seat beneath the Weirwoods and grasped hands. Jon knew the two preferred to warg as one, Beorn warned it was a dangerous and delicate tradition, rarely taught.

The Skagosi were fully armed and wary. They’d spread out around them. Jon heard their orders were to kill the wildlings if they attacked and then retreat to the boat with all haste. Though Beorn warned him the sailors would prioritise Tilla, Brold and Vomm’s safety over him and Jon.

Less than an hour passed when Brold and Vomm snapped out of their trance. 

“They’re on their way,” Vomm told her mother.

Jon was ushered with the other Shepherds to the cover of the Heartree. Beorn pulled up Jon’s hood while the rest donned masks. Though he’d received plenty of instruction, Jon had yet to decide if he would take the final steps on becoming a Shepherd, thus had no weirwood mask of his own.

Ghost was the first to warn of their guests. No growl or bark, a simple tensed spine let Jon know all he needed to. Before even Tilla was alerted, Jon turned his head to the south-west where a group of people entered the clearing.

Less than a dozen Wildlings moved out of the foliage. Each decked in furs. They seemed wary but calm. They formed a rough line, mirroring the Skagosi. Behind them was a trio, one man and two women.

The man, who Jon assumed was the Chieftain they’d come to meet, was slender with a barrel chest. He had long brown hair streaked with gray. What drew Jon’s attention was his shrewd brown eyes set in a sharp face. There was an air about him, even before speaking, that Jon noticed. In the way others deferred to him, looked at him before acting.

The two women both had high cheekbones, long hair and pale blue eyes. Jon wondered if they were sisters. One had softer features and darker hair compared to the second’s dim blonde colouring. Both wore breeches and boots beneath thick coats, spears clutched securely in their mitts.

Tilla stepped forward, “Are you Rayder?” she asked.

Her voice was muffled by the mask, but the Shepherds knew how to project through it, adding an undercurrent of strength to their words.

“I am.” Rayder called back. “Who are you?”

“Tilla, I am here on behalf of the Great Shepherd.”

“That’s good,” Rayder said. “He heard my request then.”

“Heard, but not granted.” Tilla pointed out, “What reason do you have to seek out The Great Shepherd?”

Rayder paused as the dark haired woman leaned to his ear.

“I want the Great Shepherd to act as an intermediary between myself and a Child of The Forest,” Rayder declared.

Jon shared confused looks with the other Shepherds.

“If you seek a Child then surely you can find one. There are Godswoods a plenty here Beyond-The-Wall.” Tilla pointed out. “I doubt a Chieftain like you is without loyal Greenseers.”

Rayder tried to hide a grimace, “The Children have been rarely seen in the last year, even by the most devout of our people. They’ve gone further and further south, we’ve lost all trace of them.”

The Children were legendary in their stealth. Outside of the one Jon had met on Skagos, it was rare for any other than the Great Shepherd to see them. Even so, Torrhen had mentioned it was the Children who sought him out and only in extremely rare cases. Shepherds with potent Greensight could sense a Child’s presence through the Weirwoods. If the hardened elders living among the Wildlings said the Children had disappeared, few would doubt them. Something was going on Beyond-The-Wall.

“Do you have any idea why?” Tilla wondered.

Rayder tilted his chin up, “Perhaps. But that’s between me and the Great Shepherd, I think.”

Tilla turned her back on the Wildlings, to Jon and the others. 

“I don’t like this,” she informed them, “He knows more than he revealed. I’m tempted to leave right now. A King-Beyond-The-Wall keen on visiting Skagos doesn’t sit well with me.”

Jon guessed that Brold and Vomm would follow their mother. He glanced at Beorn, equally reluctant to speak against his father’s friend. Mustering up courage, Jon leaned forward.

“There’s nothing stopping them from slipping past the Wall and stealing a boat.” Jon pointed out. “The fact he’s gone to this length, trying to gain a proper escort, must mean something.”

Tilla paused, looked back across the clearing where Rayder and the two women also conversed.

“Perhaps you're right. If we brought them with us, they’d be hard pressed to sneak off.” Tilla acknowledged.

“If the Children really are missing, we must find out why.” Jon prompted.

Tilla looked down at Jon, “You make a good argument, but mind yourself.” She reprimanded.

Jon nodded and stepped back. Beorn bumped shoulders with him.

“If you truly have dark tidings then you shall meet The Great Shepherd. You and your warriors may come to Skagos,” Tilla declared. “Be warned, any hint of treachery or malice will be met with blade and shield. On the Isle of Stone, even the roots shall betray one who spills the Great Shepherd’s blood.”

Appearing suitably cowed, Rayder nodded and gave orders for half his guards to grab their supplies. Keeping a respectful distance, the two groups made for the coast.

The ride back to Skagos was simple. The Wildlings were confined to a set of quarters and Jon was never let out of Beorn’s sight. He caught a few of the looks Rayder had been giving Ghost, so he didn’t fuss much. Overall, the chieftain little resembled Old Nan’s bedside tales of half-mad plunderers looking to steal Northern prosperity. Rayder himself wore ringmail, old ringmail by the look of it, and his cloak had luminous red silk sewn into it. He noticed one of the women, Da-something, seemed particularly close to Rayder. She had a bronze cuff with what might have been an amber jewel. 

Jon didn’t even begin to think of the blonde, her name was Val, who’d stuck out to him. As they boarded the ship, she’d caught him sneaking a glance from beneath his hood. He tried to be subtle, but she shot a strange smirk at him. Jon had determinedly avoided even looking near the woman after that. From the way Rayder treated Val, she held a measure of his respect and by Jon’s count was only two or three years older than him. Would-be-Kings seeking counsel from barely grown children and meeting with potential enemies. Life Beyond-The-Wall was strange.

//////////////

Rather than Basket, they made landfall on the northern coast, at a Stane dock. Tilla had some kind of pull with the Stanes. Exactly how much became clear when the Stane heir, Larn, met them on the beach, embraced her and called her wife. Jon could only shake his head. Even here, in what the Maesters would consider a backwater, uncivilized corner of Westeros, blood and marriage brought allegiance and resources.

Rayder and his followers were housed in the center of town and a trio of loyal men were posted outside at all hours. They were left to their own devices while the finer details of the summit were planned out. Naturally, people who are used to their freedom do not enjoy being imprisoned. It took a Stane man getting his cheek broken for The Great Shepherd to relent. 

Wolftongue kept Mira well clear of them. Instead, he charged Beorn with taking Rayder for short excursions along the coasts and to the Godswood for prayer. Jon was to stay away, Torrhen had insisted on it. He had a limit though, after Wolftongue prompted him to escort Mira on yet another of her mundane tasks, he escaped down to the coast and joined Beorn.

Jon sat with them for dinner one evening. Rayder was a gifted storyteller, a seemingly endless number of old legends and irreverent songs flew from his tongue. After finishing an amusing tale about ancient chieftains fighting for the right to marry a mammoth, he began another.

“In olden days, before the Wall, before even the Long Night,

When the Greenhand guided our ancestors across the sea from the east.

Two brothers followed him.

They were fierce warriors on their own, but together they could kill even a Giant. None doubted their strength or their friendship, their bonds of brotherhood were rooted through to the heart.

In the lands of the west, the men warred and burned, driving ever northward. These brothers among them. 

Proud and stalwart they were. 

Hunting from dawn to dusk to fill the stomachs of their children. They fought and fought, 

against Children, men, beasts and any who would stand against them.

There came a point.

One brother had his fill.

He built a home and sat in it, content to watch and rest.

The other brother could not stop.

Would not stop.

The bloody brother would hunt from dawn to the moon’s rise. All began to fear him.

One night, the brother devoured a Child of the Forest. For this, he was cursed. 

They say his teeth grew long, his nails became claws and his hair shifted to fur. He no longer spoke the tongues of men, his eyes no longer recognized his fellow folk,  he only cared for the taste of warm flesh.

The man-wolf made his den in the deepest woods. He ranged far and wide. Taking women, children, cattle, all to be bled and devoured. 

It became too much.

The first brother, now with children grown, took up his bronze sword, bid his family farewell and walked into the forest in the midst of autumn.

He walked and walked, until at last he came upon the Godswood. 

In the hollow of the tree, beneath a faceless weirwood, the man-wolf slept. 

With no fear.

No hesitation.

Brother killed brother. 

No man is so accursed as the kin-slayer. To repay his affront, the brother ended his own life there, at that spot, so he and his sibling’s blood may mix and join their souls forever more.

The next day, the eldest son followed his father’s tracks and came upon the Godswood.

Above the two corpses, a face had been carved into the tree. The son wept, for he knew it had been love that drove both kinsman to doom.

He wrapped his sire’s body in hide, then skinned his uncle and burnt the bones.

He returned to his hall, now as its leader, with a corpse on his horse and a wolf-skin cloak. 

He thrust open the doors as a terrible snow storm descended on the land.”

Rayder had been focused unbroken on the fire as he recounted the story. Jon, and everyone else, were so enraptured, the fire had faded to embers. In an instant, Rayder’s gaze snapped from the cooling ash to Jon, and he smiled, forebodingly.

“The people who welcomed him looked upon the son and whispered: 

There comes the blood of wolf, 

there comes the blood of man, 

there comes a stark soul. 

Winter has come with him.”

Beorn leaped to his feet, shoved Jon back towards the door and grabbed a knife from the floor.

“Peace, Shepherd, peace.” Rayder said. “None of us will break Guest Right, least of all me.” The storyteller motioned Jon to return to the fire, where it was being rekindled. “You did a fine job of keeping yourself hidden in plain sight, young man. Unfortunately for you, this wasn’t the first time I’ve met a Stark, Jon Snow.”

Jon blushed as he sat across from him. Val and Dalla were laughing at him. Beorn forgot in his haste how much stronger he was than Jon, he’d been thrown end over end.

“You’ve met my uncle?” Jon guessed.

“A few times. He occasionally visited the Shadow Tower. That wasn’t what I was referring to. I had the honour of seeing you, your brother and father all together in one room.”

Jon frowned.

“I accompanied Lord Commander Qorgyle on a visit to Winterfell after Lord Eddard returned from the Rebellion. You were quite young.” Rayder explained, then pointed to Ghost, sleeping by the door. “If nothing else, the Direwolf was a more obvious hint. Rumors have even reached Beyond-The-Wall that the Starks have living sigils at their sides.” Rayder chuckled and all present took the news with good humor.

Rather than separating Jon from the Wildlings, having his true identity revealed lowered the barriers between them.

Dalla and Rayder spent all of their time together, Jon guessed they were wed, or something close to it. Val would just laugh when he brought it up. As the only visitor near his age, the others seemed to pair them up more often than not. She was full of questions.

“What was life like in a castle?” she asked him.

“What was life like in the wilds?” he would say.

Then she’d look at him, Val did that a lot, look surprised when he’d ask her something. He wasn’t sure why.

“It was nice. Never had to worry about my next meal. I had teachers and maids. A good life.” Jon eventually admitted, after explaining what a maid was. 

Out of everything, Val kept returning to how the Starks ruled. Jon had trouble explaining it to her satisfaction. They’d gone down to the piers to fish one evening and gotten back on the topic.

“I understand where the goods come from, Jon. Free Folk give tribute too.” Val said, casting her line out. “What I don’t understand is why. If you have your own grand castle, your own weapons, your own food, then why would you give it up and kneel to someone else?”

“You might not kneel, Val, but you follow Rayder.” Jon pointed out.

Val frowned, “It’s not the same.”

“Are you so sure?” Jon wondered.

“If Mance starting acting like a dumb fool, we’d pack our camp and leave.”

Inspired, Jon pointed at her, “Exactly! You leave. Except, if you have a grand castle and farms, you can’t just leave. It’s not like Beyond-The-Wall, people put down roots, make a home to last.”

“Not all Free Folk wander with the winds,” Val rebutted. “There are villages and camps, not to mention the Thenns in their valley.”

Jon could understand Val’s confusion. From what he’d learned, allegiance between the tribes came through numbers, battle or charisma. If for any reason, one of those pillars disappeared, the tribes would fracture. If their departure wasn’t taken well by their leader, they’d fight through the loyal followers in the process. That might be a key problem with his attempts to explain. Even in these villages they had no crops, only hunting to feed themselves.

“Imagine this instead,” Jon suggested. “You and your tribe live along a river. Your ancestors built a hall on the banks of that river, it has been your home and your mother’s home and her father’s before that. Near your home are fertile lands, where you grow grain and raise hogs. You can feed your family, and trade any excess to your close neighbour for wool.”

Val followed along, picturing it in her mind, she remembered descriptions of southern lands from raiders. It seemed fantastical to her.

“Then, one of your neighbours kills a kinsman of yours. What do you do?” Jon asked.

“The neighbour’s life is ours to take, they can’t be trusted.” Val responds.

“What if the murderer’s family refused?”

“Then we stop trading with them.”

“Now you have no wool and they have no grain.” Jon pointed out. “The next year, a group comes from the south, far to the south, and they attack you. They kill your family, steal your grain. They do the same to your neighbours and you are both left weakened. You now worry these enemies will return.”

It was simplistic. Honestly, too simplistic, Jon made sure Val understood that. She forgave him for his own lacking knowledge, after all he was no greybeard or wisewoman.

“One day, a rider comes to you and your neighbour. They sit you down and say to you, ‘My King wishes for pork, grain and wool. In exchange, you will be protected from raiders and the King will give you justice.’”

Val hummed, she reeled in a decent sized fish, “Will this King give us the murderer’s life?”

Jon nodded, “He will come and take the head himself.”

Val liked the notion, “But we’d have to give him a share of our goods.”

“One comes for the other.” Jon explained.

“What if the King fails in his promises? What if he takes our grain and lets us be raided anyways.” Val asked.

“Then next year, he will have no grain, pork or wool, because you’ll be dead.”

Val set her pole to the side. “When winter comes, when our crops die and the pigs freeze, what then?”

“Then the King shall provide.” Jon stated. “He is no King without subjects.”

It rankled Val’s spirit, to think of having a single individual who she had no choice but to follow. This, she could acknowledge, was part of her upbringing. She looked out across the piers, and saw children playing in the water; watched men and women work. Perhaps she had also simplified things. There were plenty of Chieftains who governed through fear, whose people followed so they wouldn’t be killed. Was it really all that different?

Unknown to Jon, she pictured the empty villages and the creeping ice. No matter how fierce the Free Folk boasted they were, they had never crossed the Wall for good. They were always broken by the Kneelers. These people placed shackles on themselves, but those shackles created a kingdom and it had power. 

Mance wanted them to come south and stay there. If they wished to survive, would her people wear the shackles? Could she? If it meant Dalla lived a long, happy life?

“If your fanciful story were true, perhaps I would kneel.” Val said, and let the matter drop.

They enjoyed the quiet together, the peaceful waxing of the water.

“Val, why is Rayder so desperate for this meeting?”

The beautiful wildling, Free Folk, Jon corrected himself, her hair gleaming in the sun and eyes staring into his, reached over and ran a single rough finger down his cheek. Across the scar from his fight with the drunken Skagosi.

“Death marches, Jon Snow, Death marches in the True North.” Val whispered.

Jon frowned. A plague of some kind? It felt deeper than that, ominous. A simple truth, as Old Nan might say.

“Lord Snow!” A man called from the village. It was one of Rayder’s men. Once Beorn explained that Jon’s father might as well be called the King-Behind-The-Wall, they’d taken it upon themselves to endlessly tease him.

Val laughed, “Quiet down, Falf. If anyone should be called a Lady it’s me!”

Falf smirked, “As you wish, Lady Snow!”

Jon looked over and saw Val blush brightly and look to the sky. Jon picked up their poles and hurried ahead, he hoped she missed his matching flush.

Their catch was cooked that evening for a filling sup. Beorn was in Basket on a task from Wolftongue, Val and Dalla had taken the evening for themselves, leaving Jon and Mance together after their meal.

“We’re alone now, Jon. Feel free to ask.” Mance remarked as he took out his instrument.

“Ask about what?”

Mance smirked and continued to tune his strings. The suggestion wormed into Jon’s head, circling and circling until he couldn’t resist.

“Why did you abandon your vows?”

Rayder was a private man, he revealed little to nothing by chance.

“A woman saved my life and gave me a gift. The Watch said I could not keep it.” Rayder told him, “It was freedom, I found I couldn’t live without.”

Jon swallowed, “A few years ago I begged my father to let me join. To serve with my uncle.” he admitted.

Rayder shook his head, “It’s not a life you choose at such a young age.”

“Didn’t you?”

Rayder barked, “No! By all the Gods, no! My father was a Ranger, my mother a Spearwife. They met, they bedded, I was the result. The Watch found me when they killed my tribe, took me in. When I turned ten-and-three, I took the oath. What else was I going to do?”

Rayder took in Jon’s confusion and conflicted feelings.

“I had never seen the world. Never knew a life outside the Wall. The Watch needed men so none of the commanders tried to stop me.” Rayder strummed his lute. “I gave up the world and never even knew it.”

Echoes of Uncle Benjen was all Jon heard. A life he would have chosen gladly. So little time had passed but so much had changed. Unlike Rayder, unlike Benjen, Jon had the whole world open to him. It was terrifying.

The door to the cabin opened. Ghost padded in, followed by Val and Dalla. They sat down, Val beside Jon. Ghost, the giant fool, flopped down right against their legs, trapping Jon’s knees against Val’s. Val laughed and grabbed onto his shoulder to stop her fall.

Jon smiled. 

The whole world was open to him.

///////////////////

Chapter Text

“There has been no word from the Gittens, Lord Stark.”

Taking a deep breath, Ned absorbed Lord Rodrik’s announcement quietly. Whether by ill-luck or sabotage, they had not received any responses from House Glover either.

“We cannot tarry,” Ned decided.

At his command the gates of Swift Bank were opened. Ned rode out ahead of his 80 men-at-arms and 40 horsemen, behind them came Lord Rodrik and Roger with 20 men-at-arms and 60 horsemen in Ryswell livery. Their force numbered 200 all told, not counting the smaller retinues of sworn swords that accompanied each Lord.

Following the well-maintained paths, Rodrik led them to Lame-Leg Crossing just north of Swift Bank. They forded the low point in the river and began their search. Quickly coming upon a few farms and hamlets built along the edge of the Rill, separated by rocky hills and small crevices. 

Owned by small folk who eked out simple lives with little in the way of luxury even compared to those near Winterfell. They recognize the Direwolf and Horse Head sigil well enough. Ned learned smaller bands of refugees had continued making their way east over the last week, though their numbers had lessened considerably. The brigands appeared content to remain near the sea.

Aiming further south, they made good time to the edge of Blazewater Bay before turning west. Wary of any ambushes, Ned ensured small scouting parties ranged ahead of them, investigating any homesteads or shelters for traps. It was fortunate they did. 

Two days later, Ned had finished breaking his fast with Rodrick and Roger when a sentry called out: “Riders returning! With captives!” The Lords assembled outside. The Argil brothers and their men cantered into camp. Tied to the back of a saddle were two bruised and battered men.

“Lord Stark!” Oryn called out, “We captured these men some leagues west. They were picking through a burnt out farmstead.”

“Fine work, all of you. Take your men and grab some food.” Ned ordered. “Ser Rodrik, secure these criminals.”

In proper order, both prisoners were manacled in separate tents. The two men had uncut hair and numerous scars, they certainly resembled bandits. The Argils had stripped their arms and armour along with any stolen goods. 

Ned knew there was an art to interrogation. He stood outside the tents, listening as Rodrik’s men handled the questioning. They were making little headway. Neither of the prisoners spoke, even after a few blows. However, all it took was a single slip.

“What are you doing with the villagers? You’ve violated the laws of the Gods by taking slaves.” The interrogator pressed.

“...just thralls.” It was only whispered but Ned’s ears were sharp. 

Ned threw open the tent flap and barged in. He took a seat, the interrogator standing as his guard. The posture of the prisoner straightened, his eyes brightened, wariness and hatred twisted his face.

Ned schooled his features, embraced the moniker of the Quiet Wolf. “You will tell me of your presence in my lands,” he ordered.

His prisoner swallowed some kind of retort. Ned could hear him twisting his shackles. They sat in silence for a time. Another tactic was needed.

“Did you fight at Pyke?” Ned asked.

Another strangled answer, the prisoner was breathing heavily, his temper frayed. Ned’s own fury was beginning to rise. These murderers saw fit to reave the lands of his family, saw fit to steal what belonged to his people. His heart sped up, the rhythmic pace had become more and more common over the last year. Ned wasn’t surprised when Maw nudged the tent open and stalked in.

That got the brigand’s attention. Maw came up to Ned’s ribs. Seated as he was, Maw towered over the prisoner. Ned saw the sweat form and drip down his face.

The interrogator stepped closer and whispered: “Lord Stark, a map was found among their things.”

The temptation to unleash Maw was palpable. Ned stood, took a deep breath and slowed his heart. Maw stepped back and sat as a sentry. Outside Rodrick and Roger bent over a scrap of thick vellum laid across a makeshift table.

“Lord Stark, we think we’ve found their base.” Roger explained. “It seems the raiders made a map to avoid getting lost. They landed along a wide length of beach within sight of Hookhamel, House Hook’s township. Once they’d occupied it, they moved further north to Till’s Mill.”

Ned nodded, tracing the routes on the makeshift map. “So they’ve split themselves. The group that delved into Glover lands must have originated at the Mill. If they are here for lumber, it would be best to harvest along the fringes of the Wolfswood, then send it down the coast to their larger ships.”

Lord Rodrick frowned, “They are Ironborn then?”

Ned reached down and picked up the large bag of stolen goods. He dumped it out onto the table. A bunch of turnips, some wooden cutlery and a pair of knives spilled out with ease. Beneath that was a chainmail shirt, a worn-down gambeson, an axe, dagger, an arming sword and strangely, a belt made of thick hair.

“I am convinced they are. Reavers or no, when they catch sight of us they’ll flee for the sea.” Ned revealed. “I want you to send a swift rider to House Glover. They are to march down the coast into the Shore in one week. We will do the same from the Bay.”

Lord Rickard hummed, “If our timing is right, the Glovers will drive the ones at Till’s Mill down to Hookhamel, in the confusion they’ll start planning a strategic retreat with as much as they can carry.”

Roger jumped in, smiling widely, “Then we’ll catch them by surprise and cut them off from the ships!”

“If all goes to plan” Ned reminded.

“What are we to do with the prisoners?” Rodrick asked.

Ned re-examined the captured weapons and armor. The chainmail and sword spoke of wealth and connection to a skilled blacksmith. The blades of the Iron Islands were always sharp, always straight, fine pieces of work all. Ned saw that on the hilt of the sword was a small warhorn sigil seared into the pommel. On the table, the belt of hair was brushed around by the wind.

Turning back to his personal tent, Ned went inside and opened the pages of The Hungry Wolf’s diaries. He flipped through page after page, searching for a half-remembered passage that was… there!:

A great haul from the battle today, I walked with Barris among the corpses of their Magnars, taking choice trophies from each.

Bloody Moon pendant from a Wych of Pyke

Whale Bone earring from a Volmark of Harlaw

Goat Hair belt from a Goodbrother of Great Wyk

Storming out, he called, “Lord Roger! Fetch us some wine! We now have a hostage!”

The raider was young enough to be one of Lord Gorold Goodbrother’s sons. Maw had maintained his watch, the Goodbrother was too terrified to flinch at Ned’s entrance. He set the wine sack down in front of the man’s feet.

“Forgive me, I have acted improperly.” Ned apologised, confusing the prisoner. “If I’d known my men had captured a Goodbrother of Hammerhorn, you would have received better quarters.”

Ned barrelled on, not even providing a pause to be answered.

“Though perhaps I’ve misjudged you. After all, no Lord of Hammerhorn would be sent on such a minor errand as stealing tree trunks. Perhaps your kin rules from Crow Spike or Downdelving. That would fit better.”

On and on Ned goaded for nearly ten minutes. The Goodbrother, for Ned was now certain of his identity, became red in the face and his neck and biceps bulged.

“I wonder if your Father will pay ransom for you? Perhaps not,” Ned slid the proverbial knife in, taken directly from King Rodrik Stark, who had driven the Ironborn from Cape Kraken, “Any Ironborn caught on land might as well be gelded then forgotten. What Driftwood Lord would pay the gold price for a failure?”

“I AM NO FAILURE!!!” The man thundered.

Ned nodded, no sign of the smugness he felt. “True. Every captain who sailed with you will soon share the same fate. Make it easier on yourself and I’ll ensure your body is given back to the sea. How many ships crossed the Bay?”

It was like pulling hen’s teeth. Maw was needed to fully coax the man into compliance. Yet he’d broken his silence, in a way he admitted defeat.

Four longships sailed from Great Wyk, each crewed by 30 or 40 souls. The Goodbrother hadn’t known their purpose or who had ordered the raid, only that his grandfather, so not a son of Lord Goodbrother after all, had called for men to row and reave. They’d made landfall, killed any who resisted and put the rest in chains. His crew had been sent to scrounge foodstuffs away from Hookhamel while the majority of the men set off, taking the thralls to begin chopping down trees.

Ned stood at the end of their talk. Reached over, and allowed the noble to take a few gulps of wine. He left for the final time, found Lord Rodrik and ordered the two prisoners to be sent back to Swift Bank. They would be judged in due time.

With only a desperate hope that the Glovers would be ready, Ned marched with his 200 men to clash with at least 120 Ironborn.

///////////////////

The sparsity of Stony Shore was apparent everywhere Ned looked. There was enough to carve out a small life but nowhere near the resources available to even the Mountain Clans. He conversed with Lord Rodrik, asking why his House never pushed for direct rule of the Shore.

“Quite simple, my lord, no good land for horse rearing and we’ve no need for more fish with the Rill by our feet.”

Ned considered the Stony Shore. How the only truly powerful House to ever claim it prior to the Starks were the Warg Kings, from their home on Sea Dragon Point. The Warg Kings had access to the Wolfswood, the northern tip of the Rill River. The Shore was used as a source of taxes and manpower for their wars against the Glovers and Ryders. House Fisher could barely be counted, the Stark records were so devoid of information on them they were mostly hearsay after the Conquest. The Fishers were poor and held power because they were the only ones on the Shore who bothered to. A few political marriages, some kind of debt from the Glovers for a favour long past, secured their neutrality in the region. Their House lived with the smallfolk and their scant vassals in compliance and complacency. They would sail to Barrowtown and sell their large catches of crabs, lobsters and clams, but little else. They certainly never stopped any Ironborn invasions, frequently being the first to pay tribute to any longships that came across them. At best, the Fishers provided early warning to the rest of the North when their boats and cogs went missing.

Ned resolved that for anyone to desire the Stony Shore, or the Gods willing, prosper here, new wealth must be found. Each idea he could summon up was easily countered: Any new ports or shipyards would be better served further inland, at Barrowtown or Torrhen’s Square, a new fortress akin to the Wolf’s Den would suit the Rill River and Saltspear rather than the coast, the scant farmlands meant no place for a winter refuge; when the snows set in the Shore folk retreated to Deepwood Motte or Swift Bank.

The grey peaks and spikes once again drew Ned’s eye. The rocky hills that ran the length of the land up to the southern edge of the Wolfswood. Perhaps members of the Mountain Clans could be persuaded to survey the area. Minerals may yet be found hidden in the crags and caves. If there was at least the promise of some unearthed resource it would be far easier to find a House to accept stewardship over the area. A new Masterly House would be best, as to not cause offence to the Glovers or risk tensions with the Ryswells. Another project for another year, Ned sadly decided. 

These thoughts and his daily duties occupied Ned’s time until the eve of battle arrived. Camped out far enough away from Hookhamel but close enough for their coming charge. Ned sought solitude away from his men. 

The Greyjoy Rebellion had only been seven years ago, less than a decade. The Iron Fleet’s initial attacks had focused on the Westerlands, aside from that misguided siege of Seagard. Ned had no doubts that if they had the time, the longships would have attacked Cape Kraken. This whole chain of events presented a dire warning that Balon Greyjoy may once again be heading straight on into madness.

The siege of Pyke had been a bloody day, but one that reminded the rest of the Kingdoms that the North was not a foe to be trifled with. Stark, Bolton and Umber banners flew over the rubble of Botley castle as the Northern foot cut a bloody path through the defenders in Lordsport. Robert had breached Pyke itself, but Ned had captured the ramparts. It was his bannermen who had killed Maron Greyjoy.

It was strange to look back and realise how momentous that occasion had been. Not the invasion of the Iron Islands as a whole, the Westerlands had put the isles to the torch more than once. Rather that Ned was the first Stark to ever attack the islands themselves, despite the long history of war between their two kingdoms. He had stood in the throne room of Pyke and watched the King of the Iron Islands pulled from the Seastone chair and brought to his knees. It was hard to imagine that in the future The Quiet Wolf might be a name remembered alongside The Hungry and The Laughing. For Ned had seen much war, more than many of his predecessors.

Focused as he was on memories of battle, Ned’s heart quickened. The fresh night air whipped past his hair as he crept up the hillside, keeping low to the ground. The rocks gave plenty of steady footing. Slinking up the hillside under the moonlight he reached an overlook that gave a wide view of the field below. Scant grass and gravel carpeting the way to the distant wave-drenched shore. 

Far in the distance the hinting notes of smoke and roasted meat underscored the occasional shout or argument. He could easily imagine those shouts turning to screams, the roasted meat overwhelmed by blood. Stomping forward he raised his head and unleashed a terrible howl, a warning. It echoed off the cliffs and stone, folding in on itself. His foes quieted, their laughter and arguments forgotten. In some deep, secret part of them, their hearts trembled. They would sleep uneasily tonight, unwilling to admit that their fates had come calling.

////////////////////////

Chapter Text

Ned’s armour was strapped tight and proper. The plate fit comfortably across his shoulder and his legs were free to move. Ser Rodrick had been meticulous in his training, so the Argil brothers were nearly experts at the task by this point. He ran his hand across the shield on his left arm. A grey direwolf on a white field, the same sigil he had worn into battle during the Rebellion. Robert had tried to convince him to create a personal coat of arms but it felt inappropriate. He knew Brandon had added a sword in the wolf’s hands, and his father had added a pair of jeweled bracelets to his. Such performatives had always seemed frivolous but it was past time he did. Perhaps a burning longship? Ned smiled to himself.

At Ned’s waist was a sturdy blade from Winterfell’s forge. Ice had remained in the castle. A greatsword was impractical for all but the most desperate battles. His ancestral blade served well for official duties; but few Stark Lords in the past had trained specifically to wield the huge blade in real combat.

Stepping out of his tent, Ned surveyed the men as they readied for battle. Lord Rodrik was speaking intently with Roger, no doubt imparting last words of advice. The heir to Swift Bank would be by his father’s side, but the midst of the charge was not the place for morbid goodbyes.

“Are the men ready?” Ned asked Ser Rodrik.

His master-at-arms was similarly decked out in his full-plate armour. His shield of ten wolf heads, the sigil of House Cassel, included a single grey head at the base of the image, a nod to Rodrik’s position of prestige in Winterfell. Ser Rodrik had both a sword and a mace at the ready. The gruff man had quietly passed over a letter to his daughter, Beth, and nephew, Jory, the night before. A true veteran of the field, Ned was always glad to have Cassel at his side.

“Yes, my lord.” Ser Rodrik replied. “The foot have been mustered and the archers ordered. They await us.”

Ned waved over to the Ryswells in a final gesture before setting off, Ser Rodrik and the Argil brothers behind him. Maw was out in the bushes near camp, keeping a wary eye on their targets.

The northern soldiers stood in clean ranks, arrayed behind the hill they would walk over. Then for ten minutes they would cross open fields to reach Hookhamel. The route had been carefully marked out by scouts in the dead of night.

Lord Cerwyn addressed the infantry, ensuring Ned’s orders were clear and understood: “I now present to you, the Warden of the North, Lord Eddard Stark!” Cerwyn shouted.

The infantry fell quiet, all eyes rested on Ned. 

He took a deep breath, the killing would start soon, so would the dying. Unlike Robert, who found these pre-battle speeches invigorating, Ned only found they hardened his nerves and swelled his fears.

“Men of Winterfell, Men of Swift Bank!” Ned called out. “Our march today has one purpose. These brigands have deemed the North weak, and think our land ripe for plunder. These murderers… These slavers have dared to land on our shores and take from us. They think that because they come by sea, they need not fear us. They believe that because they have pillaged the poor folk of Stony Shore, that the High Lords of the North will ignore them. That justice will not find them.” Ned pointed to the Direwolf and Horse banners flying high among them. “They are wrong!”

His men gave a cheer and began crying out in exaltation, working themselves up for the conflict fast approaching.

“Northern steel will cut them from their vaunted ships.”

“Stark!” They screamed.

“Red lances will bring them to the mud!”

“Ryswell!” They screamed.

Ned drew his sword and thrust it above his head as he bellowed: “On proper northern soil, we shall teach them justice!”

“Winterfell!” They cheered.

Ned mounted his horse, reached down and picked his helmet from one of the Argils. He took a brief moment to examine it. Sansa and Catelyn had presented it to him before his departure so many weeks ago. The plain and sturdy design had been altered slightly. The back of the helmet leading up the peak was embossed with the outline of a weirwood. The face plate, previously plain, now bore three snarling wolf heads on each cheek, one for each of his children. Ned donned it and gave a silent prayer that he could return home with it intact.

He raised his arm and the troops began to move. The seriousness of the march allowed his forces to iron out their coordination and properly settle in their rhythm. Sooner than he expected, Ned saw the hovels and yards of Hookhamel. A cry went up from inside the settlement, he could see the shapes of men frantically running to and fro.

“Make for the beach!” Ned commanded, and the army truly began to speed up.

Hookhamel was built at the base of a long ridge, giving them cover from the wind and rain. It was also a short distance from the shore, where Ned could see four longships beached next to numerous small piers. His goal was to put his men between the raiders and their ships.

Arrows began flying from the hamlet, slamming into his ranks. A few pained cries quickly ended when the ranks closed tight and shields were brought to bear towards the enemy, Ned’s back now faced the ocean. Ser Rodrik directed their own bowman to begin responding. The Ironborn had at most five or six archers compared to Ned’s 20. Quickly, a clot of enemies streamed out of the hamlet in a strong line, shields raised to protect them. Ned had to ensure they wouldn’t break, he needed to draw them out of the buildings. He dismounted his horse and passed the reins off. Better to leave his steed with the archers.

“We shall advance!” Ned shouted, the command taken up across the line. 

His formation had been set up with long, tight columns to better disguise their numbers. The dim light of the nascent sunrise hopefully would give the impression of 50 or 60 men, not 80. It appeared to be working. Their lines inched closer and closer, the occasional raider fell to an arrow. 

It was the Ironborn who made the first move. The bravest of their ilk broke ranks and sprinted hard forward those last few feet, slamming into the northmen, locking the first ranks together. Shields clashed in desperate shoves with spears flashing out into fleshy gaps. Ned peered over the men and saw what he hoped were the last stragglers rush out of the hamlet to join the melee.

He turned back and waved his shield. Moments later, a clear horn call echoed off the battlefield. An answering tone came from the south and quickly, the thundering of horses rose up over the battlefield.

“Widen the line!” Ned shouted.

With strict discipline, the men at the very back of the northern blocks streamed to the left and right. The Ironborn attempted to match them, desperately attempting to stop their flanks from being hemmed in, but they had underestimated their numbers. Ned’s men pushed hard into the enemy and the shield lock broke, the two forces mingled and danced in chaos. Ned and his guards did their best to stay away from the heart of the fighting but were forced to act when a group of Ironborn began to move through the left line.

“For the North!” Ned cried, and led his men into the massacre. His sword quickly drenched itself and his shield was nicked and bent. He parried a clumsy thrust and opened the wielder’s ribs. The Argils were young and fresh, they cut three men down in as many swings. Ser Rodrik was not to be outdone and cleanly disarmed a giant, roaring Ironborn then thrust his blade through the brute’s lungs. With Ned present, the northern line quickly pushed back.

The northern cavalry entered the fray in a frightening charge right into the side of the enemy. Men were sent flying over their comrades and armour was crushed under unrelenting hooves. The ironborn retreated, but the survivors didn’t even make it back to the shelter of the hamlet before outriders led by Roger Ryswell chased them down, capturing those they could. Ned ordered the same. Captives were valuable after all.

Ned suspected there had been 50 or so Ironborn left behind, of which only 8 had been taken alive.

“Lord Stark!” A shout from the hamlet. 

Ned whipped back to track the voice’s source. He saw Roger Ryswell on his steed motioning to the north. Ned mounted his own horse and peered into the distance. With dread, Ned saw a trio of men looking at the town from the cliffside. Quickly they turned back to some unseen direction and waved.

Danse stepped forward, “Perhaps some brigands were already on their way back?”

“Or the Glovers were caught moving earlier than we thought. If that’s the case, the rest of the Ironborn may be on their way.” Ned speculated.

In a split second, around the far bend in the rock, a swarm of 100 screaming reavers spilled down into the field, shedding supplies as they ran. He grabbed Danse by the shoulder and ordered him to reform the archers atop the cliff face to overlook the hamlet.

“Into the village! Into the village!” Ned screamed as he rode hard for Hookhamel.

His men were spread out across the entire field, they didn’t have the time to merge back into line before the Ironborn were on them, their only chance, as far as Ned could see, was to seek shelter in the hamlet. Lord Rodrik had already rallied the cavalry and retreated back to the beach; to ensure the Ironborn wouldn’t try to take the boats.

Ned reunited with his guard just in time for the first axemen to rush into the hamlet. The northmen had grouped together around the buildings, blunting the enemy’s reckless charge. Ned cut into a man’s shoulder, kicked his blade free and slammed his shield into a young man’s face, destroying the boy’s nose and caving in his jaw. More and more came, kicking up dirt and dust. Screams blended and thickened the air. Ned’s heart was beating too fast to feel, his muscles burned as he continued to slash and stab.

The mud pooled with blood as reaver after reaver fell. With a wail, Ser Rodrik fell back into Ned, a spearhead jutting from his armour. Before Ser Rodrik’s assailant could bring his sword down for a killing blow on the unbalanced Ned, Lord Cerwyn intercepted. With a great cry, the Lord brought down his axe and cut clean through the brigand’s elbow and then buried the weapon in his jaw. Ned and the Argils dragged the knight into a protective circle with nearby soldiers and rejoined the fight.

A whisper of steel and a guttural grunt alerted Ned someone had maneuvered behind him. He turned in time to see the mace-head flying for his face, when the massive body of Maw dropped from a roof and flattened the attacker. Maw’s teeth tore through the chainmail protecting the Ironborn’s neck and his victim’s helmet filled with blood. Maw raised his red jowls and gave a growl that sent ripples across the crimson pools at their feet. The northmen took Maw’s appearance to heart and hit back with a cheer. 

The narrow streets were turning against them, Ned saw they were being surrounded. Thankfully, the archers above them concentrated their volleys and a path out of the hamlet opened.

“Retreat to the beaches!” Ned ordered.

Steadily in one large mass, the northern force extracted themselves from the buildings and made for the shoreline. The chasing reavers were easy pickings for Danse and the archers. The Ryswells swung their cavalry wide to the left, making room for Ned’s men to fall in. The Lord of Winterfell looked upon the enemy and prepared to meet their charge when a warhorn blew clean in the wind.

From the same bend the Ironborn had burst from, a thrust of heavy armored cavalry emerged flying the silver-gauntlet of House Glover. Together, Glover and Ryswell horses pinned the reavers between them in simultaneous charges and smote the enemy in their path. The survivors either surrendered or were massacred.

Ned stepped back and opened his helmet, he took a deep breath of sea air to mask the corpse stench. The battle was over. 

////////////

Ned clasped hands with the nearby men, congratulating and praising even the common spearman.

“Lord Cerwyn, I owe you my life.” Ned thanked.

“I’m simply repaying the favour for your own actions at the Trident.” Cerwyn refuted.

Riding up to them, Ned recognized the faces of Galbart and Robett Glover. A happy reunion for all involved. The men of Deepwood Motte had liberated Till’s Mill but the Ironborn scouts had marked their approach and fled. The small folk had been rescued and the timbre recovered.

The grim task of separating the dead came next. The northmen were lined up outside Hookhamel and his captains took time to identify each body. The ironborn were lumped together in a great heap, their clothing and possession stripped.

Of the 200 Northmen, 40 had died or would soon perish from their wounds. Lord Glover’s vanguard of 100 horsemen had suffered no casualties, thankfully. Of the 160 Ironborn, only 30 prisoners remained. Most of their captives were common raiders but 2 Captains had been subdued.

One had the characteristic goat-belt of a Goodbrother of Great Wyk, perhaps kin to Ned’s other prisoner. The other was an older, hardier man with a look of experience mixed with pain, most likely due to his three missing fingers. Ned guessed this was the raid leader judging by the expensive rings and armor found on him. With that many captives it was easy to make some talk with promises of food and medicine. Their leader was Borreg Pyke, a bastard son of Dunstan Drumm, the Lord of Old Wyk. This signified the involvement of at least two separate Great Houses of the Iron Islands.

Days ticked by while riders were sent back to Swift Bank and Deepwood Motte. Camp and a makeshift triage were constructed in the meantime. Ned considered Borreg and the Goodbrother. Even with their confessions, there was no concrete proof that their attacks had been ordered by either of their Lords. It was plausible that Balon had nothing to do with this at all. Ned had to think carefully on his next move.

On one hand, if he sent notes of ransom it could serve as an adequate threat. Balon would need to make excuses for his vassals and if they had been acting outside his knowledge, it could sow discord among his court.

Not to be forgotten, Robert’s visit was only six or seven months away. Ned could simply imprison the raiders until the King’s arrival. Hard proof of Iron Islanders breaking the treaty would definitely elicit a reaction from the Crown. On Balon’s orders or not, Ned could use the attack as leverage to gain concessions from Robert and Jon Arryn.

A delay would also give him time to think on what to do about Theon.

Ned eventually ordered that the prisoners be split between the Glovers and Ryswells and held until a later date. Three of the longships were stripped and burnt, the last was sailed up the Saltspear to Torrhen’s Square for storage.

As the sails of the ships burnt within sight of the Stony Shore, Ned thought of the busy months ahead and found relief in his swift return home.

///////////////////////////

The march back to Winterfell was delayed by the frequent happy reunions of the freed small folk with their families in the Rills and Barrowlands. Ned grimaced, when he realized that yet another wave of babes will likely bear the name “Edd” and “Eddara.” He could only hope that an equal number of “Rogers” and “Rodra” balanced the trend.

Not to be outdone, the joy Ned experienced as he rode through the gates of Winterfell was euphoric. His beautiful daughter and adorable son rushed into his arms, followed by his lovely wife. His family stayed firmly by his side for days on end, even when he witnessed the funerals of his fallen soldiers. Green Eyes and Maw were likewise inseparable for many weeks following their return.

Ser Rodrik slowly recovered from his wounds, finally recognizing that age had caught up to him. Ned felt compelled to acknowledge the prowess displayed by the Argils. For his valiant command of the archers, Danse was appointed to be Rodrik’s successor as Master-at-arms, to be trained until the venerable knight chose to retire. Oryn’s stalwart swordsmanship earned him a full set of armor commissioned from Winterfell’s own blacksmith. 

Lord Cerwyn’s bravery did not go unrecognized, Medger’s prize was different. A betrothal sponsored by the Starks between his heir, Cley Cerwyn, and Eddara Tallhart.  Ned knew that Eddara herself was a charming young woman who had been a great influence on Sansa, Jeyne and Beth Cassel; she would be a wonderful Lady Cerwyn. A union to connect the two houses who would hopefully be expanding the North’s lumber industry by leaps and bounds.

Once he was properly rested, Ned took a short trip to Moat Cailin to check-in on the new road linking the Moat to White Harbour. It was the first of his endeavours that would hopefully inspire other Houses to take initiative. He knew from the foreman that other nobles from as far afield as the Hornwood had made visits to witness the project.

He exchanged more letters with Lord Hoster and managed to negotiate for a number of Riverlords to send excess labourers up the King’s Road to join the growing pool of men working on the Wolfswood Canal. The canal had to be dug in stages. With the bricks and mortar being supplied by the Vale, they had plenty of time to get the excavations underway. Final dimensions approved by the architects put the canal at 4 meters wide and 2 meters deep. Enough for two barges to pass each other side-by-side and deep enough to prevent a full freeze in the winter. 600 men and their families had already settled into Wintertown from across the North. The promise of an extra income before the arrival of the next winter had attracted people from across the kingdom. All of this gave Ned hope that similar large-scale projects were not out of reach, that the right motivation and careful planning could bring the North to new heights.

Months later, the royal visit loomed large in Ned’s mind. He finally received another letter with the royal seal. It had been sent from Harrenhal by Jon Arryn. His foster father informed him that their convoy had left King’s Landing with 400, not 200, labourers and their families in their wake. The royal party would meet with Lord Hoster at the Twins and arrive at Winterfell together. The extra men would not go amiss. It was fortunate that Wintertown could accommodate them and more.

Time to reveal the truth of the raids on Stony Shore was fast approaching. The Ironborn had been moved down to Torrhen’s Square. Ned planned on taking Robert and Jon with him to visit the ship, and there away from outside voices, Ned planned to push for serious compensation.

He’d been hesitating for weeks on the honour in this act. Cregan Stark’s words had pushed him forward. If Ned had been a southern Lord Paramount, the sheer power he could have wielded with Robert on the throne was staggering. Cregan’s reign in King’s Landing had lasted a mere seven days but ended with a Manderly as Lord Regent. Winterfell had wielded strong influence during the childhood of Aegon III. Unfortunately, the many treaties and agreements made by Cregan during this time were dashed by the Winter Fever of 132 AC and Cregan’s own abandonment of the position (though in his words, he believed that the South, especially the Faith, would have little tolerance for a Stark Regent in the long term). If Ned managed to pull together even half the potential from Robert’s reign that Cregan had held under Aegon III, then he could set the North on a path to prosperity for a generation to come. Ned did not want to abuse his foster brother, for he knew that Robert felt deeply and blindly. He had to reason with himself that if the Iron Islands was preparing for war, then the North would need all the support it could get.

His only remaining apprehension about the approaching reunion was a note added to Jon Arryn’s letter:

I shall send another letter before we cross the Twins, though doubtlessly word will travel the King’s Road ahead of us. Lysa and Robin do not particularly enjoy the rigors of the road, and my aged body agrees with them, I shall look forward to the comforts of Winterfell.

I also have some important news that can only be shared in the strictest confidence.

Ned sat back in the safety of his castle and heard the winds blow against Winterfell’s walls. Ominous words… ominous words.

//////////////////

Chapter Text

Jon awoke feeling… different. His dreams had been unsettling. Flashes of fire, sunlight and screams; of white cloaks stained red, buried in hot sands. He tried to return to sleep but was too restless. His tossing and turning had woken up the other occupant of his room.

Val reached an arm over and pulled him flat to the bed. Without a word she twined their legs together and promptly fell back asleep on his shoulder. This was a new development, one Jon couldn’t pretend was unwelcome. Settling back in the dark, he allowed himself to relax. 

Rayder’s band had been on Skagos for nearly four months, long enough to be present for Jon’s third anniversary on Skagos. Mance had met with the Great Shepherd multiple times. There was some distaste at first, but the two had become cordial, even somewhat friendly. Everyone now waited for them to be summoned by the Children. Torrhen said he’d observed the proper customs, and his request had been heard. Without much else to do but wait, Mance and Dalla had returned Beyond-The-Wall for a brief period to reassure the Free Folk and keep the peace. Val and a few others had deigned to stay. 

Jon, as inexperienced as he was in romance (at least Jon hoped this could be called romance) knew he and Val had been circling each other for some time. Things were tense, in an exciting way, as they grew closer and closer. Val had taken his lips by surprise on a walk to the Godswood, Jon stole his own share of kisses near their spot on the pier. He’d been worried that going any further would be improper but Val had quickly run rampant over his hesitation. She’d snuck into his room one night during a particularly loud thunderstorm. That meeting would have been very awkward if she’d been there to “steal him”, thankfully they’d had their own argument about that particular custom a few days earlier. Thinking back, Jon wondered if his vehement disgust with the practice had influenced her decision.

Val had snuck her way into his room not armed with a rope and gag, she’d brought a water sac and some small treats. Her proposition had been quite clear but measured, she had a knack for reading his hesitation. While she possessed the stereotypical Free Folk bluntness, Val was like Mance in that she demonstrated the guile and cunning a people developed when living on the edge of starvation for over seven thousand years. Discussion led to compromise. They’d mutually agreed to take things, as Val put, “slower than a broken sled,” so as to “not offend Jon’s Southron sensibilities.” She absolutely loved pulling that line out, always with a charming wink.

Underneath all the coy jokes, Jon was immensely relieved. Val’s “courtship” came with no expectation of Jon, either from his status as a ward of the Great Shepherd or from his family line. She certainly maintained certain standards of him, but they were built from her own preferences and based entirely on Jon. Not the Bastard of Winterfell, not the student of Wolftongue, just Jon… Lord Snow as the Free Folk still called him.

Regardless of the respect that had been drilled into him by courtly lessons and stern talks, Jon was a boy of six-and-ten, Val was almost eight-and-ten as far as she knew. 

When Beorn barged in and found Val naked and nestled underneath his pillows, the man chuckled. “I wondered if you’d be able to keep it together past the first planting season,” he declared.

When Mance and Dalla returned, Jon had been unsure of their reaction. He was, after all, a “southron kneeler.” Mance had laughed his ass off, nearly choked on a rib bone at the same time. Dalla had pulled her younger sister away for the afternoon and said not a word afterwards. The dagger Jon had found stuck in his bedpost that evening had been warning enough.

Outside of Jon’s newfound relationship, things were in motion across the North: 

Word had finally reached Skagos about the bandits in the Rills; Jon had been relieved to hear about his father’s survival. 

Travelers coming back to the island for the new year ceremonies said the Merman’s Road was finally finished.

Rumors from the coast said that Roose Bolton had taken to escorting his son everywhere. Something about an attempted assassination. Wolftongue would say little on the subject after returning from the Dreadfort.

Robb’s last letter had mentioned a strange message from Theon in White Harbour, something about meeting a distant family member. Jon may have disliked the Greyjoy, but he hadn’t ever wished him harm. At least, harm outside a few good smacks in the training yard.

A letter from Lord Stark had arrived just the other day, the initial work of digging the Wolfswood Canal was well on its way.

Jon was anticipating his own return home. Father had decided that for King Robert’s visit, the entire family should be present. He couldn’t wait to reunite with all of them. He’d saved up a whole chest worth of gifts and tokens to bring back.

Two fingers tugged his ear, drawing Jon’s gaze down to Val. 

“What is it?” he asked.

“Where’s Ghost?” she returned.

He glanced around his room and saw no sign of the wolf. Frowning, Jon got up and looked out into the common room. A few men and women were sleeping off their hangovers from the celebration last night, but no direwolf.

Jon turned back, Val had already begun dressing, “Odd, he usually waits for me to wake before going out,” Jon mused while putting on his trousers.

Ghost reappeared only after they broke their fast. He wasn’t alone. Jogging down the path through the village was Beorn and Mira.

“Jon, Val!” Beorn called, “Where’s Rayder?”

“Inside.” Val pointed.

Beorn rushed into the house, leaving Mari to watch Val sneak Ghost some choice leftovers from their plates.

“What’s going on, Mari?” Jon asked.

“It’s the Children,” Mari declared. “They’ve called for a meeting.”

Their entire group was awakened and rushed to the entrance of Veiden . Mance was nervous, he paced back and forth, lost in his own thoughts.

Torrhen came out of the valley, dressed in full regalia. He nodded to Mance. “The time has come. We must go to one of the ancient copse on the peaks. They await us.”

Mance faced Dalla and his men, giving final orders and loving embraces. 

Torrhen turned to the rest of them, “You too, Jon. Your presence has been called for.”

Jon swallowed, gave Val and Beorn strong hugs and followed the two men. They walked through the valley, past Stone Heart to the cliff face that walled in the far side of the field. Torrhen stepped up to sheer rock, reached into two small inlets and pulled. A hidden door swung open! An entire entrance carved and painted to resemble the rock wall, hid a cave. Up and up, a stone stairway crisscrossed higher and higher just inside the rock. From the outside it was a normal cliff face, there was no indication of the hidden staircase within. They followed the steps, sustained by hundreds of tiny holes that brought light and air into the cave. After minutes of climbing, Torrhen stopped before another door. This one was ancient, made of iron-wood with bronze fixtures. 

Jon was momentarily distracted by the irony of that naming. Iron-wood was just a mistranslation of the Old Tongue name, “metal-bark”, by the Andals.

Torrhen carefully swung the door open, the light of the sun blinded all three of them. Manced walked out of the cave without a second thought. Jon hesitated, waiting for Torrhen to proceed first.

“No, Jon.” Torrhen said. “The Children were very clear,” he frowned then, “only the Climber and the Whitewolf may enter.”

Jon blinked, “I’m the Whitewolf?”

Torrhen dropped his shoulders, looking at Jon with a rare pity and fondness. He nodded to Jon’s feet, where Ghost finally pushed past Jon’s knees and out through the doorway. 

“I doubt anyone else fits that description,” Torrhen remarked.

Taking a few cautious steps, Jon nodded at his mentor and walked into the sunlight.

///////////

There was sky, bright sky all around them. Jon and Mance stood on a small plateau high above the rest of Skagos. The flat stone under them had deep grooves, smooth from millenia of rain and wind. Despite the harsh conditions it must be exposed to day in and day out, planted in the middle of the plateau was three shrivelled Weirwoods. White bark so weathered it was dull grey. Broken branches and dead roots surrounded them. A tiny patch of soil underneath them was their only comfort.

Mance looked on, fascinated. “How old is this grove?”

The two men walked closer, drawn to the solemn grace of the trees. Jon noticed there were strange shapes laid out between the weirwoods. No, Jon realized, they weren’t laid out between the weirwoods, the roots of the weirwoods went through them.

“Bones!” Jon exclaimed.

Mance’s eyes widened. He took a careful step down into the dirt. Leaning forward, he gently drew a finger across the form, clearing the dust and rocks. Bleached bone shone underneath the filth. A curled up skeleton with roots moving through its ribcage and knee joints.

“Were they buried here, under the sky?” Jon wondered. “Did the trees grow around their bodies?”

Mance shook his head, “They were alive,” he decided.

The gaps in the skeleton’s ribs and joints were not simply separated, they had regrown around the roots, sealing them inside the body. Such a thing required blood and breath for the body to heal. What agony it must have been.

“Indeed.”

Mance and Jon snapped to attention. Sitting at the centre of the trees was a diminutive figure wrapped in heavy robes. At their feet was a large wooden bowl.

“Join me.”

The two hesitantly inched forward. Standing across the bowl from the stranger, Jon could see small bits of dark earthy skin through the gaps in their cloak. The cloak itself was not made of cloth, or any hide or fur, it was woven of moss.

“Sit.”

Each word reverberated inside of itself, layered like an echo. The Child’s tone was soft, surprisingly high-pitched, like a bird’s call or a fox’s whine. 

The trio sat. Mance and the Child facing each other, with Jon between them. He looked down into the bowl and found raised channels running the interior. Curved from the rim in a large pattern swirling inwards, culminating in a single point at the bottom.

“Child of the Forest,” Mance began, “I’ve come here as a last resort, to find guidance.”

“Speak, Climber. I am listening.”

“Dead men walk in the far north. The Others stir.” Mance announced.

Jon was frozen, he looked at Mance. Was the chieftain mad? A lunatic?

“The cold’s come down from the Lands of Always Winter. The Thenns have fled their valley. No one is left west of the Milkwater. I’ve gathered as many tribes as I can.”

“You have done well, Baelman.” The Child complimented.

Mance’s face was desperate, an expression Jon had never seen on the always confident leader.

“I must save them. Except,” Mance quieted, “I don’t want to throw their lives away on a plan that won’t work.”

“What is your plan?” The Child asked.

“Get past the Wall.” Mance said.

Jon’s heart stilled. The Wildling was talking about invasion. He was talking about going over, around, under, going past the Wall. The Watch would try to stop him and they would clash. Mance was talking about killing Uncle Benjen. 

Before Jon could lash out, the Child spoke, “They must come south.”

“What?” Jon whispered.

Mance took a deep breath, ignored Jon, “How? The Lord Commander won’t listen to me. Even if we managed to break through and man the Wall, there’s nothing to stop the Lords from coming for us. Unless the White Walkers are right in front of them, they won’t heed my warnings.”

The Child held up a clawed hand with only four digits and spoke: 

“Three things must come to pass for hope to be birthed anew.

The Three-Eyed Crow must be freed from their sanctuary.

The Skildva must retake the cursed fort, where the King in the North shall call a council of Magnars.

Old grievances must be paid for and laws must be made with common cause.

Then we shall have hope.”

Mance and Jon were stunned.

“It’ll be too late.” Mance lamented. “I told you. The Night’s Watch will massacre us before even sitting down to negotiate. Besides, there’s no King in the North, there hasn’t been for 300 years!”

“Baelman, you shall bring your people south. Blood shall call to blood. The Gods foretell that kin shall heed kin, no matter how distant or hidden. In the North, a King shall be crowned. The world is waking.

It will not be quick, but Summer wanes. You, Climber, must swear here and now, before the Gods to agree to these terms. If you do not. Your people’s corpses shall feed the army of the dead.” The Child declared.

Mance rubbed his face in frustration. “The tribes will never agree to this. They followed me because I had a plan but the moment I start talking about negotiating with crows and kneelers, they’ll abandon me.”

The Child titled their head, “You are the King-Beyond-The-Wall.”

“I go back north and talk about this? My people will scatter. The Free Folk listen to me as long as I don’t sound too insane. The sane ones realized that I was their only option, the rabid ones were cowed into submission. At this point, the only way the army will stay together is by assaulting the Wall. However hopeless that is. It’s the dream they’re following, not the man.” Mance confessed.

“I don’t believe you.” Jon interrupted.

Mance looked over at the young man. He’d been quiet ever since the Child had addressed them, his direwolf sat silently at his back. Jon was more at ease here than Mance himself. Strange to think a chieftain’s nerves would fray and a greenboy’s would hold steady.

“I’ve read and listened to dozens upon dozens of stories. About Magnars and Kings and Lords.” Jon said. “Men who could call upon vast armies and ruled over leagues of land. I also learned about Chiefs and Fathers, who had one tiny hall and maybe a dozen subjects, petty kings and nothing more. Do you know what all those ancient people had in common? No matter their status or wealth?”

Jon stood, Ghost with him. 

“When they spoke, others listened. You can be the rightful Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms… or you could be a bastard. All that matters is when you speak, do people listen? That’s true power, a voice that is heard.”

The Child chuckled, “The Whitewolf speaks.”

Mance stared at Jon. He seemed so much taller, starker here in this stone Godswood. 

Taking a deep breath, Mance nodded and held out his hand. “In the name of the Free Folk, I agree to your terms.”

“The Whitewolf shall be our witness, as kin to the King in the North, he shall bring word to Winterfell.”

All three of them leaned over the bowl. A small stone knife, some kind of strange black stone, was passed out by the Child. Jon looked down at the blade and recalled the sword resting in Bran The Builder’s crypt. He and Mance cut their thumbs and pressed the digits to the bowl lip. The Child did the same, though their blood was dark and thin. The three trails curved along the channels, painting the bowl a dark rusted tone. They mixed together in the basin. Next, the Child walked to each of the three weirwoods and drained a small amount of sap and added it to the basin as well.

Ghost tensed and lifted his head. For the first time Jon could remember, Ghost howled long and loud. Jon’s heart sped up, it hammered in his chest. His vision split. He saw himself, Mance and the Child sitting beneath him. He saw Ghost howling to the sky. He saw a figure in a black, feathered cloak sitting against one of the weirwoods. Jon could only watch as his body moved without his consent.

His eyes misted over to the milky paleness of a warg. A terrible voice emanated from Jon’s throat:

“The Rayder and The Speaker are compact, as seen by the Gods. 

Let it be heard from peak to pond, 

from hearth to grave. 

By earth and water, 

bronze and iron, 

fire and ice.”

A pact was made that day. 

It would bring fortune and doom to the realms of men.

/////////////////////

Chapter Text

White Harbor, a city of bright stone and seawater. The closest Theon Greyjoy had ever been to his memories of Lordsport. The heir to the Iron Islands had arrived in the city six months ago, right before Lord Stark had ridden west to the Stony Shore. His second time away from Winterfell was much more pleasant than the first. Torrhen's Square had been exciting, probably too exciting, Theon could admit.

He had his first lessons in sailing on one of House Tallhart's small cutters. It had opened his eyes. The gentle rocking of the hull, the flutter of the flags, the sheer power he felt tug at the mainsail. It was better than any ale he'd quaffed or any woman he'd taken to bed. Maester Luwin had taught him the mechanics of sailing; even before that, Theon could identify every part of a ship by age ten. It was another matter of actually taking the rudder and riggings in hand. His first few attempts had been embarrassing. Northmen ordered to accompany him by Lord Tallhart had felt no need to disguise their laughter. Theon got roaring drunk at the end of that first week and nearly killed one of them in the ensuing brawl. Ser Rodrik had taken him in hand afterward. Rather than sail, he scrapped hulls by the docks for four days straight. Theon had been so desperate for an end to the chores he'd forewarn ale for the next moon, all just to get back in control of a ship.

Theon preened like some prized mare as his skills grew in leaps and bounds. It was a bit like archery, Theon discovered. You had to keep aware of the environment and your own body simultaneously. The direction of the wind, the tension in the bow, even your own posture could tilt and throw the arrow before it was loose. You had to pay attention, watch the movement of the mainsail and foresail, keep abreast of the swinging rigs and keep a steady hand on the rudder at all times. Theon knew the boat also presented him with a rare gift, more than just the pleasure of navigating from the pier to the mouth of the lake. It gave him freedom. On those waves, even surrounded by men loyal to Winterfell who held their own grudges against his homeland, he could feel the freedom. No walls, no gates, just open water.

Departing Torrhen's Square had been heartbreaking, not because the place itself engendered much love from him, though a few of the lowborn sailors had become friends of a sort, but because the water was once again denied to him. Theon had been all too happy when Lord Stark decreed he'd be put under the care of the Manderlys to continue his tutelage. It also allowed Theon to reunite with Bran. The tyke had become more excitable if that was even possible. Never a dull moment with that boy. His ego was buoyed when Bran bragged about his skills with a bow to his gaggle of squire friends.

White Harbor was a hundred times larger than Torrhen's Square. Living there felt like stepping into a foreign land. Snow Step Market rang clear with a dozen languages and people of all colours and kin. Three separate harbors led into the city proper, each overseen by a separate Dock Master. Ships anchored and set sail every day, sometimes it was every hour. Taverns, storehouses, workshops; they stayed open until the last slivers of daylight fled and re-opened at the first rays of dawn. He'd been awestruck. Even more so when the sheer enormity of the city meant that very few recognized or knew him. 

Lord Manderly had received him cordially but quickly handed him off to a trusted man in his service; Ser Bellis Fitt, an older knight sworn to House Manderly. Ser Fitt earned his knighthood as a ship captain, protecting Northern trade interests and fighting pirates in the Narrow Sea. His most distinguishing feature was the bronze, acorn hue of his skin. Theon had seen many Essosi merchants and sailors in his short time at White Harbor. Bran had excitedly explained that many people born across the sea lived here and had for generations. Ser Bellis was the son of a Northern noblewoman and a Braavosi craftsman. His father's line had been sewing sails in the North since the reign of Aegon the Unlikely. His mother was descended from Stormlanders, who left Cape Wrath during the Dance of Dragons. 

Ser Bellis was a stoic man, though he had a soft spot for song and dance. Theon was quartered at his modest house near the eastern harbor. Every day Theon would accompany him as he walked the docks and ensured taxes and dues were paid promptly and correctly by new arrivals. Once every week, Theon was brought to a ship that sailed for the Manderlys, and a bosun would teach him the intricacies of the larger cogs and galleys. These vessels carried crews from as little as 50 souls to 300 or even 400. Sailing them required skills similar to a battlefield commander not a cutter's simple rigging and navigation. Dozens of rowers kept in perfect synchronicity, lookouts and cooks scrambled to finish a list of essential tasks while bowmen and soldiers stood ever-ready for a sudden attack. It took little to sow confusion between the decks and throw the entire vessel out of order.

In his fourth month, Theon was accompanied by Ser Bellis for a short trip away from the city. He was to act as an assistant bosun on a midsized galley that was doing the rounds in The Bite, checking for pirate hideaways and smuggler caches. It was thrilling. 

Music, Theon thought, the working of a well-crewed ship was like a band of bards singing in concert. He smiled from start to finish and even offered to treat Ser Bellis to dinner in a dockside kitchen when they returned to White Harbor.

"Fine, fine. Only if you hold your ale, Theon, I won't make excuses if you sleep through morning rounds," Bellis told him.

Theon pulled off his thick coat, The Bite was never warm, even during Summer. "One drink, I swear. I just need something warm in my belly right now," Theon said as he led them down the pier.

They nearly stepped back into the busy streets when Bellis stopped and shouted: "Ho there! Captain Shellsign!"

Theon turned back and saw his caretaker trod down to the Dock Master's hut. Theon rolled his eyes and dutifully followed. 

He saw a thin man in a thick coat turn around and step entirely out of the hut. Short cut light brown hair laid over thin spindly eyebrows set on an old lean face, and faded patches of scars spread across his wrinkled chin, like he'd fallen into a fire. His hair was a solid colour, but his mustache and sideburns were thick and grey; this man was aged, probably as old as Maester Luwin by his looks. Even from a distance, Theon could see large rings glinting on the man's hands. A short axe hung from his belt, and a dagger stuck out of his boot.

Bellis locked arms with the stranger, though obviously, he was no stranger to the knight himself.

"Shellsign, I thought you were still in Dorne?" Ser Bellis asked.

"You know how things go, Fitt. The tide comes in with one contract, then the tide goes out with another." Shellsign replied. "I had a feeling the man who hired me was in bad favour with some powerful people."

There was a familiar tone to the man's words. A rhythm in his speech rang familiar to Theon's ears.

"I threw his coin back in his face and left Sunspear the same night." Shellsign smirked, "A friend from Wyl says he was brought up on charges by the Martells not two moons later. Found good sport hunting slavers for the Yronwoods in the meantime."

Bellis shook his head, "Where you get your feelings, I'll never know."

Shellsign tapped a fist to his chest, "I've said it before; the Drowned God favours the clever swimmers and drowns the dumb ones."

Theon's eyes grew wide. The voice was familiar because it carried the tones of his home. It had been a point of pride for Theon to never lose his mother tongue. His own voice carried those vowels and rolls.

"Who's your tag-a-long?" The Ironborn Captain asked. "He looks familiar. Don't stand there with your mouth open. You'll catch a tongue of salt."

Shellsign stared hard at Theon, who found words hard to come by. Ser Bellis waited for the young man to introduce himself.

"Do you know your father, boy?" Shellsign questioned.

"Aye," Theon stuttered.

"Was he some poor sellsail in the South?"

Theon frowned, "Why would you think that?"

Shellsign shrugged, "I've killed a lot of piss poor sailors in the South. Sometimes their faces stick in my mind. Thought your father might be one of them."

Theon's pride reared its head, and he stomped forward. He was nearly tall as the old man he was about to threaten.

"I'll have you know, sea dog, that my father is the Lord of the Iron Islands!" Theon grinned toothily, ready for the man to shit his breeches when he realized he'd insulted his liege lord.

Shellsign locked eyes with Theon, "Your Balon Greyjoy's? The idiot's last son?"

Theon stepped back and swallowed, "You'll watch your tongue. I'm the heir to Pyke. Show some proper respect to the Lord Reaper."

"I'll show respect to Balon Greyjoy when he goes to the Drowned God's halls. Him and all his up-jumped fool brothers." Shellsign declared and spit. "Wasting all of what good Lord Quellon gave them. The way I look at it, Balon deserved the sword but got an idiot's mercy instead. You're just lucky the Stag didn't decide your head was a fitting trophy."

Theon's own thoughts were thrown off by the second comment, "Quellon? My grandfather?"

Ser Bessil cut in, eager to avoid a knife fight on the quay, "Theon Greyjoy, this is Captain Harmund Shellsign. He's a frequent visitor in White Harbor, and has more than a few friends here," Bessil warned. "Let’s keep things civil. No need for countrymen to shed blood over strong words."

Shellsign had relaxed. His hand fell away from his belt. "I was a bit hasty," he admitted, "It does me no favors to scorn the blood of my late lord for the actions of another." Captain Harmund held out his arm, "Peace, Theon Greyjoy."

Theon bit his cheek. The last year had done wonders for his own self-control. Apart from the occasional embarrassing episode, like what just happened. This was the first Ironborn he'd met in the North. Their trade ships kept to Dorne and the Stormlands, rarely venturing further north than Cape Kraken. Theon was forbidden from writing to the Islands, so this was his first real chance for news from home.

He stepped forward and joined arms with the Captain. "My insults were misplaced," Theon said. "If you agree, Ser Fitt and I are going to sup nearby. Would you join us?"

"Lead the way," the Captain said.

The trio found a comely tavern near the wharf with enough free space for quiet conversation. Shellsign ordered food and ale while Theon asked for watered-down wine alongside his usual fare. Ser Bessil spoke with the tavern owner; apparently, the man had some issue with late shipments and wanted to get Bessil's opinion. 

Unsure of how to begin, Theon allowed Harmund to take up the burden of speaking first.

"I heard you were a ward of Lord Stark," Harmund said.

Theon took a bite of bread, "I am. Lord Eddard deemed it time I learn the ways of the sea. He's sent me to the Manderlys for the time being. Ser Fitt has been overseeing me." Honesty seemed the best option for now.

Harmund simply nodded and took a bite of his chicken. "Bessil's a smart man. A good knight, even better Captain. He's seen nearly every port in Westeros more than once."

"And you?" Theon asked.

"Am I a good Captain?"

"No, have you seen every port in Westeros? I thought Ironborn ships kept to the South these days."

Harmund frowned, "These days, I suppose they do. Then again, I have the benefit of a long history with most of the ports on the mainland. I've been sailing them since before Robert's Rebellion. A good reputation opens more doors than you'd think."

"Did you fight for my grandfather?" Theon wondered, "During the King's Rebellion?"

Harmund cleaned his hands and blinked hard. "I did. Longer than just in the Rebellion. I was by your grandfather's side during the War of the Ninepenny Kings too."

Theon leaned forward, "Did you know my grandfather? Truly know him?" There was a tone of true familiarity in Harmund's words.

Harmund downed his ale, "I did, since we were boys. You've given your name Greyjoy. It's only fair I give mine." Harmund toasted, "I am Harmund Merlyn, pleasure to meet you."

"Merlyn?" Theon muttered. "As in Merlyn of Pebbleton?"

"The very same. My fat nephew holds court in Pebbleton Tower as we speak." Harmund confirmed.

"Then what are you doing here?" Theon asked.

"What any smart exile does, keeping my coffers full and my life intact."

"You're an exile!" Theon exclaimed.

Harmund smiled wide, "Have been going on fifteen years."

"If that's true, then you never fought for my father." Theon realized.

"No, but I will say I never raised sail against him. I'm no faithless kinslayer." Harmund informed him.

Theon rubbed his cheek, "If you're Lord Merlyn's kin, then that means you're the son of Sigon Merlyn, my great-grand-uncle."

Harmund chuckled, "You know your lineage. My mother was Quellon's aunt. We were cousins. That makes us kin, Theon, for whatever that's worth."

Theon stared blankly at the old man. The first family he'd spoken to since he was a child… and he was a banished exile. He smiled bitterly, "You can't go home. Guess we have that in common."

Harmund set down his food and examined the boy across from him. "If it's worth anything, in a way, I chose my exile. My brother died in the same battle that took your grandfather's life. When we returned to the Islands, I tried to take control of House Merlyn."

"You tried to usurp your nephew's birthright?" Theon clarified.

"The idiot wasn't half the man his father was. I didn't want to let that oaf take the title, nearly succeeded too. But he was on friendly terms with the new Lord Balon, and he whispered in your father's ears about how I was weak. Pointed out how loyal I'd been to Quellon. As if that was some kind of black mark on my soul." Harmund growled. "Then your uncle Aeron became a priest, he added his voice to my nephew's. I could have stayed and fought."

"Why didn't you?" Theon asked.

Harmund refilled his mug and drank.

"I could see the course of the tide. Quellon's ways were discarded by Balon. I decided I didn't want any part of his obsession with the Old Ways. I took my ship and left, thank the Drowned God. Few years later, I'm docked in Volantis when news about the Greyjoy Rebellion arrives." Harmund shook his head.

Theon looked over and saw Ser Fitt had ordered his meal and sat near the door. The knight was leaving them to their conversation. Very kind of him.

"I don't understand," Theon said, "My father was following the Old Way, just like my grandfather."

Harmund squinted, "What were you told about Quellon?"

Theon toyed with his fork, "Not much. My older brothers mentioned how he was strong and tall. They said he died like a true Ironborn, on the sea with a blade in hand… I don't think Father ever talked about him. At least not to me, but I was a child."

Theon rarely spoke about his oldest memories. He was only ten years old when Pyke was attacked. Before that, he recalled spending his time with Asha and their nursemaid. Father rarely spoke with them. His older brothers, Rodrik and Maron, occasionally visited him, but they spent their time lying and playing tricks. They were cruel, especially to Asha. He remembered that very clearly. 

He never said it, but when news came that Rodrik had died at Seagard, he'd been relieved. Theon only learned months after being taken from Pyke that Maron had also died on the battlements. Some said he was crushed by a tower, but Lord Umber claimed one of his men had killed him first. That was all in the past, though. Harmund was right. Lord Quellon was barely mentioned in his memories.

"Of course not. Balon and Victarion thought he was a fool, that he was weakening the Iron Islands," Harmund insisted.

"What did he do?" Theon asked.

Harmund stood up and pulled his stool close to Theon, shoulder to shoulder.

"Quellon had the strength to conquer but the mind to rule," Harmund said. "He looked to history, saw the difference between when the Ironborn were strong and when we were weak. That's why he tried to end the Old Way."

Theon frowned, "End the Old Way? How could that help us? We Do Not Sow. We pay the Iron Price! It's what made the Ironborn a force to be feared."

Harmund kept still, "What is the Old Way, Theon?"

Theon thought back on the earliest of his lessons.

"What you need, you take, with ship and sword. What you want, you take, whether it's coins or women. Ironborn have salt in their blood. We're meant for more than farming and mining. We pay the Iron Price because the Gold Price is paid by lesser men. That's why no one can beat an Ironborn at sea. We are the children of the Drowned God, made fiercer and harder than any other men," Theon recited.

"Did it look that way when King Robert broke through Pyke's walls?" Harmund asked.

Before Theon could respond, Harmund continued: "When were the Iron Islands at their strongest? Who was the last lord to lead our fleet to true glory and bounty?"

"The Red Kraken," Theon responded, "He sacked Lannisport and conquered Kayce and Fair Isle, like the Driftwood Kings of old."

"Dalton Greyjoy ruled for five years before dying in his bed. Then the Lannisters took their vengeance while his salt sons squabbled over his title," Harmund countered.

Theon thought back but could not name anyone outside of folk heroes who made the occasional daring raid.

"When the Targaryens came, they gelded the Ironborn with their claws," Harmund stated.

"The Hoares! They ruled for thousands of years, conquerors who were feared across Westeros, like Harren the Black." Theon pointed out. "Our kingdom stretched from sea to sea."

"The Hoares didn't practice the Old Ways, did they?" Harmund reminded. "They married Andals, lived on the Mainland, forbade reaving, even killed priests."

"Before them, were the Greyirons."

"The Hoares spent their first centuries regaining the power the Greyirons lost. After Torgon Latecomer abolished the Kingsmoot, they couldn't figure out how to overcome Andal castles or beat Andal steel," Harmund lectured. "Even before that, the High Kingship shifted hands like a scalding cup. You can track which Kings tried to build something and which kings wasted those efforts."

Theon felt unbalanced, "I don't understand."

Harmund laid a hand on Theon's shoulder.

"Your father and his brothers, they grew up under Lord Quellon's reign. He made many changes and brought wealth to the islands. He sent reavers away from Westeros, sponsored traders to every port that would take them. With coin and goods flowing back to the islands, he brought Maesters to teach and heal, encouraged his lords to take wives from the mainlands, all to tie us closer to the rest of Westeros. He realized that the wealth of the Hoares was in reach and without having to worry about thrall uprisings or invasions from the Lord Paramounts." 

Harmund paused, his eyes downturned. 

"In those days, a Lord could take a shipload of iron to the Reach, fight pirates in the Stepstones, come back with enough silver to buy a hull's worth of Northern timber and build another ship! Your father and his brothers grew up with great feasts and riches. Rather than realize how hard your grandfather worked, they listened to old men in the taverns who crowed and cawed about the Old Ways, of the Golden Age of the Ironborn. When men had a hundred salt wives each and took thralls and gold with every tide, when mainlanders quaked in fear at the sight of the Kraken and threw their wives to the waves in tribute. Those old fools spoke of a time that never was, that they'd never seen. Only heard about, from other old men. Balon was all too eager to take Quellon's place and replace the New Ways, to go back to tradition."

"What then?" Theon asked. "How did that lead to his rebellion?"

Harmund sank back, "The wealth drained away. No one wants to trade with a slaver and make no mistake, that's what thralls are to the rest of the world. Why give goods and supplies to a captain who'd just as likely kill you a week later? The Westerlands and the Reach have come to the Islands to burn and sack before. They know what the Old Way means. So when Balon started cutting off trade and Ironborn stopped going to Essos, the Kingdoms shut their doors. Balon panicked. After all, this was not the golden age he was promised. He turned to the Drowned God, hoping for some kind of divine solution, some sign. The priests were all too eager to have his ear. Priests always want for power, for Kings to bow and scrape at their feet. Men like Aeron Damphair have never forgotten that holy men crowned the first High King. Balon convinced himself that if he wore a crown, his problems would disappear."

Theon ran a hand through his hair, "That makes no sense. Without the King's peace, we'd have no protection."

Harmund nodded, "Balon thought that if he severed the ties to the Iron Throne, the sheep of the mainland would shriek in terror. That's the poison of the Old Way. It makes men feel like Gods by virtue of sharing a name with dead heroes."

Theon could only stare off, "I guess he learned his lesson at Fair Isle."

"A man like Balon never learns. The Iron Islands are the weakest they've been in centuries." Harmund said.

Theon swallowed thickly, "The Old Way says that mainlanders are lessers, not worth respect."

Harmund squeezed his shoulder, "That's right."

Theon dared not ask what his father would think of him. A boy raised by the Starks, in a castle, with no crew or wealth of his own. It hadn't seemed strange how he was raised. It was similar to Robb, after all. Perhaps that was the worst part. That Theon was brought up like a Greenland heir and not an Ironborn.

"How can I be Lord of a land I don't understand?" Theon asked himself.

He was so intent on his cup of wine he barely noticed Harmund stand up and walk over to Ser Fitt. Their talk was hushed. Harmund passed over a small sack of coin and clasped hands with his old comrade. 

Harmund marched over to Theon, hauled him up by his arm, and hugged him. Theon came out of his fugue long enough to stare at the old man in bewilderment.

"I think you and I have more to talk about. Besides," Harmund laughed as he pulled Theon alongside him out of the tavern. "A Greyjoy should learn to sail from trusted kin, not strangers."

Theon looked back. Ser Fitt was watching them walk away. The knight gave a quick wave and went off toward his home.

"My first mate went and got himself married, and now with his wife expecting he's taken a post in Gulltown, that means I've got a hole in my crew," Harmund explained.

"You want me to be your First Mate?" Theon asked.

Harmund laughed again, his wrinkled cheeks curled. "Maybe not First Mate, apprentice sounds better. Once you've learned your way around the mast, we'll see."

Theon looked down the dock they were on and saw a grand ship swaying in the afternoon breeze. Men swarmed up and off it.

Theon protested: "I can't just go with you! I need Lord Stark's permission."

"Worry not! Ser Fitt will keep his mouth shut, and we'll make port often enough to not raise suspicions. In the meantime, you have a lot to learn." Harmund declared. 

He walked up the gangplank, hopped onto the rail of his foredeck, and threw his arms wide.

"Welcome aboard The Host , my kinsman! She'll be glad to have you!"

Theon stared in shock, then smiled wide and took his first steps onboard.

/////////////

Chapter Text

Overcast skies coloured the world grey. Ned sat on his steed watching a group of riders approach. Three were armoured, the fourth wore a ragged, motley black cloak and his hands were tied to the saddle. A deserter of the Night’s Watch. Caught trying to forage in the Wolfswood. Apparently, he’d come easily. The message mentioned some strange ravings and mumbling. It was not the first deserter Ned had executed, he doubted it would be the last. They proceeded quickly to Head Hill, a clean, solemn place that he preferred for the block. No need for crowds and speeches.

He dismounted and accepted Ice from Jory. The man had grey in his beard, no ears and was missing the pinky on his left hand. Now off the road, he could make out more of the deserter’s words.

“Pale… pale… glass heart… glass hands… blue… so cold… so cold… ice in the heart… white shadow…” The deserter whispered.

In the oldest of the Histories, the written accounts were merely transcriptions of ancient stories and family tales; those words echoed the legends of the White Walkers, of Beorn’s own description of the Others from the Long Night. Ned knew his ancestors had fought something ancient, something terrible. No one builds something like the Wall to fight men in furs. The existence of wargs and greensight proved that the old legends were not completely false, Beron’s tales of Giants atop mammoths in the deep North were further proof. Ned himself had felt the magic of the weirwoods, in the tomb of Bran the Builder when his blood and words opened a gate of roots.

The truth behind the legend of Bran had turned Ned into a believer. The son of a First Man King and a Child of the Forest. Bran the Builder, the first Greenseer, who had united Westeros and fought for twenty years against the Others. In some places memories ran long, and who was he to deny them?

He could still recite the vows he’d taken before the Builder’s crypt: “When the Wall shakes and kings cry, the Walkers shall claim all our lives. Take heart in each other, let no creed shatter your ties. The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.”

Not to mention the strange vision he’d seen afterwards. The old man who called him Ien Fer Ulf , Wolf Father, called him “the turning point.” That had not been a warning to pass down for some future generation, that had the air of foresight and prophecy. He’d been commanded to rule wisely and to look to the Wall when winter came.

Three years had passed since that night in the Godswood. Ned had tried his best to rule wisely and strengthen the North. It had been easy to push concerns about ancient ice demons to the side when practical concerns arose. Now though, Ned was thinking more and more on the long summer, and the long winter he knew would follow. He would need to speak with Beorn on the matter when he returned with Jon.

Ned set Ice aside and knelt by the deserter. He knew not if the man understood the Old Tongue, but even young Rickon could be calmed by it after nightmares.

“ Frethr, frethr, Skildva ,” Ned said. “What is your name?”

The shivering hands and quaking breaths calmed, steadied. Looking up from the ground, the Watchman seemed to find clarity.

“Gared,” he answered.

“What is your last request?” Ned asked.

The deserter exhaled a deep breath that seemed to mist the air between them.

“Godswood,” the oathbreaker muttered, “Godswood.”

Ned ordered a minor detour. He knew there was a small Godswood closer to Castle Cerwyn. They made good time and arrived there just before sundown. His guards sternly directed the deserter to his knees before a heart tree bearing a sad face.

The deserter made his first motion of his own volition. His hand crept up to his collar and pulled off a small necklace. His trembling had ceased, shoulders relaxed. Gared looked at Ned and held the necklace out. Ned took it. A simple leather cord adorned with a small, dull pearl.

The Lord of Winterfell motioned and Gared was bent over the stump. Ned raised Ice and tensed. Before the blade descended, Gared shut his eyes and spoke, loudly and clearly. 

“Winter is coming,” the deadman pronounced.

Ice fell, a head rolled and vibrant blood watered the weirwood. A shudder ran through Ned’s spine and he felt the wind churn. 

Gared’s body was wrapped. He’d be burned and his ashes sent to the Wall for Commander Mormont. Turning back to Winterfell, Ned was thankful his own children would be returning soon. Robert was set to arrive in two weeks. It would be good to have his home full again.

//////////////

A fine brown horse trotted up the road. A young boy sat confidently in it’s saddle, running along his coat were small wolf designs. He smiled and looked down the King’s Road, there within sight was the tall walls of his home.

“Careful, Lord Bran!” a man shouted.

Bran looked back to see the large form of Ser Wylis Manderly, the Heir of White Harbor. Ser Wylis and his fellow knights were rushing to catch up to him. Bran knew he was supposed to stay close, but he was too anxious. It’d been nearly a year since he visited home and now he was back to stay! Dutifully waiting, Bran twisted the reins in his hands. One of the men unfurled the Direwolf banner Father had sent with him and at last Bran arrived home.

Winterfell was just as he remembered it. The castle paused to take notice of the new arrivals. Bran jumped from his saddle and rushed into his mother’s arms. Catelyn embraced her son tightly. She also put a hand out to give Summer his own fair share of attention.

A delighted scream from the Keep heralded Rickon and Shaggy’s entrance. Bran answered dozens of questions while Summer and Shaggy roughhoused in reunion. Father came from the Godswood and joined in the embrace. Bran was so excited he ran out of breath trying to shove words through his mouth. He finally calmed down enough to realize he’d broken some very important manners.

“Father, Mother, may I present Lord Wylis Manderly,” Bran belatedly introduced.

The Merman’s son was gracious and forgiving. He traded pleasantries with Father, made arrangements for Bran’s baggage, and went off to arrange his quarters.

With his breath back, Bran talked his parents’ ears off about all things he’d seen and done. After his tenth name-day, Lord Wyman declared he was big enough to begin riding the larger horses. He’d even been given his first lance. Live steel was still a ways off. He’d made a dozen new friends, many of them squires, many of them Manderlys. Father looked satisfied that he’d been treated well. He spoke until well after dinner. As night neared, Bran pulled up the courage to ask another question, a more serious question.

“Mother… am I going to marry Wylla?” Bran asked.

Mother blinked, glanced to Father, then back to him.

“My dear,” she smiled, “that’s nothing to be worrying about right now.”

Bran bit his lip, “But everyone else is getting married, why not me?”

“Rickon isn’t betrothed,” Father pointed out.

“Rickon’s a baby!” Bran pointed out.

His mother brushed his hair back and forth. A familiar, comforting gesture.

“Nothing is set in stone yet, son,” Father told him. “You’re our fourth-born, that means we have more time to find a wife for you.”

Bran frowned, “Alright.”

“Are you happy being Lord Wylis’ squire?” Mother asked.

Bran smiled wide, “It’s very fun, I’m learning a lot. Though I did want to ask if I could go south and see a real tourney. The Manderlys hold just small contests.”

Mother laughed, “One day we’ll go down to Riverrun, or perhaps to the Vale, and see a truly grand tourney.”

Bran hugged his parents and revelled in the warmth of Winterfell.

//////////////

The next day Arya arrived back in a clatter of hooves and shouts. She and Gawain were halfway to racing through Winterfell’s main gate. Dacey Mormont and Galbart Glover followed in their wake at a more sedate pace.

Arya herself had not one but three wolves nipping at her heels. Berena was large enough to tumble with her siblings but the two normal wolves with her had to be careful. Ned himself saw Berena chase off Shaggy when he decided Verros and Aira would make good playmates. Green Eyes and Maw thankfully accommodated their presence.

Catelyn had gone wide-eyed at her daughter's dress, for it was a dress. Arya was decked out in Mormont-style clothing. Thick fur cloak over a heavy hide skirt with sturdy boots and a simple but well-adorned corset. Her hair was pulled back with elegant bronze and iron clasps. Around her wrist was a silver bracelet, with slight impressions of a gauntlet, a gift from Lady Sybell for her last name day. Catelyn admitted the style suited Arya much better than the typical gowns and oils she and Sansa preferred.

There was a very teary reunion. Arya had seemed less eager to return from Deepwood Motte, though she had frequently sent letters and Catelyn had travelled to visit her there at the turn of the new year. Still, having her back in Winterfell proper was a comfort.

It was also reassuring to see Arya and Gawain were good friends. Arya was still young and excitable, but Catelyn found her daughter was not so resistant to ceremony or the duties of a Lady. Sybell’s daughter, Erena, featured prominently in Arya’s stories. She and Gawain had been glued to the child for months, fascinated by every new feat or achievement. She’d even been proud to show off a stitching she’d added to her own cloak; a lining of tiny wolves and a girl running.

The next morning, Arya had joined Catelyn in the sewing room. Her wild child had hesitantly unveiled a secret gift. A wonderful fur shawl and across the back, Arya had painstakingly embroidered a trout jumping over Winterfell.

“Now no one can forget that you’re the Lady of the North,” Arya proclaimed.

Arya’s grand smile was swiftly replaced with worry when Catelyn burst into joyful tears.

//////////////

Sansa’s absence from Winterfell was much shorter. She’d gone to visit Smalljon Umber at Last Hearth with Jeyne and Beth Cassel. It had been an interesting few weeks, getting to know Smalljon and his relatives. Sansa had been impressed by her future home. Last Hearth was as giant as its Lords, set upon a high crag overlooking the woods around it. She’d done her best to learn it’s way and patterns, like how she now knew Winterfell’s. Time would tell how happy she would be there, but as the seat of the Umber’s since times unknown, it did not lack comfort or safety. Smalljon, his aunt-by-marriage, Sherl, and great-uncle Mors returned to Winterfell with her.

Outside of official duties, Sansa had absorbed many new songs and dances from the residents of Last Hearth. Upon her arrival back home, she presented Bran with a new poem called “ The Wolf Knight ”, for Arya she gifted a painting (a recent hobby) of Berena and Lady standing together on a mountain top, overlooking a field of blue roses. Her gifts for Father and Mother weren’t ready yet, she was waiting for Maester Luwin’s help on researching the history of the Tully’s before the Andal Invasion. For now she was swept up with tasks helping the castle prepare for the King’s arrival.

//////////////

Robb’s arrival came with as much fanfare. Only a quick visit after the battles with the Brookbirths was all the heir of Winterfell had, in his three years gone. No one could quite believe how much he’d grown. His betrothed Alys Karstark and her brother Eddard had come as well. 

Eddard and Dacey Mormont were in the earliest stages of their own betrothal. With their homes so far apart, their parents had agreed to an official meeting between the prospective pair in Winterfell, under the watchful eyes of Lord and Lady Stark.

The eldest son of the Starks was overjoyed to see his siblings again. He spent his time riding with Bran and Arya, playing with Rickon in the Keep, and describing all he’d seen and heard to Sansa.

Robb had also taken the time to meet privately with his father, to inform him about the sudden decline in Wildling raids coming past the Wall. Worrying news, that had to be put aside for the duration of the royal visit.

//////////////

Ned paced nervously in his solar. From the latest ravens, Robert had crossed the Neck and passed through Moat Cailin, their arrival was imminent. Winterfell was about to host the first King since Jaehearys The Wise and Jon was still absent. He wanted to have no surprises or unexpected turns. He already ordered for the Ironborn prisoners to be moved to Torrhen’s Square.

A knock on his door revealed Robb smiling widely, “Jon’s arrived!”

The whole family assembled in the courtyard. Green Eyes had been restless for days, barely tolerating anyone except Catelyn. Maw and Crag had kept well away, while the pups remained with the children.

A cry from the battlement heralded riders cantering in. Ned recognized Beorn immediately, the man had grown a beard but looked healthy otherwise. Behind him was a woman, he guessed it was Beorn’s sister by their shared features. Bringing up the rear was Jon and a woman. All four wore green cloaks.

Jon dismounted and led his party forward, “Lord Stark, I have returned.” His son gravely declared as he bowed.

Ned stepped forward and pulled him close, “I’m glad to have you back, Jon.”

Jon returned his embrace and whispered, “We must talk later, I have grave news.”

His other children then dragged Jon away into a pile. Ghost likewise barreled forward into his packmates kicking up dirt as they ran into the Godswood.

Ned looked to his other guests and clasped hands with Beorn. “Welcome back to Winterfell, cousin.”

“It’s good to be back, my lord. Hopefully, I’m here to stay.” Beorn said. “Let me introduce you to my sister, Mari Skytongue.”

Mari approached with all courtesy and manners, someone had taken care to teach her the ways of high borns.

“Lord Stark, it is truly an honour,” Mari said.

“The honour is mine. I’m always happy to welcome distant family home. I hope you’ll consider this a safe haven for you and yours,” Ned responded.

Mari smiled and followed Beorn to be introduced to Catelyn and the other Starks. Awkwardly, that left Ned face to face with the striking blonde woman who was looking about with confusion. Beneath her green cloak was well-worn travel clothes and a wicked knife at her side.

“And you are, my lady?” Ned asked.

“Val,” she curtly replied.

Jon broke from Arya and Bran’s chatter to come to the rescue. He walked forward and gently rubbed Val’s arm while whispering in her ear. Ned watched Val visibly untense and then bow shallowly.

“Jon, would you introduce us?” Ned asked.

“Of course, Father, this is Val, Val this my father, Lord Eddard Stark, Warden of the North,” Jon introduced.

Very quickly all four of them were brought into the Great Hall to offer Mari and Val bread and salt. They had ridden hard from White Harbor. As they shed their cloaks to sit, Bran pointed to Jon’s belt and exclaimed: “You have a mask like Beorn!”

Arya leaped up, “Are you a Shepherd, Jon?”

Jon glanced at Beorn and Mari, “I suppose I am,” he admitted.

Ned leaned back, he was surprised but not nearly as shocked as the rest of the table.

“Jon has proven himself to not just The Great Shepherd but a great many others,” Beorn complimented. “Before we left Skagos your son was granted his mask. There’s not much ceremony involved in becoming a Shepherd, simply elders willing to vouch for you. Jon had many who spoke for him, he has made a good name for himself on the island.”

Ned smiled brightly at Jon, who tried his best to hide his blush. Dinner was full of laughter and stories. The children had dozens of questions and accomplishments to share with Beorn. Sansa and Robb drew Mari into conversation, Ned was glad they were taking the initiative to include her.

That night, Ned and Jon met in his solar. The fire was low and the wine was warm. Ned took in Jon, the strength in his shoulders, the lack of stress in his cheeks, the scars on his forehead. Skagos was a unique place by Jon’s tales. Wild in both its nature and people, though there seemed to have been some development since the rebellion of the Stone King in centuries past.

“...and then the voice spoke from my throat and declared the pact had been witnessed,” Jon finished recounting his harrowing tale.

Ned refilled their goblets and took time to absorb it all. Wildlings, or Free Folk he supposed, uniting together. A hundred thousand men, women and children, willing to face the wrath of the Starks all to get south. Even the Kings-Beyond-The-Wall like the Horned King or Bael the Bard had brought warriors south, not their families and livestock. Led by a deserter of the Night’s Watch, who doubtlessly would share the weakness of his old brotherhood. Ned knew that at the moment the Watch’s greatest defense was the sheer obstacle of the Wall, but less than a thousand men would inevitably fall. Especially, against an enemy fighting for their existence.

The Others, White Walkers, the whispers of the deserter Gared had not been hollow after all. Were they already marching? If Rayder was to be believed then the abominations had started creating wights, those desecrations of the dead. According to Jon, the Shepherds had begun mobilising en masse, messages were already being sent. The smallfolk would not wait for the Lords to realize danger approached, he knew from the books that often the Shepherds would begin the preparations for winter.

The Citadel liked to believe they alone could predict the turning of the seasons. As if the smallfolk were blind and deaf to the ways of the world. Ned would need to consult the Histories and visit the local villages and holdfasts. He could clearly remember his grandfather joking that a Maester would need three weeks and a ream of calculations to determine when a river would flood where a farmer would need a yardstick and an old story.

“Father, what about the Child’s commands?” Jon asked.

A fair question. What was the Three-Eyed Crow? Whose responsibility was it to free it? Mance Rayder? Jon and Ned? Moreover, how could he convince the Night’s Watch, let alone his Lords, to allow the Wildlings south?

“What bothers me most is the reference to the King in the North,” Ned admitted.

Jon stared into the fire, “Could it mean King Robert?”

“Perhaps,” Ned murmured.

“I could leave for the Wall right away-” Jon began.

“No. I need you close by, Robb may need your support while I’m away from the castle.” Ned explained.

Jon wanted to argue, but conceded in the end.

“How will you explain Mari and Beorn? Someone will notice the similarities between them and us.” Jon pointed out.

Ned leaned over to his side table and pulled out a small sheaf of paper, bearing a detailed family tree of House Stark. Ned pointed to Berena Stark’s name beside their own ancestor Willam Stark. New lines had been added below her, connecting her to Beorn’s Great-Grandfather, Kols, then to Torrhen and finally Mari and Beorn. They had all been labeled under House Wolftongue.

“I’ll say that there had been a rift between our families that I mended after the Rebellion. No one will question some Stark cousins from near the Bay of Seals,” Ned said. “What we may need to explain is Val’s presence.”

Jon was again flustered. He cleared his throat and wiped his forehead.

“Technically… I married her?”

Ned lost grip on his goblet and wine spilled in his lap. As his son rushed to grab some kind of cloth, the Lord of Winterfell could only lament how little sleep he would be getting that night.

//////////////

Chapter Text

Jon was married to a wildling. At least according to their customs. A Stark married to a Wildling. It sounded like a bad tavern tune, or perhaps Bael the Bard’s revenge from beyond. 

That was uncharitable, Val was pleasant and cordial. It was evident she found Winterfell strange, though she was coping better than he’d imagined. Naturally, he told Cat. His wife’s first thought had been of fear. Could this woman be trusted in their home? Val had accepted Guest Right, so it was unlikely. Not to mention, she was Mance Rayder’s good-sister. Her presence did confirm the King-Beyond-The-Wall was committed to his oath. Sending kin to the heart of his historical enemy was a bold statement, even if none other than Ned knew it. Luckily, their other guests assumed that Val was either a Shepherd, or a companion of Mari’s from Skagos.

It had been awkward when he escorted Jon back to his chambers, only to find her curled up under his son’s furs. He permitted Jon to stumble through an explanation. Val returned to her shared bedroom with Mari. His son promised that even if she returned later, he would send her away. A valiant oath from a young man, and unfortunately one Ned didn’t quite believe.

The revelations shared in Ned’s solar were put to the side at the first sight of the crowned stag on the horizon. The visitors from the South numbered well over 700. Ned had thankfully prepared for this. When they came up the King’s Road, Lord Cerwyn met them and took the reins of organizing the labourers and their families. They’d be sorted by trade. Most of the families and craftsmen would be sent on to Wintertown, while the labourers would join the existing camps near the canal.

Guards in Baratheon, Arryn and Lannister colours marched through the courtyard, the stag and falcon flags outnumbered the lions. Behind them came a modest carriage house decorated in the blue livery of House Arryn. More steeds rounded the corner and Ned beheld his friend and foster brother.

Robert was bigger, that was of note considering at Pyke he’d already outgrown his armour from the Trident. Now the Protector of the Realm struggled to dismount from his horse, puffing and huffing once his feet met the ground. Ned also saw the broad and tall figure of Stannis Baratheon. Unlike his brother, Stannis showed very little expression and was armoured, not clothed in silk. Four of the Kingsguard followed in their wake, led by the Kingslayer and Ser Barristan. The rest had remained in King’s Landing with the Queen and her younger children. In between the servants making to and fro, Ned spotted Tyrion Lannister as well.

Ned rose from his knees and laughed at Robert’s jokes, pleased that good humor had not fled with the man’s muscles. Prince Joffrey walked over and made his own introductions. A polite enough boy, took after his mother. He saw the prince shirk back after lingering by Sansa, he must have caught sight of Smalljon behind her.

Out of the carriage stepped Jon Arryn, in the flesh. Ned couldn’t stop himself from walking forward.

“Lord Hand! Jon!” Ned said.

“Eddard, look at you! Going grey?” Jon joked.

“Soon enough, I’m sure,” Ned replied.

Lady Lysa and the young Robert Arryn also emerged. Ned frowned when the heir of the Vale stuck tight to his mother, shaking slightly when Ned kneeled to introduce himself. Lysa herself gave the barest of pleasantries, she barely even looked at Cat. Lady Arryn’s attention was on someone else, Ned glimpsed another figure in the crowd. His cloak had many small birds across it and he bore a small pointed beard. That would be the Master of Coin, Baelish.

“The journey was comfortable?” Ned asked his foster father.

“Rough in some places, travelling by ship would have been more comfortable,” Jon Arryn told him, “Though it was pleasant to see the countryside. Getting out of the Red Keep is always a relief. It is good to see you, Ned, please let me meet your children.”

Quickly stable hands were making room in the courtyard for the last of their arrivals. Men in the distinctive chainmail of the Riverlands bearing banners of House Tully. Ser Brynden Tully himself rode in and dismounted with ease. The Blackfish waited for the last wheelhouse to come to a stop. A Maester and numerous attendants brought forth a litter and with great care Hoster Tully, Lord Paramount of the Riverlands, was placed in it. Ned knew that his good-father had taken ill, but rumors did no justice to Lord Tully’s state. Swathed in his pillows, his face was thin and his thin hair was bright white.

Ned guided the litter back to his family. Cat was in tears at the sight of her once strong father. A light entered Hoster’s eyes when he beheld his grandchildren who he eagerly talked with and complimented. Hoster seemed particularly overjoyed to meet Bran and Arya, who reminded him greatly of Catelyn and Edmure as children. Lysa remained distant, having gravitated with her scant few maids to Baelish’s side. Robert’s patience ran out and he demanded to see the crypts.

The next few days were a flurry of activity. Robert insisted on drinking, feasting and hunting in excess. Ned noticed how little Jon Arryn and Stannis attempted to stop this behaviour, instead they seemed to focus on matters of the throne. A backlog of letters had arrived in Winterfell, waiting for royal attention. While Robert requested Ned’s presence more often than not, there were a few times where they could have a serious conversation. The King had revealed his dissatisfaction with Cersei, made it quite clear with words and actions. He and Robert had taken another walk through the castle, this time Robert wished to see the Godswood. They found Beorn and Mari brushing the children up on their Old Tongue. Robert had smiled at Arya and Bran’s mischief.

“You’ve got quite the family, Ned,” Robert remarked. “I kept meaning to ask who those two were?” He motioned to Beorn and Mari, he frowned and leaned close, “They’re too old to be yours, are they Brandon’s bastards?”

Ned grimaced, that was not a rumor he wanted spreading. “Nay, they’re my cousins from House Wolftongue.”

“Never heard of them.”

“A small House near the Bay of Seals. One of my great-grand-aunts married the heir. My grandfather never liked them. They reached out when I returned from King’s Landing.” Ned explained.

“And they’re teaching your children?” Robert asked.

“They still receive a normal education, but House Wolftongue is very in tune with Northern customs, old customs. Beorn himself is well traveled and his father, Torrhen, has been across the North.”

Robert seemed confused by it all. Ned wondered if he ever thought of the old customs of the Stormlands, of his Durrandon blood. Perhaps he avoided those ideas because they led to his other blood, the Targaryen lineage of his grandmother and ancestors. They moved on, preparing for a hunt in the Wolfswood. That night, once they had a few carcasses to roast, Robert retreated into his cups and Ned sat with Jon Arryn and Stannis.

“I hope Winterfell has been welcoming to you, my lords.” Ned said.

Stannis gave a small nod, while Jon smiled and toasted, “In every way possible. You have quite a home here, Ned.”

Ned tapped his goblet with Jon. “I wished to thank both of you for your contribution to the canal.”

Stannis pushed aside his empty plate, “I was most intrigued by your endeavor, Lord Stark. I understand we’ll be going to visit the site soon.”

“I’m glad you think so. It’s coming along at a good pace. There were some stumbles at the beginning, I’ll not lie. Thankfully, the ground is still soft enough to dig and once our methods were sorted, work proceeded in earnest,” Ned elaborated. “With the stone and mortar from the Vale, we can begin the last phase of the project. In a few weeks, we’ll break the dam on the White Knife, open the Axe Lock, and fill the canal.”

Jon Arryn hummed to himself, “I must wonder, Ned, a canal is all well and good, but what are you actually going to do with it?”

“Saw mills!” Ned excitedly told them. “We’ve already seen there will be enough room on the waterway to put four, maybe five, new mills. Lord Tallhart and I have mapped out a rough road to stretch from the canal tip to Torrhen’s Square. Merchants from the west will be able to partage their goods from the port there, up the short road, and onto a river boat bound south for White Harbor.”

The Lords were suitably impressed. Stannis was paying great attention, asking about figures and time tables.

“What do you plan to do with the extra income, Lord Stark?” Stannis asked.

Ned smirked and quaffed his ale, “Nothing exciting I’m afraid. Canals and roads, my lord, canals and roads.”

That earned a loud laugh from Jon Arryn, and the three of them enjoyed an evening of intent conversation. Though after talk threaded into military matters, Ned failed to notice his guests shared a number of grave stares.

///////////

A smaller party left Winterfell two days later. Ned escorted Robert, Jon Arryn and Stannis into the Wolfswood. The labourer’s camp was spread out across an old pasture just south of Winterfell. The men were in good spirits at the King’s arrival. The Lords were suitably impressed by the large trench that now ran west through the ground. The excavated earth was being taken bit by bit down to the Neck. Lord Reed was putting the soil to use, shoring up the foundations of Moat Cailin and Greywater Watch.

One unforeseen complication had been the issue of faith. Many of the workers and craftsmen, being from the Riverlands and Crownlands, were concerned about lacking a Sept to pray in. The Manderlys had few enough Septons and Septas on hand, that he couldn’t ask them to spare one. Ned had called upon Chayle, the former Septon of Winterfell. Chayle had given up his vows and was now married to Lyann, a tanner from Wintertown, with two children of his own. Regardless, Chayle had agreed to make regular visits to the camp and Cat had permitted the altars in their Sept to be moved to a temporary church nearby.

Loads of stone and mortar had been brought up from the White Knife and Ned felt a surge of pride when the first slab was carefully set into the canal wall and Robert led a great cheer. Ser Barristan was even impressed, a rare expression from a knight who had served Kings his whole life.

Before they were set to return back, Ned called the Lords together, away from the ears of their escort.

“What’s this about, Ned?” Robert grumbled.

Ned laid his hand on the King’s shoulder, “I’m sorry to say I had another reason for bringing you away from the castle. There’s something I must show you, at Torrhen’s Square.”

Stannis gripped his belt and frowned, “What could possibly warrant such secrecy?”

“Did any word reach you about brigands on the Stony Shore?” Ned asked.

Robert appeared clueless but Jon Arryn broke his silence, “Some rumors reached us in the Riverlands. Lord Brynden mentioned merchants seeing smoke along the coast.”

“One of the Lords we dined with, House Condon I think, told us you had ridden out with Lord Ryswell and put the bandits to the sword,” Stannis added.

Robert guffawed and slapped Ned hard on the back, “Good on you, Ned!”

“It’s true. Unfortunately, these were no armed beggars,” Ned revealed, “They were Ironborn.”

That silenced Robert’s laughter. All the Lords were now deadly serious.

“You have proof?” Jon Arryn pressed.

“In Torrhen’s Square,” Ned replied.

Robert turned on the spot and called for his horse, “Then let’s get a move on!”

They rode hard farther west, a message was sent back to Winterfell to inform them of their detour. House Tallhart was ready with quarters and food. Ned could see Robert’s rage growing as the hours passed.

Promptly, they were guided to a closed warehouse by the docks. With guards keeping the perimeter clear, Tallhart men pulled the warehouse doors open, revealing the single surviving Ironborn ship from the raid. Robert swore and marched forward, Stannis’ eyes crawled over the hull and Jon Arryn was cradling his head.

“Fuckin’ krakens! I should have gutted Balon in his throne room and sent his lords to the gallows,” Robert raged.

Jon Arryn walked up to Stannis, “What say you, Master of Ships?”

Stannis laid a hand along the hull, knocked his palm on one of the planks, pulled out a small knife and scraped at a visible metal fixture. His scowl, somehow, deepened.

“It is Ironborn. I have little doubt,” Stannis announced.

Ned broke in, “We took over two dozen prisoners in the battle. Lord Tallhart has them under guard for you to question.”

Robert spat, “I don’t need some squid-lackey’s whimpers. Say the word, Ned! I’ll bring my warhammer, you bring Ice, and we’ll scour those gods-forsaken islands!”

Ned mostly ignored the King, his moods came quickly and rashly. He kept his attention on Jon Arryn and Stannis. If Robert’s visit demonstrated anything, it was that delicate governance of the realm was firmly out of his dear friend’s hands.

“The Royal Fleet isn’t mustered, that will take time, and I doubt Lord Redwyne will be keen on sending men and ships to another war,” Stannis said.

Jon Arryn shook his head, “Perhaps a royal emissary should be sent, Balon can be managed with a suitable threat.”

“They were taking lumber, my lords,” Ned informed them, “according to some of the prisoners, there have been similar ships sent to isolated parts of the Reach. I’m unsure why these men were ordered to take and burn.”

Robert’s wroth grew to new heights, his face was flushed and his stomach shook with each heavy breath. “The cunt’s rebuilding his worthless fleet. Where’s the Greyjoy heir? Theon, was it? Maybe his head will put the Squid Lord back in his place.”

Ned knew the option would be presented. Theon had been under his roof for almost a decade. He’d never allowed himself to open up the boy. Even when Robb had convinced him to tailor Theon’s education to more serious ends. In the back of his mind, Ned had always acknowledged that one day he might put Theon’s neck across the block. By all laws and treaties, Theon’s fate was now sealed, regardless of Balon’s complicity with the raiding.

“Theon Greyjoy is being hosted in White Harbour, the boy is learning the ways of the sea,” Ned said.

“We left Payne back in King’s Landing, someone else will need to step in as executioner,” Stannis commented.

Ned felt compelled to pounce on the opportunity before him, “Theon might be more valuable to us alive, especially now.”

Three of the most powerful men in the Seven Kingdoms turned to him. Ned projected calm in his tone, reminding himself that he was counted among their number.

“If Balon Greyjoy has been breaking the peace for years, then it’s obvious neither he nor his lords care for Theon’s life. Balon has two brothers who could be named heir instead. We know so little about the Iron Islands, perhaps Balon himself has remarried or fathered a bastard. If he was truly desperate, his daughter’s husband could take the name Greyjoy. His life is now forfeit to the Crown, but his son may yet be raised into an ally,” Ned said.

Stannis was disgusted with the idea. Jon Arryn adopted a thoughtful expression. Robert’s rage was ebbing away, a look of grief overtaking it.

“I’m sorry, Ned. You’re people have suffered for this disobedience,” Robert said. The King spread his hands, and Ned’s hopes proved true, “I have failed you, my friend. How can the Crown repay this affront?”

The day that Robert arrived, Ned had been forced to fend off his betrothal offers. Sansa’s engagement was too far gone to be cancelled and the North would not idly accept another Southern Lady for Winterfell, no matter how well they liked Catelyn. With marriages off the table, some other gesture needed to be put forward.

“Perhaps…” Ned paused, making sure to appear deep in thought. “If there is war with the Ironborn, the North will need more supplies, more food. The Saltspear and The Rill River have no defences and much farmland lay beside them. Some Lords have come to me, and my father before, about the lands in the New Gift that lay fallow, untouched by the Night’s Watch.”

It was the perfect bait for Robert. Ned smothered the guilty spark in his heart, and ignored the looks from Jon Arryn. 

The King slapped his knee, “A fitting prize. Fucking Targaryens offered the land without asking anyways, typical. Let it be known my dynasty doesn’t take from its friends.”

“Your Grace, the Night’s Watch was granted those lands by royal decree,” Jon Arryn said.

Robert threw his hands up, “If the Watch are doing fuck all with it, then why not return it? I’d rather honest and loyal lords were fed than see it go to waste.”

Jon Arryn must have seen something in Robert’s posture, or perhaps in his tone, that Ned did not recognize. The Hand of the King blinked a few times before his shoulders slumped. Robert smiled at the lack of resistance. Ned wondered if Jon reserved his energy for arguments of greater import.

“And who shall rule this new territory?” Jon asked, “Will it be divided among the nearby Houses?”

“Fuck that,” Robert interjected, “Ned and his blood deserve a reward for all their service.”

Ned bowed, “Our blood was given willingly, I only think of my people.”

Jon Arryn spoke again: “Land that harsh, and so far north will not be easily reclaimed. Especially with the Wildlings close by.”

“As I understand it, Lord Stark, you have two younger sons. Could one of them be given the New Gift?” Stannis asked.

Ned shook his head, “Their futures are unclear. I know Lord Hoster has spoken of granting Bran a holdfast in the Riverlands.”

Jon Arryn nodded, “A wise suggestion.”

“Rickon is practically still in the cradle. Truthfully, I had hoped for my youngest to inherit a rebuilt Moat Cailin. For too long has the fortress laid in disrepair,” Ned informed them.

“Bah! Politics!” Robert dismissed, his eyes seemed clear but he’d had his own fair share of wine with his luncheon. “Hah!” Robert smiled, wide and excited, almost like a young boy. “Your bastard, Ned! Why not raise him up? He looks a strong lad, he’s got your look to him. If he’s got those Wolflip cousins nearby then all the better.”

“Your Grace, you can’t go legitimising bastards as you please,” Stannis objected.

Robert scowled, “I wouldn’t insult Cat like that! The boy can start his own branch. Give him some new name, Snowstark maybe, haha!”

Ned stood there baffled. This was far beyond any guesses or anticipated responses. He’d expected the land would be granted back to his House and from there he could begin that long process of determining its new structure. If Hoster was serious about a place for Bran in the Riverlands, it would cement ties with North for generations to come. Likewise, Moat Cailin was a keystone to the North, trade, armies and news, all made their way through the Neck and Rickon would become House Stark’s representative among the coastal families. With Sansa as the Lady of Last Hearth and a Karstark as Lady of Winterfell, the northern region was firmly behind them, there was little need for anyone closer to the Wall. His first instinct was to reject the idea, but then the thought of Jon being so close to the Wildlings, and the Mountain Clans gave him pause. His hesitation cost him. Robert stomped out of the warehouse, apparently fed up with the business of ruling for the day.

“It’s decided then! I’ll not have your namesake be some pitiful sworn sword, Jon. Make sure the papers are in place by the end of our visit. We’ll announce it before we depart. Ned! Let’s find ourselves some of that honey mead the Imp was gloating about; we need to celebrate your son’s new title!”

The Lord of Winterfell, Hand of the King, and Master of Ships were left standing in the dark all vaguely shocked and frustrated. 

Ned sighed and began to follow when Jon’s voice stopped him: “Ned, let Robert find his own entertainment, we’ll join him shortly.”

Their trio walked deeper into the warehouse, to the aft of the ship, well away from the doors and any eavesdroppers.

“There is a most pressing matter we must speak to you about, Lord Stark. The reason why I joined my brother’s journey north,” Stannis whispered.

“A great matter,” Jon added.

In the fading light of the day, Ned was told in detail of treachery of the highest order. The Queen cuckolding the King was shocking enough, the fact that she had passed off her incestuous children as true born was nearly too insane to believe. The two Lords’ evidence was strong, more than just the likeness of the children, they had witnesses to strange behaviour, centuries of lineage records, a timeline of Tommen’s birth that coincided with Robert’s movements during the Greyjoy Rebellion but also the Kingslayer’s late departure from the Red Keep to join the royal forces. It was terribly plausible, and that fact alone was a threat to Robert’s reign. At the moment, House Baratheon was smaller than House Stark by a ridiculous margin. Three grown men and one young girl.

“What’s to be done?” Ned wondered.

“I will depart the North by ship from White Harbor,” Stannis explained, “Men and ships are being gathered at Dragonstone. From there, I’ll join Lord Arryn in King’s Landing with enough troops to seize the city from the Redcloaks and the City Watch.” 

“The City Watch?”

“Yes, Ned. Janos Slynt, their commander, is on someone’s payroll, but we know not who. He has the favour of the Queen, which makes him difficult to replace. We cannot be certain Lannister gold will not bring him to their side,” Jon said.

Ned resisted the urge to pull at his hair, “Lord Tywin will not accept this easily.”

“That is why we need your support, Ned,” Jon told him, “If the Old Lion decides to fight, we need the North and the Riverlands to put him back in his place.”

“You have it, my lords, be assured and hold no doubts, you have my support,” Ned declared. “I must stress, the children cannot be harmed. Tywin will not, cannot, bow to terms if his grandchildren are slain.”

“What of the Queen and the Kingslayer?” Stannis said, “Would you have them spared as well?”

“Ser Jamie can be sent to the Watch, his sister to the Septs. What is most important is their confessions. These accusations are words on wind to any who would seek Lannister favour, we need their confessions to legally prove the affair. Even if none truly believe it, they will have less cause to reject the accusations entirely,” Ned suggested.

Stannis gave a begrudging nod. Jon was grinning proudly.

“Wise counsel, Ned,” Jon complimented.

Their impromptu council ended. His fellow conspirators, for that was what they were, followed Robert back to Sentinel Hall. They made quick arrangements for the Ironborn prisoners to be sent to Dragonstone. Robert was halfway through a mug with a blushing maid in his lap. Ned resolved himself to another tiring night.

Hoster would need to be informed. The Riverlands couldn’t be drawn into war with the Westerlands at a moment’s notice. His good-father must be prepared. Ned would visit a Godswood and pray that Stannis and Jon’s plans were successful. 

He had seen enough men die over that damn throne.

//////////////

Chapter Text

Robb was going to buy Sansa an entire range of paints from White Harbor, maybe he’d order some new jewelry, even commission a new harp. He was certain that without his gracious sister, Robb would have torn out his Tully-red hair and taken Grey Wind into the woods for an extended hunting trip. 

The moment Father left with the King and Lords Arryn and Baratheon, the responsibility for managing the castle fell onto the rest of the family’s shoulders. In the absence of the three major figureheads, it meant that each faction of attendants needed to be corralled. Robb had taken charge of the men-at-arms, horses and the barracks, while Sansa and Catelyn organised the various maids and ladies-in-waiting. Sansa was the one who assigned Arya and Bran to “dog duty,” keeping the Direwolves under control. Jon, Beorn and Mari committed to entertaining the Northern nobles. With his newly-adorned Shepherd’s mantle, Jon’s status had become even more muddled and made most of the Northerns in Winterfell unsure of how to deal with him. Regardless, the entire Stark family united in this joint effort.

Meeting his grandfather had been interesting. Despite Grandfather Hoster’s ill-health, he still insisted on eating and meeting with all of Catelyn’s children. Their grandfather asked many questions. Robb felt like he was being tested by Maester Luwin. He asked Robb about the local lords, about where the best trade routes were, where Winterfell got its stocks of food, where its steel came from. The old Lord appeared satisfied with his answers, and downright joyous when Bran could espouse all the necessary parts of being a knight.

With Sansa and Arya he’d been quite benal, even condescending. It was obvious he disliked Arya's manner of dress but complimented her courtesies and wit. Robb thought that if he’d met Arya a few years ago he’d have fainted. Grandfather’s underestimation of Sansa ended when she brought out her latest artwork, the beginnings of a truly massive tapestry depicting the history of the North after Torrhen Stark bent the knee. It was ambitious and would likely take months if not a full year to meet Sansa’s satisfaction. Catelyn also relied on Sansa for her usual household duties which didn’t go unnoticed. If not for Smalljon’s constant presence, Grandfather would have likely been throwing out names of potential suitors. That was another new revelation. 

Smalljon was only a year or so older than Robb, seven-and-ten to Sansa’s newly five-and-ten, she’d celebrated her nameday before going to Last Hearth. Robb was unsure if either of them had truly considered any kind of romance, with his sister still young, but Sansa had charmed the whole Umber family regardless. Smalljon and his small escort of guards and cousins ensured the Stark children had adequate escorts among the strangers filling Winterfell.

Great-Uncle Brynden, Uncle Brynden he insisted on being called, avoided Grandfather at nearly every opportunity outside of shared meals. The famed Blackfish spent most days in the yard alongside Ser Rodrik. He spared with Robb but spent most of the time with Bran. The young squire was attached to Uncle Brynden at the hip and barely paid attention to anyone else. Arya likewise followed Dacey Mormont around like a lost pup.

Aunt Lysa was odd. Robb hated to admit it, but he disliked her immensely. She was rude and standoffish. Repeatedly spurning his mother and anyone besides cousin Robin, her maids, and oddly enough Lord Baelish. From rumors, Jory was able to learn Baelish was not originally meant to accompany the royal party. Only a fervent, nearly hysterical fit from Lady Arryn convinced the King to bring the Lord from the Fingers along. Lord Baelish himself had acquiesced and appeared to be a close friend of his aunt, though Robb and Jon had both caught the man staring improperly at Lady Stark. Sansa shared with them that a number of servants had reported Baelish making strange overtures to the staff, creeping around odd places in the castle and lingering outside the crypts. He resolved to have the servants questioned after the King departed, that behaviour sounded far too much like the machinations of a Master of Whisperers not a Master of Coin.

The message of his father’s detour down to Torrhen’s Square just exacerbated the castle’s chaos. In desperate need of a reprieve, Robb resorted to offering Uncle Brynden a tour of Winterfell. Tyrion Lannister and Ser Jamie Lannister were both present when Robb made his invitation and decided to tag along. The Imp was sarcastic and, according to the Steward, far too fond of wine and women. Ser Jamie was overly smug but being forced to guard Prince Joffrey was a cruel enough task.

Winterfell lacked extensive gold adornment, but Robb asserted no one could walk the massive walls, see the intricate woodwork, stand inside the Glass Gardens, and still remain apathetic to its grandeur. The tour was pleasant. Lord Tyrion had an appreciation for the history of the ancient castle and both Ser Jamie and Uncle Brynden admired the dense fortifications.

Robb guided them from the Outer Hall back towards the First Keep. Ser Jamie was sniping with Uncle Brynden about stories from the Ninepenny War, when Grey Wind stopped ahead of them. The wolf paused mid step then turned towards the Broken Tower. Robb almost ignored the motion, Grey Wind might have caught sight of a squirrel. His heart quickened between one breath and the next, he smelt no bird or squirrel, instead he heard two voices softly floating on the wind.

Robb stopped at Grey Wind's side and followed his gaze. The Broken Tower was in better repair after his parents discovered Arya’s little hideaway. The stonework was still patchy but the floors had been repaired and the roof reinforced. Most importantly, they added a lock to the door. A lock that Robb saw was unlatched. The only keys to the tower were supposed to be with Father, Steward Poole and the Head of the Guard. Father was obviously gone, Steward Poole was overseeing some matter in Wintertown and Robb had ordered Dorick, the Head of the Guard, to remain near his mother and sister. The Broken Tower should have been empty.

“Robb?” Uncle Brynden said. 

Robb raised a finger to quiet him, then stalked forward with Grey Wind in tow. Carefully, he slipped through the tower door, glad that the hinges had been oiled recently. Brynden and the Lannisters had followed him, all were tactful enough to remain silent. Inside the tower, the sounds were more apparent. A pair of voices filtered from the upper floors. Robb caught his Uncle's eyes and shook his head then pointed up. Taking great care, Robb and Grey Wind led the way upstairs. At every step, Robb concentrated to ensure the intruders were not alerted to their arrival.

They made it to the second floor undetected, the third floor chamber was only a few steps above them, the voices were clear now. Robb flushed when he realized the sounds were of a couple in the middle of… a passionate embrace. He expected some hint of laughter from Uncle Brynden, who hadn’t kept his crass sense of humor secret. Instead, the Blackfish’s face was stone.

Robb was concerned until the moment he registered the woman’s voice: “Yes, Petyr, yes!”

In an instant, Uncle Brynden pushed forward and ran up the stairs. Robb and Ser Jamie rushed after him bumping into each other in their haste to follow, leaving Tyrion and Grey Wind behind. Up the stairs and through the doorway, Robb only had a second to register what he saw.

Aunt Lysa was screaming, she had grabbed a sheet to cover herself. A few candles, furs and a bottle of wine sat beside the cot she laid in. Clothes were strewn about the floor. Uncle Brynden was bent over the nude form of Petyr Baelish and had already bloodied his fists. Together, Jamie and Robb pulled the Blackfish off the skinny man. Uncle Brynden was shouting, spittle dribbled down his chin as his veins throbbed in his neck. Baelish was curled on the ground, a stream of blood and snot spilled from his lips and nose. Grey Wind’s barks outshone both Aunt Lysa and the Blackfish which drew people to the tower.

By the time Robb had managed to calm his Uncle, Jory Cassel had arrived with Stark and Tully armsmen. Uncle Bryden ordered a pair of breeches be forced onto Baelish and then had him dragged outside. Robb set his foot down at common men seeing his aunt in such a state. Grey Wind quickly sent them running back down the stairway. He took care to help his Aunt dress, coaxing her out of the tower afterwards. Lysa had devolved into angry and devastated sobs. Sobs that intensified when they stepped out of the Tower and saw Baelish staggering in the rough grip of Tully guards. She made an attempt to run to him, but Robb held her steady and ordered Jory to keep her calm.

Finally, with some moments of peace, Robb turned to his uncle.

“We’ll need to wait for the King to return… and Lord Arryn,” Robb said.

Brynden wiped spots of blood from his cheeks and spit, “He’ll rot in a cell until then.”

“Uncle!” Aunt Lysa shouted.

“I don’t want to hear it, Lysa! Hoster will deal with you!” Brynden roared back.

Robb turned to the Lannister brothers, “Lord Tyrion, Ser Jamie, I hope you’ll be willing to testify to what we just saw.”

Tyrion raised a single blonde eyebrow, “Most certainly, Lord Robb. Things of this nature can be devastating if not handled properly.”

Ser Jamie hid a smile but Robb saw the laughter in his eyes. No doubt the Kingslayer was already crafting some jape about trout jumping from the falcon to the mockingbird.

All of them began the trek back to the Keep. They entered the main courtyard, which was full of people who had finished breaking their fast. A group of Vale guards stood around Robert Arryn, who was excitedly sitting atop a destrier near the horse stalls. Next to the Keep doors Prince Joffrey was complaining about something to the Hound, while Westermen milled around.

Robb only belatedly realized the trouble they’d stumbled into. Robin Arryn took one look at his mother’s disheveled form, her devastated face, and screamed.

“Mother!” Robin yelled.

Everyone turned and took in the new arrivals. Confusion ran across their faces, but the Valemen had little time to process it, they were being ordered about by the Heir to their lord. The Lannister brothers jogged to join their nephew. Brynden walked forward with Robb, who hoped that his Uncle’s reputation would deter any rash moves.

“Nephew,” Brynden began, “something’s happened with your mother. You should go to your Aunt Cat.”

Robin wasn’t listening, he was trembling and flushing an ugly shade of red.

“I want Mother!” Robin whipped a finger at the Vale guards, “Go get my Mother! Get her now!”

One of the Valeman looked worried his Lord’s heir was going to fall off his horse and laid a hand to steady the boy.

“Lord Robin, your uncle is the Knight of the Gate, you should heed him,” the Valeman said. Robb thought his name was Quinn, one of Lord Arryn’s trusted men.

Little Robin actually began to beat at the man’s hand, screaming: “I want Mother! I want Mother!”

Not all the Valemen were so confident in Brynden’s reputation as Quinn. Robb guessed they might fear Lord Arryn’s wrath if they stood by and did nothing. A group of them strode forward towards Jory, Robb’s men stepped up to intercede.

Robb turned back to his cousin, intent on defusing the situation, when a pompous blonde princeling decided to intrude.

“I’ll not have some savages assaulting my father’s Small Council. Lord Baelish is a servant of the Crown. Hound, go release him!” Prince Joffrey commanded.

Robb whipped around to see the Hound and his burnt face marching with Redcloaks at his back.

“Prince Joffrey, the Master of Coin was found in an indecent position with my aunt, Lady Arryn, he must be held accountable to your Father,” Robb insisted, “You cannot release him.” 

“I can do whatever I want. I say Baelish is a friend of the Crown. I want him released, and whoever laid their hands upon him will lose them!” Joffrey shouted, a cruel snarl cutting across his cheeks.

The Tully men were visibly displeased with the threat made to the Blackfish and stepped forward to support the Winterfell men. Robb desperately thought of some way to calm everyone down but his thoughts came too slowly.

The Hound, without a pause, pulled his fist back and punched the first man that stood between him and Baelish. A Valeman shoved a Northman, elbows were thrown and in the blink of an eye, the entire courtyard had devolved into a brawl. 

Robb rushed with Uncle Brynden, and managed to force their way back to Aunt Lysa, stopping her from trying to reach Baelish who was now caught in the fierce fist fights between the Lannisters and Tullys. Robb saw Baelish shake loose his captors' grips and stumble away. A sharp whistle cleared the melee, and Robb felt, more than saw, Grey Wind, Ghost and Crag bound out of the Godswood to encircle the fleeing Lord.

More of the wolves streamed out into the yard. Maw, Berena and Shaggy jumped up the Keep steps, sending Prince Joffrey and his uncles running inside, while Summer and Lady burst out from the direction of the Glass Gardens. Behind them came Catelyn, Sansa and a large number of Baratheon and Stark guards led by Ser Rodrik.

With numbers now on his side, Robb let his focus drift. In a strange way, he knew that Sansa’s heart began to mirror his. Together they reached deep into their lungs and the castle rang with the monstrous call of nearly ten Direwolves, shocking the men out of their scuffle.

Any pride Robb felt vanished when he watched a pair of Redcloaks throw themselves away from the wolves and run straight into Robin’s horse. The steed kicked hard, already stressed by the brawl, and bucked. Robin was violently thrown forward, flying straight to the ground with a traumatic crack. 

Pandemonium erupted, far outstripping any fighting. Lady Catelyn screamed and rushed forward with Sansa. Ser Rodrik ordered the Baratheon and Stark men to force everyone back to their barracks under watch. Robb brusquely sent someone to fetch Maester Luwin. He rushed to his mother’s side, she was desperately trying to wake her nephew up, but there was no response. Cousin Robin seemed even smaller, lying there in the dirt.

Maester Luwin arrived and began to examine the injured boy. Luwin frowned, squinting as he felt along Robin’s head and then down to his neck. Robb felt faint, as if in a fog. Servants brought out the litter his grandfather had been using. Carefully, Robin was transferred into it and whisked away into the castle.

“Robb, what happened?” Sansa asked after their mother had followed the Maester.

“We found Aunt Lysa and Lord Baelish together,” Robb explained, he put enough emphasis on “together” to convey his meaning.

Sansa was shocked at the sheer insult of committing adultery inside Winterfell, the seat of House Stark. Ignoring that, Aunt Lysa was Lady Arryn, the wife of the Hand of the King. Was Baelish a madman? Cuckolding a man with the Kingdom at his beck and call, the foster father of the Demon of the Trident and the Quiet Wolf. He was a Lord of the Vale, Jon Arryn was his liege lord, there was no one he could turn to for protection.

“We need to separate them,” Sansa declared.

She and Robb worked together to have Lysa secluded in the Family Wing of the First Keep. Baelish was taken to Winterfell’s gaol, a small dungeon dug out near one of the guard posts. Their quick response did little to hide the commotion. Rumors were already flying by the time Robb managed to find Jon, Bran and Arya at the archery range. With their mother preoccupied, Robb and Sansa were forced to break the news to Grandfather Hoster. Strangely, Grandfather took the revelation quite well, focusing on Robin’s health above all else. Robb and Sansa left him and Uncle Brynden alone. The Tully shouting match began before the young Starks had even left the hallway.

Robb decided a messenger had to be sent to find the King. Father needed to return and Lord Arryn needed to be informed. What their reaction would be, he could not say. It had all gone awry so quickly, this whole event needed to be sorted out and would no doubt sour the entire royal visit. That was a matter for the Lords, Robb reckoned, all he could was keep the peace and pray that Robin awoke in good health.

Chapter Text

The return to Winterfell was less joyous than their departure. The implications of the Ironborn weighed heavily on Lords Arryn and Baratheon. Ned was burdened by the Great Matter’s reveal, more so when he began connecting the half-tales from a drunken Robert on Joffrey’s strange behaviours. Westeros knew what that kind of instability could create when mixed with a crown. Though his companions were unaware the North too knew the dangers of an unstable monarch. 

Certain Stark Histories featured the ramblings and scribblings of such Kings and Lords. Their passages did not last long, as often they would be put to the side, effectively deposed from power if not in name. If they refused, blood was shed and those were some of the darkest periods in Northern history. The reign of the Macen Redstark was a lesson not soon forgotten. More than one unliked or unfit King or Queen passed their years in a small holdfast or took the Black, while sons and daughters took rule of the kingdom in hand. King Theon Stark in his old age had been summarily “de-fanged” by Queen-Mother Luwa, when the Hungry Wolf became obsessed with mounting a campaign into the Riverlands.

Banishing his dark thoughts, Ned prepared for the road. Their small group departed from Castle Cerwyn, the last stop of the trip, when he caught sight of a rider, bearing a Stark banner on one of the Winterfell’s fastest steeds.

“Lord Stark! Lord Stark!” The rider called out. One of the younger men-at-arms under Jory’s command rode forward. His face was covered in sweat and his horse trembled. “I’m lucky to have found you so quickly, Lord Robb has urgent need of you.”

“You rode all the way from Winterfell?” Robert asked.

The messenger gasped for air: “Yes, Your Grace. I rode hard from the castle yesterday for Torrhen’s Square. I stopped to sleep at Canalcamp where I was told you’d already returned. It was late, but I could not tarry.”

“What’s this message?” Lord Arryn asked.

“Ill-tidings. Lord Baelish has been arrested by Lord Robb and Lord Brynden, with both the Lannisters as witness,” The messenger explained.

“My Master of Coin?” Robert clarified.

“What crime could they have discovered that warranted arrest?” Stannis wondered.

The messenger paled, looking from Lord Arryn to Ned. Ned gave an encouraging nod.

“Lord Baelish was discovered engaged… indecently with Lady Arryn,” he revealed.

Ned thrust out his hand on instinct to hold Jon’s shoulder. The older Lord listed for a moment before righting himself.

“What in the Seven Hells are you saying, man?” Robert shouted.

The messenger quailed before the King’s wrath: “Lord Robb and the Blackfish caught the two together in the Broken Tower.” 

“How did they get into the tower?” Ned interrupted.

“Steward Poole was called back and discovered the Master of Coin had stolen keys from various servants.” The messenger’s eyes swung back to Jon Arryn. “When Lord Robb was bringing them back to the Keep, a brawl broke out between the guards. I’m sorry Lord Arryn, in the confusion, Lord Robert was thrown from his horse.”

Ned felt Jon’s dead weight slide forward, “Robert!” he barked. The King kicked forward and pulled their foster father upright.

“Jon! Jon!” The two men implored.

Despite infirmity rearing its head, Jon Arryn rallied.

“Is he alive?” Jon demanded.

“Yes! Under the Maester’s care.”

Without delay, Jon Arryn kicked and sped off; with the royal party desperate to match his sudden speed. Ned gave word that the messenger was to be given rest in Castle Cerwyn before following.

They rode hard back to Winterfell. Such a fervor and urgency Ned had not seen in Jon Arryn since the desperate days of the Rebellion. The gate was opened and the Lords leaped from their saddles and rushed towards the Keep. Robb and Catelyn stood there to meet them.

“I want an explanation of what happened,” Robert insisted, “get me the Kingslayer and the Blackfish, the Imp too!”

Ned left the King behind in the central hall. Robb and Cat led them back to Maester Luwin’s rooms which joined a study to the infirmary. 

Robb’s rushed explanation included Prince Joffrey and the Hound’s involvement. Baelish had been silent since his imprisonment and Cat had kept Brynden and Hoster away for fear of an untimely death. Apparently Lysa was despondent and unresponsive, barely eating or drinking. When Ned quietly asked about Steward Poole’s findings on the stolen keys, Robb revealed it was Arya and Bran who had been following Baelish using the eyes of birds and cats. The two children had witnessed him pickpocketing the keys from the Head Guard and sneaking into the pantry the night before. The two lost track of the snake the morning of the incident and failed to find Robb in time.

Maester Luwin brought them to the cot that held young Robert, or Robin as his family had taken to calling him (Arya felt it was too confusing to have 3 “Roberts” in the castle all at once). Jon Arryn staggered to the bedside and carefully laid his wrinkled palms on the boy’s still face.

“My son…” he whispered with teary eyes, “Please, not you too.”

Ned gently grasped Jon’s shoulder. The energy that had driven him to ride like a man 50 years younger seeped out with every second. The Hand of the King shrank away and the stalwart paragon of Ned’s youth was replaced by an aged man with too many burdens.

“Luwin, speak plainly,” Ned ordered.

Winterfell’s Maester clasped his hands together: “My Lords, young Arryn breathes but his neck is broken. I do not know if he will ever wake.”

A choked sob escaped Jon’s throat before he had a great gasp and collapsed. Ned feared the shock had been too great and Jon’s heart had given out. Robb helped him place Jon Arryn into a cot beside his sleeping son. Luwin assured him it was simply a combination of the hard ride and stress. The Starks left Lord Arryn to whatever peace his sleep could provide.

Cat wrapped her arms around her husband and warmed his worried soul. Robb offered to go inform the King and track down the rest of the children. They would all dine together in the Family Wing tonight.

An evening with simple but delicious fare helped to warm the mood of the Starks. Beorn and Mari had been welcomed at their table but Ned had to convince Catelyn to allow Val as well, lest Jon take his meal with her and the servants.

Arya and Sansa were both entranced by the Free Folk woman. Val was conscious enough to keep her true origins a mystery, but with Beorn’s own travels Beyond-The-Wall, she twisted a few tales to still speak the truth. She had seen the Wall, hunted in the Haunted Forest, and fought raiders alongside her brothers and sisters. The few pieces of jewelry she’d brought to Winterfell caught Sansa’s eyes in particular. They were rough but spoke of intense labour with little materials. Craftsmanship shone through even the low quality metal. 

Catelyn took more of a shine to Mari. The two engaged each other on many topics and Mari was very interested in his wife’s tales of the Riverlands. Mari regaled her own recent journey south and her affection for the streams and hills. Beorn took the burden of entertaining Bran and Rickon, allowing Ned, Robb and Jon time to quietly converse. 

Ned and Catelyn had already spoken about Lysa’s likely fate; to avoid offending the Tullys and Starks, she’d be sent to a coven of Silent Sisters, likely somewhere in the Reach. Baelish would be stripped of his positions and Robert would probably give him the choice of the block or the Wall. Such fragrant betrayal of both his liege lord and the King was not easily dismissed, not to mention the dispersion the whole incident would throw on Robert Arryn’s legitimacy. If Baelish was a more important Lord, he might have gotten away with being exiled. His Grace was not in a forgiving mood. 

No one could say for how long their affair had run. Catelyn feared it originated when Littlefinger was just a ward in Riverrun. She vaguely recalled some bitter argument between Lysa and Hoster after young Petyr was sent away from Riverrun. Cat had assumed her sister simply missed her friend, after all it was the younger Tully who had nursed Petyr’s wounds from his duel with Ned’s brother, Brandon. Looking back on Lysa’s sudden illness afterward, darker suspicions festered.

Catelyn planned on confronting both her father and uncle on the matter. The two men had been cloistered the whole day and night following the arrest. Only seeking her out once Lord Arryn had returned. They begged a delay of such talk until the matter could be officially handled by the Crown. The Lady of Winterfell was ladened with duties so she acquiesced.

The next sunrise brought little comfort. Ned and the Baratheons had gathered in Maester Luwin’s study, which Ned had loaned to Stannis. Jon Arryn was awake, but senseless and had little energy for his official duties. Maester Luwin advised him to refrain from any serious tasks for weeks, if not months.

“Maester, he is the Hand of the King,” Stannis said.

“He can't be my Hand if he’s bedridden,” Robert complained.

Luwin insisted that Lord Arryn’s body was at its limits. The King stroked his large chins, then turned to Ned with an idea in his eyes.

Ned spoke first, “No, Robert, no.”

“Why not? You know your business and without Jon I need allies by my side,” Robert’s passion was ensaring as always, even hidden by layers of sloth.

Ned could feel Stannis’ molar disintegrating with every word.

“Stannis knows King’s Landing and has been serving you side-by-side with Jon for many years,” Ned reminded.

Robert glanced at his brother. They scowled in unison.

“The Master of Ships has other duties,” The King excused.

“Robert!” Ned exclaimed, “I cannot leave the North for years on end. Robb is not ready and with the return of the New Gift, I have duties here.”

“Bah!” Robert threw his hands up. 

Ned guessed his friend considered rescinding his own royal decree. When it came to changing Robert’s mind, Ned knew you had to back him into a corner then open a way out.

“With Jon and his heir indisposed, the Vale will need reassurance,” Ned said. “You’ve never gotten on well with Lord Royce or Lord Redfort.”

Ned feared he may regret his next words but Robert, and importantly Stannis, would need support to keep the Lannisters and now the Vale in line. Hoster and Brynden had explained in detail just how essential Jon Arryn was to the Crown’s stability.

“I will come South,” Ned declared. “Not as your Hand, but as your advisor until Jon has recovered.”

Ned’s admission brightened Robert’s mood. It would not do to remind Robert that Jon was unlikely to ever be fit for the position again. Luwin had warned that with such a sudden lapse of health, Jon’s strength was unlikely to fully rebuild. At best, he would recover and return to the Eyrie to set the Vale to rights.

“It’s decided then! Here Stannis, perhaps the pin will bring a smile to your rocky face,” Robert laughed as he tossed the metal pin onto his brother’s desk. He then left to watch the spars in the yard. Leaving Stannis and Ned to plan the exact details of their departure.

“I will accompany Lord Arryn and his son to White Harbor, from there we can sail to King’s Landing with speed,” Stannis explained.

“My wife will want me to escort her father and uncle through the Neck. It will give me the opportunity to rally my men.”

Stannis looked up from his stack of letters then glanced to the open doorway. Ned gave a sharp whistle and Maw rose from his place on the carpets and moved to sit outside the doorway, which Ned closed behind him. To think he would worry about spies and loose tongued servants in his own home.

“How many can you bring?” Stannis asked

Ned ran the numbers through his head. The Battle on the Stones, as the bards coined it, had brought him good-will with his lords and many were envious that the Ryswells and Glovers rode with him. Any House asked to send men to King’s Landing would take it as a massive sign of trust. It presented an opportunity to reach out to those not receiving a betrothal or fosterings.

“I can ask for 400, perhaps 500 men from Barrow Hall, Oldcastle, Flint’s Finger, and the Dreadfort. Lord Manderly can spare ships to escort you while we take the road. If your fears about this Commander Slynt hold true, how large is the City Watch?”

Stannis frowned, “Little under a thousand, their numbers never recovered from the Sack. I stationed 200 men from Dragonstone at the port and 600 from the Stormlands in the city. The Redcloaks occupy much of the palace, perhaps 200, 250 men all told. Though I fear the Queen has strengthened them during our travels. I plan to resupply at Dragonstone and bring the rest of the royal fleet, that would add another 400 swords.

Ned added together their forces, “500 Northmen, 1200 Baratheon. Good odds I’d say.”

Stannis growled, “Unless Tywin Lannister decides to object.”

Ned leaned onto Stannis’ desk, seeking to reassure the new Hand: “I’ll speak with my good-father about the coming trouble. If we’re desperate, then the Riverlands can be called upon. With Lord Arryn in his present state I’m unsure if we can rely on the Vale arriving in strength.”

Stannis paused, staring into a nearby candle. He seemed to be grappling with his words.

“I will admit that I do not know the Lords of the Vale as you or Robert do. I have never had much success when dealing with them. Would you be willing to reach out on my behalf?” Stannis asked.

“Of course, Stannis,” Ned agreed and began to write the first of nearly a dozen letters. Perhaps while among the King’s court, Ned could also find time to speak with House Tyrell about the Ironborn.

The next weeks sped by as preparations for a quick departure were made. The King’s visit would end up lasting a month and a half. Ships from White Harbor to the Crownlands were chartered and supply wagons carefully arranged. Replies from the Lockes, Flints, Lady Barbrey and even Lord Bolton arrived promptly. Arrangements were being made to converge on Moat Cailin.

A few final matters had to be managed, including Brynden’s offer to squire Bran. A great honour but quite unexpected. Her uncle had asked for a private dinner with Ned and Catelyn during which he made his case.

“Uncle,” Catelyn had said, “You rarely take on squires. How many years has it been since you knighted Lord Mallister?”

Bryned shook his head, “I only grew tired of having young whelps tripping over themselves, aside from that, the Bloody Gate required more than enough of my attention. I now have the time and hopefully enough life left in me for one more student.”

Catelyn frowned from beside Ned in their private dining room, “Do you mean you’re leaving the Bloody Gate?”

Bryned finished his wine and nodded, “With Lysa’s disgrace I feel it would be improper to continue my duties there. I sent word to my friend Ser Morton to take up the post until the Vale Lords can properly order themselves.”

Ned spoke up then, “Lord Royce and Redfort have called a council to discuss matters. I know Ser Egen means to send a detachment of Arryn men from the Eyrie to meet the Hand’s ships in King’s Landing.”

“Regardless,” Brynden continued, “I’ve been quite impressed by young Bran these past few weeks. Your son has the air of enthusiasm about him, Cat. The Manderlys are of good skill but I swear that if you allow Bran to squire at my side, I shall make him a man to be proud of.”

Ned could already see the eagerness in Cat’s eyes. His wife loved her uncle dearly and the man had done much to charm his grand-nieces and nephews. The Blackfish’s support of Robb during Littlefinger’s arrest gained him favour with Ned. Bran’s dreams of knighthood would become a near certainty under Brynden’s tutelage. Jason Mallister, Lord of Seagard, was the perfect example of the Blackfish’s legendary status. A young lordling grown into a renowned tourney knight, much liked by his people and a warrior of skill. A bright future was opened if Bran followed in his path.

“Very well,” Ned said, “we would be honoured to have our son squire with you.”

Catelyn’s face lit with a blinding smile, “I’m sure Bran will be ecstatic.” His wife considered something and threaded her fingers with Ned’s, “Will you be returning to Riverrun?”

“Hoster desires me to help him take Edmure in hand,” Brynden confirmed, “with his health he worries more than a mother hen.”

“If that is the case then perhaps more than just Ned can journey south,” Catelyn suggested, “I have always wanted to show our children the wonders of House Tully’s lands. With Bran accompanying you, why not more of us?”

Brynden looked enthused and Catelyn no doubt wished to spend time with their children after so long apart fostering. She had done admirably to welcome the other Ladies who came as companions for Sansa, but her heart would always rest with their own family.

“Robb would need to remain here as the Stark in Winterfell, but I see no reason to stop Arya and Rickon from accompanying you,” Ned said.

“What of young Sansa?” Brynden asked.

Catelyn grinned, “Since her nameday passed at the new year, we had little chance to celebrate. Her friends Alys Kartstark and Oma Umber have decided to gather at Last Hearth to hold a joint feast with several other guests, including many younger Lords and Ladies. Sansa has been planning it for months and I doubt she would miss the event.”

“Reminds me of another girl who was ever taking the reins of her social circle,” Brynden led them in a cheerful laugh.

With most of their House absent, it would fall to their eldest to manage the myriad of challenges and disputes of the North. Thankfully, Jon would remain with Beorn to support Robb in their absence. 

Ned had already seen the shifts of reception between Jon and the nobles. The Direwolf and Shepherd attire were strong indicators to most that the Bastard of Winterfell had gained a measure of status all his own. The weirwood mask gave no power on its own, it marked Jon as a recognized member of a northern-wide community, that most Lords and smallfolk had grown up around. Ned found it somewhat strange that Jon had gained more respect for his time on Skagos than the many years in Winterfell.

Speaking of which, Ned had been compelled to bring Robert’s decision to his family. They had gathered for one of their last private dinners before the voyage south. Ned stood from his seat, holding a goblet and coughed for the table’s attention.

“One last matter will be addressed before the King departs,” Ned said. “At the farewell feast he will announce to all and the realm that he has granted the lands of the New Gift back to the North.”

His children spoke over each other simultaneously. Their chatter was quieted by a look from Catelyn.

“Those lands belong to the Night’s Watch,” Arya said.

“They did,” Ned replied, “but they have gone untouched for decades. Their people either died or fled to safer lands.”

“Does this mean the land will go to House Umber?” Sansa asked.

Ned shook his head, “No, the King has decided that a new Lord and House shall be raised to rebuild the New Gift.”

Catelyn carefully kept her face neutral. She understood the necessity of following King Robert’s decree and was soothed by Ned’s plans to give Rickon Moat Cailin and potentially a seat in the Riverlands for Bran.

“Well Father, who is it?” Robb asked.

Ned took a deep breath, “King Robert Baratheon has decided that Jon Snow will be named Lord of the Gift. He shall found his own House and pass the title to his sons and their sons, for as long as his line endures.”

He expected the shocked silence from Jon and indeed his boy was pale, a dribble of water spilled down his lips when he jerked his cup away. Jon had enough time to take a single breath, which caught in his throat, before Arya jumped up from her seat and threw herself into his chest. Bran and Rickon soon followed and Jon’s chair nearly tipped over. Robb and Sansa bodily moved their younger siblings out of the way to grab Jon and haul him up for a massive hug. Ned’s children were overjoyed for their brother and he could admit it lightened his heart to see no spite or jealousy in their faces.

Jon finally came back to his senses and pulled away from the embraces. He tentatively turned to Ned.

“Father,” Jon began, “I… I don’t know what to say.”

Ned stepped forward and took Jon by the shoulders: “All you need to say is an oath to myself and the King tomorrow. Your title will be announced at the end of the week, during the farewell feast.”

“But, where will my seat be? Will I have vassals? The New Gift is abandoned, you said so yourself, where will the people come from? How will I support myself?” Jon rattled off his questions in a rush.

“There is time, Jon,” Ned replied, “I do not expect you to take up the Lordship soon. There will need to be much work, negotiations and surveying. We will need to consult the Umbers and the Mountain Clans, and I’m sure there will be tense talks with the Night’s Watch. There is time. For now, perhaps your brothers and sisters can help you choose your new name and sigil.”

Ned took in his son’s face, for though he was of Lyanna’s body and no doubt had held all her love for that brief time she could give it, Ned was Jon’s father and until his death, not even the Old Gods could make him think otherwise.

“My son,” Ned murmured, “I also give you permission to use the Stark name in your own, so that none may forget that your blood comes from mine.”

Jon’s tears finally broke from the dam behind his eyes and his nearly grown son buried his face in Ned’s shoulder. Even Catelyn was moved by the display. With dinner already finished, Robb began guiding the lot of them to the Family Solar, no doubt to begin debating titles and sketching out sigils in charcoal. Unfortunately, despite the warm reception of Robert’s announcement at the feast, Jon was undecided on his new House but swore to make a final decision by the end of the year.

It was peculiar to see his wife, Bran, Arya and Rickon buttoned up into a practical, sturdy wheelhouse (a gift from Lord Manderly that had been mostly unused but was still in fine shape) all prepared to depart for their grandfather’s seat. Their baggage was secured and their guard was arrayed. Stannis had taken the still breathing body of Robert Arryn and the weakened Jon Arryn with him to the docks of White Harbor while Lysa and Baelish were being taken in smaller, separate wagons under watchful Tully and Baratheon guard. Prince Joffrey and his uncles had kept to themselves since the arrest, though Ned had caught more than one disparaging comment from the Prince about nearly everything in the North. ‘An ungrateful gold-shit’ Robb had called him after yet another mocking drawl in the yard. He was glad that the Kingslayer was at hand to keep his misbegotten spawn in check, the direwolves carried his children’s dislike and rarely permitted the Prince’s presence for long.

He’d debated with his wife about bringing the wolves but since only Maw would be coming to King’s Landing and the older beast was well-behaved, he permitted it. Riverrun was no city and he would feel more secure if all his children were together- his children and their wolves - he kept having to correct himself. If not for his own connection to Maw, Ned doubted he’d feel so strongly for the growing pups. Green Eyes rarely ventured far from Winterfell, she had surprised everyone by following Cat eagerly on the day of their departure, keeping Summer, Shaggy and Berena in line.

Hoster’s health had taken a bad turn after Lysa’s arrest but thankfully time with Catelyn and the children bolstered his spirits. Brynden’s squiring of Bran in Riverrun and Cat’s extended visit had nearly caused the Lord of Riverrun to spring from his bed. Even some part of the discord with Brynden was mended by his brother’s decision to return home. Catelyn revealed to Ned Hoster’s frustration with Edmure and what she suspected were his own fears of an unprepared and ill-equipped heir. 

The rest of their noble guests would be returning home, with only Smalljon, Alys and Dacey remaining to attend the coming celebrations at Last Hearth. Sansa had also invited Mari and Beorn. Somehow word of the gathering had spread to Val and Jon had been “convinced” to attend with her and accompany Sansa in Robb’s place.

Ned bid farewell and took one last look at Robb and Jon standing side by side, the walls of Winterfell rising at their backs. He held back his fears, the instinctual dread when he pictured crossing the Neck and returning to King’s Landing. His last trip south had only been to Seagard, where Mallister ships had helped transport the Northern army to the Iron Islands. He reminded himself that only he would be forced to enter the Crownloands, his family would be safe and happy in Riverrun. When all this business was done, he would meet with them there before returning home.

A boisterous shout rang, the Royal Party crawled into motion. When Winterfell’s walls teetered on the horizon behind them, Ned heard a distant horn call and thoughts of war pooled in his stomach.

///////////////

Robert had little patience for the tedium of the road or the lack of wine. He nearly insisted on stopping at every inn along the road but reminders of Jon Arryn waiting in King’s Landing helped curb the worst of his habits. Mercifully, Robert paid little attention to the rest of their party, preferring to ride and talk with Ned and Ser Barristan. This allowed Ned to keep his wife and children surrounded by Tully and Stark men, secluded from the Lannisters.

Ned weathered Robert's constant complaints and moans, his utter disdain for anything aside from hunting or the thrill of old wars. He learned of rumblings from the Stepstones and the rise in pirate raids that Stannis had been working hard to quell, Jon Arryn had suspected support from the Disputed Lands. The King was cohesive enough to share his plans, or at least the beginnings of plans, for the Crown’s records to be audited. Baelish was obviously no longer in royal favour and amongst his possessions a small coded account book had been found. Maester Luwin had taken a brief look and was able to discern that it contained a complicated list of transactions. To who and from where, was unknown. Considering the dire straits of the royal treasury, any chance to recoup lost or stolen gold was made a priority.

Their travels passed by the nearly completed Wolfswood Canal which prompted a surprisingly insightful question from Ser Barristan.

“Lord Stark,” the Kingsguard asked, “Now that your earth-work is done, what shall be done with the men? I know that coin, food and stone is still to be provided for another year, but will they not grow idle?”

Ned shook his head, “Your worry is justified, Ser Barristan. Thankfully, with the aid from the Crown the Rhoynish Architects have been contracted for another two projects.”

Ser Barristan and Brynden both were surprised by this: “Which Houses have decided to follow in your steps?” Brynden asked.

“House Umber wishes to try and connect The Last River to Long Lake,” Ned explained, “while House Dustin is seeking to connect the East and West arms of the Saltspear. I also suspect that the Karstarks are toying with an inlet from the Grey Mouth farther into their own lands.”

Ser Barristan smiled, “I have not heard of such industrious projects in many years. The last I think was when the Redwynes and Targaryens rebuilt the shipyards at the Arbor and Dragonstone, during King Jaehaerys’ reign.”

“With more work, the labourers and their families shall be divided between the two projects. Less manpower means each new canal will take longer but thankfully the wages will help grow both Torrhen’s Square and Last Hearth’s markets.” Ned commented. “It is too early to say how many of the southrons will stay but I hope at least a portion can be swayed to settle here.”

“Foresight is a rare gift among the lords of Westeros, Lord Stark,” Ser Barristan complimented.

Gradually, the hills and prairies of the Barrowlands gave way to the soft marshes of the Neck. Ned took a moment to appreciate the sight of the Merman’s Road, which parted from the main road a few leagues north of Moat Cailin, heading east for the Silver Bridge at White Harbor. It was somewhat embarrassing to see the well-maintained road in comparison to the Kingsroad.

The passage narrowed as they neared the ancient fortress of Moat Cailin. As ever, Ned felt a strange longing at the broken and demolished towers, the sunken battlements and decayed gates. 

Ned turned in his horse to Bran and Arya, who were leaning out of the wheelhouse window and staring in rapt attention at the Moat.

“What do you two think?” Ned asked.

Arya frowned, “Beorn’s stories made it sound… stronger.”

Bran nodded along, “I guess I thought it’d be more intact, like when Blue King Leos tried to invade.”

Ned struggled to recall that particular battle, he thought it was one of the early Andal warlords. The Moat had seen hundreds of armies fall to the towers on the Causeway, Beorn once said he could have filled a library just on the dead Lords whose bones laid beneath the swamps of the Neck. He continued listening to his children expound the many feats of the Moat when it was garrisoned by Kings of Winter, Marsh Kings and even Red Kings.

Speaking of ancient armies, their party had passed the camps of northmen a few leagues back, near the edge of the solid ground. Latrines, makeshift stables and supply trains were being carefully prepared. His riders had been told the Lords were taking quarters in the Moat itself.

Ned pointed to the collection of large banners that indicated the Moat was occupied. “Can you tell me whose banners fly above the fortress?” 

Arya rattled off the sigils quickly: “The axe and crown are the Dustins, the keys are the Lockes, the grey hand is the Flints of Flint’s Fingers and…”

“The flayed man is the Boltons!” Bran exclaimed, “Father, does that mean Lord Bolton is here?”

“Very good, Arya. I’m unsure, Bran. I know not who the Houses have sent to lead their forces. There’s a good chance the Dreadfort’s men will be led by a cousin or perhaps a trusted captain,” Ned replied.

What he kept to himself was the sheer shock of the numbers he saw arrayed in the field. If you weren’t used to the arrangement of army camps, it could be deceiving how many soldiers were preparing to follow them into the Riverlands. In fear of a lackluster muster, Ned had called upon 100 swords and 50 riders primarily from Cerwyn and Condon. At a guess, he would say the Boltons alone brought nearly 200 horsemen and more infantry beside that. Perhaps Ned had underestimated how intensely the Lords and Ladies would be vying for Stark favour. Robert had given a passing look at the soldiers but a word from Ser Brynden had him more focused on the promise of wine and a soft bed for the night.

Ned turned and called out to Lord Kevan Condon, Ser Kyle Condon and Garrus Cerwyn, the commanders he selected for his own troops. He had requested Lord Medger remain at Castle Cerwyn should Robb need support and instead had brought Medger's nephew, Garrus, in his stead. Promptly, the Stark men were ordered to make camp closer to the other Northmen. Lord Kevan and Lord Garrus would swiftly take the lay of the land while Ned dealt with the Lords.

Inside the walls of Moat Cailin, Ned noticed the Lizard-Lion of House Reed was hoisted. Could Howland have come from Greywater Watch? He’d received no word before leaving Winterfell.

A knot of fur-cloaked men and women stood together on the rough cobblestone of the Gatehouse Tower. At the royal herald’s cry they broke apart into a rough line and kneeled as one. Unlike at Winterfell, the King gave little attention to the Lords and Ladies beyond a ceremonial greeting. Robert lumbered past them, eager to rest, leaving Ned to greet his subjects.

Lady Barbrey appeared regal as ever. To her left stood a bald man in well-fitted chainmail; his tabard depicted a white skeleton on a green field, holding a golden hoe in one hand and a circlet in the other. To her right was a younger man with similar colouring to herself, wearing a cloak proudly bearing the Ryswell horse head.

“Lady Dustin,” Ned greeted.

“Lord Stark, Barrow Hall has answered your call,” Barbrey responded, “100 horses and 60 swords are yours to command.” She gestured to her companions, “My brother, Rickard Ryswell, and Lord Jonos Furrow are at your disposal.”

Next was the weathered and dour faced Donnel Locke, Heir to Oldcastle, with a few distant cousins at his back. Ned was quite familiar with Donnel, as he had taken over the vast majority of duties from the elderly and infirm Lord Locke.

“Lord Stark, 90 riders and 80 swordsmen have come at your call,” Donnel said, “Forgive me for being impetuous, but two of my cousins, Lady Ellana and Lady Ellara, accompanied me. If you would permit, they would be pleased to attend to your wife and daughter for their time in the south.”

The two Lockes in question were of age with Catelyn. It was a blatant move to insert a relative into his household and by proposing it away from Winterfell, it left Ned with little alternatives but to accept or dismiss the request. Neither the Karstark or Tallhart Matrons had been able to accompany them this time, so Cat was making due with a select few maids. Her hesitance at accepting a Northern Lady-in-Waiting had been a sore spot for them over the last year. Hopefully, she would allow the Lockes to ease her into the idea. Ned agreed and would seek out Catelyn to see if the two Ladies were fit company.

Two heavily freckled Flints of the Fingers greeted him with easy smiles. The Finger Flints were poorer than their kin at Widow’s Watch but enjoyed steady, if modest, fortunes from their extensive coal and iron mines in the Flint Cliffs. Marrick Flint, the brother of Lord Dorick Flint, was a confident enough rider but was more eager than experienced. Similarly his son, Mathis, was only a few months older than Robb. They had marshalled a mere 20 heavy cavalry but supplemented it with 110 infantry, including a number of dedicated archers that Ned knew by reputation were veterans from the Greyjoy Rebellion.

At last he came to the final trio. To his shock, Lord Roose Bolton stood shoulder to shoulder with Domeric Bolton. The young heir to the Dreadfort was noticeably different from his brief visit to Winterfell two years ago. His pale face, so alike his father, now sported a scarred trench running from just under his left eye down, clipping away part of his lip, through his chin. It was uncommon to see such a clearly deep injury so well healed. Waiting in Domeric’s shadow was a shorter fellow with a thick corded neck and a rather charming face; this stranger had a sigil sewn over his breast of a blue river with white ice atop it, in the river laid a broken star.

“Lord Bolton,” Ned greeted.

“Lord Stark,” Bolton calmly replied. His son watched every move nervously.

Ned allowed himself a small smile and clasped arms with the Lord of Leeches, “It is good to see you, Roose.”

“Likewise, Ned. Congratulations on the success of your canal. Word of it has even reached the Shivering Sea,” Roose told him. “You know my son, Domeric.”

Domeric bowed, “Lord Stark, an honour to see you again.”

“I’m glad to see you in good health,” Ned told the boy.

Before he could delicately inquire about the obvious injury, Roose interrupted: “I led 180 of my fastest horsemen and brought 100 strong men-at-arms.”

Ned barely stopped himself from shaking his head in exasperation.

“I am grateful for every blade,” he said instead.

Roose nodded, “I thought it was appropriate that I and my son take personal command.” Roose noticed Ned’s eyes flicker to the stranger behind them. “This is my son’s sworn sword, Allard Wispin. He fought by my side during the Rebellion and he now guards my heir.”

The now-named Wispin gave a simple bow but kept silent. Some aspects of his posture disturbed Ned, like his back was too straight or his legs were too rigid.

“I’m glad to have you both here. Hopefully, my caution will amount to nothing,” Ned told them.

Roose and Domeric took their leave. Ned remained in the courtyard listening to the bustle of carts and men filter through. He had sent Cat and the children ahead to find rooms in the cramped tower. Maw sat calmly against his leg. Ned looked down and gently rubbed his wolf’s neck, which came up to his ribs. He heard the rustle of footsteps before Lord Reed emerge from a door leading to the battements.

“Howland!” Ned exclaimed, and rushed forward to hug his friend.

Howland Reed was a small man wearing bronze scale armour and a green leather cloak. His face had a patch of wrinkles between his eyes and a short ruddy beard. The Lord of Greywater Watch was also leaning lightly on a cane, as memento from the Tower of Joy.

“Ned, It’s wonderful to see you,” Howland replied, returning the embrace.

They took a few minutes to just enjoy their reunion, examining the changes time had brought out in them. There was a feeling of relief and happiness that had become absent from the reunion with Robert.

“I hope your family received my gifts,” Ned said.

“Nilsa was excited to try out the new cloth, of course Meera appreciated the trident and Jojen was quite taken by the instruments,” Howland informed him.

Walking side by side, Howland led Ned into a small antechamber that likely once served as a guard post. A table with salt, fish and bread had been laid out. Ned sank into the chair and ate a few quick bites, famished from the ride. Howland took a moment to watch Ned feed Maw a whole fish.

“I cannot tell you how shocked I was when the news came,” Howland said.

“About the direwolves?”

Howland tore off a chunk of bread, “I knew a pack was found Beyond-the-Wall, but I had no clue the Great Shepherd was planning on sending them to Winterfell.”

Ned raised an eyebrow, it seemed there was to be no careful wording between them: “Why did you never say anything about the Shepherds? To me or Lyanna?”

“I did not know you, either of you, very well, despite your kindness. Many of the more devout Houses were inclined to believe the Starks did know of the Shepherds and were deliberately spurning them. It seemed more realistic than the loss of knowledge completely. Then again,” Howland speculated, “perhaps your Father did know but simply shared his Grandfather's distaste. Lord Rickard’s eyes were always pointed southwards, the Shepherds were likely a lesser concern.”

“I’m fairly certain I’ve fully turned from that path,” Ned quipped.

Howland smiled, “I think so.”

“Are there any Shepherds among your kin?”

“My grandmother and my uncle both went to Skagos. They returned to raise their families in the Neck.” Howland explained that for many years, Greywater Watch had served as a haven and messenger post for Shepherds across the North. They had even trained their own ravens to travel between other posts. Howland and Torrhen Wolftongue were distant acquaintances.

Ned wondered: “I expected to only find some of your people working on the foundations. Why didn’t you warn me of your arrival?”

“I hadn’t planned on coming, but two nights ago, Jojen came to me, he was incensed.” Howland looked out the door, taking in the clouds and the slight damp smell of the bog. “My son is a calm soul, he dreams and that gives him a confidence you don’t find in normal children. That night he was shaken, disturbed by whatever he had seen. He begged me to come meet you, to warn you.”

Ned was frowning heavily, “Warn me? About the south? I’m already wary. That’s why I called for such a strong escort.”

Howland got up and shut the chamber door, allowing Maw to come in and lay by their table. He barred it then leant over the table and whispered: “Jojen said that summer was ending. He saw a great mirror shatter and the shards flew like crow wings across Westeros. Wolves are dancing with giants and laughing with bears, when they should be alone. He said a crown of bronze that should’ve shrunk and shattered, instead shined anew. My son said the Wall was shaking and only a great howl could halt it’s crumble.”

Ned was frozen, trying to absorb the strange words. His mind lingered on that last declaration. The Old Gods had touched the boy with a warning. Could Jojen Reed have seen the coming darkness? The pact with Mance Rayder was still a closely guarded secret, not even Robb or Catelyn knew of it yet.

“Ned,” Howland begged, “Jojen no longer sees clearly. His dreams are muddied and flex like soaked bark. Please, what do you know?”

A cloud passed in front of the sunlight that was streaming through the barrack’s lone window. The room darkened, the single candle bloomed. For a split second, Ned noticed his reflection in Howland’s eyes. A long-haired man, with a face of regal stone and a heavy brow, bathed in crimson candle-light and flickering shadows that seemed to form a crown.

“Howland,” Ned said, “The Long Night comes.”

/////////

Chapter Text

Days streamed together, punctuated by his children's excitement at their first time south of the Neck. Catelyn especially enjoyed showing off the natural beauty of the Riverlands to Arya and Bran. The Kingsroad was in no better condition here. Rather than cracked stone from the melted ice, the path dipped and sunk around oxbows and hills. Hoster had agreed to take the longer route down to the Trident, allowing Ned more time with his family. They passed by the Twins at a distance. Everyone agreed that avoiding the Late Lord Frey was preferable to a shorter path to Riverrun.

Near the Inn at the Crossroads, Ned hugged his children goodbye and kissed away Cat's tears. They'd each send letters after reaching their destinations. Cat promised to keep him informed of Bran's squireship and whatever misadventures Arya found. He watched solemnly as the Tully caravan pulled farther and farther west until he and the Northmen were left to catch up with the King.

They rode south, through lands that still held distant memories for Ned. The hulking form of Harrenhal was an ever-present specter. The burnt husk of Harren the Black's castle cast a shadow over his heart. A contrast to the peaceful vista of the Gods Eye beside it. Even at a great distance, Ned felt some stirring for the Isle of Faces. The mysterious Weirwood heart of Westeros. Howland had gone there before that fateful Tourney so many decades ago, and the last reported sighting of Lyanna had been near the lake itself. Perhaps in a more peaceful year, Ned would make his pilgrimage.

Their arrival at King's Landing was no grand celebration. It was a sharp contrast for all the Northmen who had fought in the Rebellion who had briefly seen nothing but a ruined city clogged with smoke and corpses. They took the direct route through the streets and saw large sections of poorly constructed buildings. The City had not remained the smoking ruin the Sack had created.

Following Robert into the Red Keep, Ned made arrangements for his soldiers at two separate barracks. One in the docks and one near the Street of Steel. Ned stationed two hundred personal guards in the castle proper.

The remaining royals greeted them at the castle doors. Renly and Stannis stood apart from the Queen and royal children. Robert gave his family a brief greeting before running off for a drink, followed closely by Queen Cersei; she greeted Ned with perfect politeness before absconding with Prince Joffrey. Stannis informed him that Ser Vardis Egen had arrived with the Arryn household guard, and Jon Arryn was already under the care of Grand Maester Pycelle. 

Ned was left behind to coordinate the imprisonment of Lysa and Baelish. They took Baelish down to the Red Cells, just one level above the Black Cells. He would be uncomfortable but less likely to expire before his trial. The treacherous nobleman would stand before his judges in the next few weeks, once Jon Arryn was well enough to act as a witness. Lysa was escorted to a comfortable cell in the Maidenvault, giving little resistance other than quiet begging to see her son.

Taking one last breath of foul air, Ned followed Stannis into the castle.

////////

Unable to have two Hands, Robert appointed Ned as "Advisor to the King," which allowed him to assist Stannis in many duties. Robert preoccupied himself with planning his next feast, leaving Stannis and Ned to rule in his absence. The tale of Lysa's arrest and Jon Arryn's collapse was being shared widely throughout the Keep. Half-heard retellings and personal bias had muddied the details. 

Ned was called upon by Ser Egen a week after his arrival. Jon Arryn had finally awoken. He slipped quietly into the temporary quarters, past the Arryn guards standing at attention. Jon was propped up on his pillows and was squinting at a stack of letters in his lap.

The old Lord looked up slowly at Ned and weakly smiled: "Ned, so good to see you."

Ned sat by the bedside, "It's even better to see you awake, Jon," he said.

His foster father rubbed his chest, taking deep, careful breaths, "I've not felt this tired since the march to the Trident," he confessed.

"Rest will do you some good. Stannis and I have taken matters in hand," Ned told him.

"I'm glad House Baratheon has you to support them. Have you met with the Small Council?"

Ned grimaced, "Only once, at Stannis' insistence."

"Not the most prestigious group, I'll be the first to admit. Especially now that Baelish's corruption has been laid bare for all to see," Jon frowned.

"Robert has yet to name a replacement. Stannis delegated his former duties as Master of Ships to a commander from the Royal Navy, and Renly is not nearly as attentive as I would like," Ned complained. "Not to mention Lord Varys talking in circles and vagaries for minutes on end."

Honestly, the state of the Small Council was deplorable; it was a wonder that Jon Arryn had been able to keep the Kingdom running at all.

"What duties has Stannis handed off to you?" Jon asked.

"Mostly the ordering of the City's supplies, maintaining order between the tax collectors, guarding the gates, and coordinating with the Goldcloaks. I'm ill-equipped to mediate disputes between the Court," Ned explained, "I'm ignorant of the unspoken rules and history."

Jon leaned a comforting hand on Ned's arm, "King's Landing is rifer with corruption, secret dealings, and dangerous whispers than any place in Westeros. It's very different from acting as Lord Paramount of your own lands."

Ned shook his head, "Unspoken agreements and careful words are not new to me. The North has its own politics, no matter what you Southrons think. Yet it baffles me how little reputation and words mean. Stannis told me that three different Crownland Houses petitioned to renegotiate their taxes based on blighted crops just last year. Now we've received words that blight never existed! Of course, Baelish handled the matter, throwing the whole thing under suspicion. I would have seen them punished to the full extent of the law, but Stannis and the rest of the Council agreed to only a small fine! In the North, such a decision would have me swarmed by these Lords' neighbours demanding more severe measures."

"It is the way of things, Ned," Jon replied. "The Crown bears a different weight for its decisions. If Robert was seen taking these three Lords to task for their deception, the rest of the Kingdom would wonder if he sought to punish all such evasions. That could lead to much more trouble in the long run. Instead, the offenders receive a small fine now. Still, the next Master of Coin will ensure that merchants doing business in the Crownlands know exactly who to blame for their raised tariffs." 

Ned thought that secrecy and skirting the word of the law helped no one in this matter. In this case, it would imply the Crown was weak, that three Lords had gotten away with cheating their King. Then again, Robert was a first among equals. Unlike Ned or Jon, who undisputedly stood above their lords.

Looking back towards the door, Ned wished he'd brought Maw along, but the wolf had been taken out of the City by Lord Condon to stretch his legs. Ned leaned close and whispered: "The Great Matter is still in contention. I've convinced Stannis to hold until the matter with Lysa and Baelish has been resolved."

Jon nodded in thanks and looked out the window in thought. Ned loathed to bring up the state of young Robin. The boy was still unresponsive despite the attentions of three different Maesters. No noise or sensation stirred him from sleep, and his already frail form was beginning to waste away. Ned doubted Jon was unaware of his son's fate, nor the heavy burden he now bore to ensure that a new successor was chosen for the Vale.

Their discussion continued for another hour before the lumbering steps of the King came to the room. Robert burst in, giddy at the sight of Jon's recovery. He insisted they hold a feast to celebrate the Hand's return. Grand Maester Pycelle followed in his wake and conveyed that Jon Arryn was in no state to take up his duties. No less enthused, Robert gave his foster father a hearty shake and went off to taste test wines.

Ned bid Jon farewell and left to ensure that Robert's feasting plans were delayed as long as possible.

///////

More weeks passed. Ned fell awkwardly into his role. Neither he nor Stannis was as generous as other courtiers. The entire Red Keep swam in discomfort but gradual acceptance. If nothing else, the capital was running smoothly again.

A letter from Cat described Bran's first time hitting the training mark with a lance and Arya's newfound fascination with learning to sail from her Uncle Edmure. His reply contained some anecdotes about the Red Keep and a sadly sparse update on Lysa's condition. She was permitted to spend the afternoons with her son, though it did little to better her mood.

Ned hurried to make his last appointment for the day; a small luncheon with Desmond Redwyne and Loras Tyrell.

The Tyrells kept a small presence at Court. Loras Tyrell accompanied Renly and rarely oversaw business for his family. For the last two years, the Reach's representative was Ser Desmond, a cousin of Lord Redwyne. From what Ned could gather, Ser Desmond held no official position in the capital. Nonetheless, he held the authority of Mace Tyrell among the Reachmen seeking to do business with the Crown. Roose had keenly pointed out that not only was Desmond related to Mace Tyrell by blood through Lady Olenna, but his wife was also Lady Tyrell's sister, making him Mace's good-brother. The Tyrells had undoubtedly knotted themselves closely to the Hightowers and Redwynes. Ned doubted the House of the Golden Rose would ever forget that they ruled by the grace of the Conqueror and not their blood.

In one of the private gardens that dotted the Red Keep, Ned arrived with Roose and Rickard Ryswell at the appointed time. Sitting around a table already enjoying full goblets of Arbor Gold sat young Loras, the ginger-haired Desmond and-

"Lord Renly?" Ned said, astonished to see the Master of Laws sitting between the two Reachmen.

Renly raised a glass, "Lord Stark! So good to see you and your companions, of course." He stood and filled more cups, "Please sit!"

Roose sat stone-faced, letting Ned take the lead while Rickard enjoyed the wine. Ned did notice the young Ryswell took long drinks, but only a sip of wine passed his lips. Barbrey was already instructing him in her own brand of negotiating.

"My thanks," Ned said. "I was unaware that you would be joining us, Lord Renly." 

Renly smiled again, wider and wider. Did his grin have no end?

"Loras mentioned it yesterday, and I felt compelled to attend in Robert's stead. After all, we wouldn't want any arguments breaking out, least of all now," Renly explained.

Ned's stomach began to loop in on itself. Was Loras really that comfortable inviting another Lord into a private meeting? If Ser Desmond allowed this, what could that mean for Renly's relationship to the Tyrells? Stannis detested them and preferred to spurn them in his small ways. Robert himself wasn't fond of the flowers either. Why would the last brother cleave from his family on this matter? That comment about arguments was peculiar as well.

If Ned had been sitting down alone, he could very well have wound himself up like a wheel trying to keep his thoughts and words straight. Thankfully, at his side were two men equally unhappy for the sudden intrusion.

"Lord Redwyne, I must compliment you on the drinks. We rarely enjoy southern wine at home. I was wondering if you had any suggestions on a good vintage to take back North with me?" Rickard cut in.

Ser Desmond leaned forward, "I'd be happy to send for a fine barrel from our stores. I don't think we've been introduced?"

Rickard laughed, his boyish charm in full effect and turned to Ned. "Of course, my apologies, Lord Stark; I spoke out of turn."

Ned smiled, "No matter, this is not so formal a meeting that we must stand on ceremony. May I introduce Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort, and Rickard Ryswell, Heir to Barrowtown."

Desmond's eyebrows rose at Rickard's title while Loras and Renly were eyeing Roose cautiously.

"Speaking of wine," Ned announced. "Ser Desmond, Ser Loras, I called this meeting to broach the topic of shifting certain trade routes between the Reach and the North." 

Desmond's relaxed smile couldn't hide his alert gaze while Loras settled back, seemingly bored now that the conversation had moved on.

"As I understand it, trade through White Harbor has been steady for nearly a decade," Desmond pointed out.

"That is true, but the North will soon be transporting more goods than ever before down to our coasts," Ned said.

Desmond ran a finger over his rings, "A bold assertion, Lord Stark, does this newfound stream of trade have anything to do with your newly completed canal?"

Ned resisted the urge to snap his eyes to Renly; instead, Roose did it for him, and Renly's glowing smile strained. Already, Robert's brother had spilled the details of the trip to others.

"Yes," Ned replied. "The Wolfswood Canal is complete, and last I heard, two of the new water mills had been completed, with another two beginning construction."

"Lumber is always a needed import, though I would think that our existing agreements sufficiently cover our needs," Desmond countered.

"Truthfully, it was the paper and furs from Barrowtown that I wished to speak of," Ned corrected.

Now that piqued Ser Desmond's mind. The knight hesitated, then stroked his rings again, slowly: "I was unaware that Barrowtown exported such things in great volume. Very few of our merchants do business past Fair Isle. The Riverlands and Westerlands are regular visitors there. Our ships prefer the eastern routes."

"The Wolfswood is the first, but not the last canal underway. House Tallhart has already begun plans to connect Torrhen's Square to Barrowtown," Ned outlined.

"Then the wealth of your forests shall be open to them. I wonder where the paper factors into it?" Desmond asked.

Roose hummed, bringing the table's attention to his pale eyes, "The Citadel's supplies are in high demand, and shipments take time to reach us. The Dreadfort's lands are rich in sheep. My looms shall send the cloth to the mills, and from there, we shall send the paper by barge."

In truth, shipping parchment and paper was expensive regardless of whether you bought from the Reach or the Riverlands. The North currently bought its writing supplies from several different sources. With the mills already being built, Roose had brought up a proposition to shift production locally. 

Ned surmised that the Dreadfort and the Weeping Water were ill-suited for a canal, so Roose was looking to embed himself in the turn of fortunes any way he could. Domeric had let slip he'd be returning to Barrowtown to serve his Aunt Barbrey, and he'd been thick as thieves with Rickard the whole trip.

Desmond drummed on the table, "You said the Wolfswood will have four new mills?"

If Desmond realized that the North would save costs on importing writing supplies, the Reach would lose a steady income stream. Hopefully, he would understand that Ned was offering Highgarden an opportunity to make up for this loss with first rights to a new lucrative route along the western coast.

Ned nodded, "And with every cleared grove, we will have more land for pasture."

Rickard chimed in, "Barrowtown may never rival White Harbor's great docks, but I assure you, Ser, Lady Dustin is already planning for much-needed expansions."

Desmond paused to open a fine ledger embossed with a rose. Small, crisp writing filled the pages.

"And what would you be seeking from the Reach, Lord Stark?" Renly asked.

It was a question bordering on rudeness, especially coming from a Lord with no investments in the dealings. If Renly was not the King's brother, Ned might have insisted he leave.

"The North would like to increase food shipments over the next year and negotiate new long-term winter rates," Ned told him.

Loras laughed, but Desmond just looked up from his ledger with a tight grip on his quill.

"Winter prices?" Renly clarified. "Lord Stark, I know it's been many years since you came south, but as you can see," The Baratheon swept his arm out over the lush garden bathed in dew and sunlight, "summer is still here."

"A long summer means a long winter," Roose corrected.

"Can Northmen divine the future now?" Loras quipped though it earned no humor from Ned.

"There are many signs known to my people; the length of the ice on the Shivering Sea, the measurements of snow taken on the Crook Peaks, the barrel's filled by the weeping of the Wall," Ned listed a few examples. "I can say with confidence that summer is ending. Autumn is upon us, and it shall be short."

Ned had no way of predicting the exact month the snow would begin to fall. The Stark Histories had collected hundreds of different indicators from Houses across the North. Most families relied on one or two methods to guess at winter's approach; Ned and Luwin had painstakingly amalgamated as many as they could find. Even now, Robb would be receiving letters from Shepherds and minor Lords with details and reckonings to add more evidence and forecasting. 

Regardless of their responses, the warning from the Wall was final. A long winter loomed. Ned needed links to the South, links bound by word, ink, coin, and blood, if necessary.

"Well, I have my own 'signs,' and by my reckoning, it is time for some food!" Renly proclaimed, then stood to order from the kitchens, Loras in tow.

Desmond shook his head, then set his ledger down, a new page titled with their names and a date. Some small scribbles already laid in the margins, naming Barrowtown, Torrhen's Square, and the Dreadfort.

"Pay no mind to Lord Renly, he may be a friend of Lord Mace, but he doesn't dictate matters of trade. House Tyrell will doubtlessly be interested in enlarging food shipments. Besides that, who else would know better about winter than a Stark? If the cold winds do come, I can guarantee that Cousin Paxter will be eager for quality northern furs."

They debated terms and figures, throwing proposals back and forth. It would take weeks of careful bargaining to settle on the final prices. Ned would arrange for representatives to sail for Oldtown and Highgarden. Hopefully, he could avoid traveling to the Reach personally. Ned disliked the thought of extending his trip much longer than necessary. 

Renly and Loras returned with lunch in tow. Ned ate lightly, and once it was appropriate, the Northmen took their leave. Roose appeared satisfied, and Rickard was happy for the compliments Ned paid him. Despite old tensions with both the Boltons and Dustins, nothing united the Lords of the North like gaining the upper hand on the "Andals."

///////

Ned's optimistic thoughts died on the vine. Life was not a song.

Robert's good moods and tolerance ran out within a few months. Denied his feast and tourney due to Jon Arryn's declining health, Robert declared one morning, without warning Stannis or Ned, that he was going on a hunt. It was abysmal timing. Stannis had left a few days earlier, called back to Dragonstone to sort out damages from a recent storm, severe enough to warrant the Hand's attention. Ned, as the only remaining Advisor to the King, was forced to remain in the City to resolve disputes.

Three days later, panicked cries filled the Red Keep. Ser Barristan hauled Robert back from the forest, leaking his lifeblood. Ned could only stand by and watch the Maesters rush to staunch the wound as his friend was fed milk of the poppy. Ser Barristan was devastated, the King was barely conscious, the Queen was elusive, and Ned was exhausted. The Baratheon men that Stannis had not taken with him now answered to Renly, and day by day, more of the Royal Fleet slipped away. His ravens to Stannis now went unanswered. Maw was restless, and his lords reported altercations with the City Watch. He ordered the northern soldiers to keep to themselves. Roose and Marrick Flint ensured a band of their men was permanently stationed on one of the city gates.

After another day of tiresome and frustrating arguments, Ned had returned to his quarters. An unwelcome visitor met him.

"Lord Varys," Ned said, staring at the bald man lurking in the shadows of his dining room.

"Lord Stark," Varys greeted, "I apologize for the intrusion. There were matters that simply could not wait."

For a moment, Ned's heart skipped a beat, a number of fears rushed to his mind.

Varys glided softly to the fireplace, "The King and Lord Arryn are stable for the moment," the Master of Whispers reassured him. "I have news of a more worrying sort."

Varys turned and paused at the look on Ned's face. He was startled back to reality and took a seat.

"Petyr Baelish has been moved from the Red Cells," Varys said.

Ned slammed a fist on the oak table, "On whose orders?" he demanded.

"The Queen's," Varys replied. "Ser Jaime Lannister met with Baelish twice while the King was on his hunt. I'm unsure of what they discussed. Whatever Baelish said convinced Queen Cersei to send urgent letters to her Father and Uncle."

Ned grit his teeth, "You withheld this information. Why?"

Varys clicked his tongue, "You are a trusted advisor, but you are not Hand of the King, Lord Stark. I was awaiting Lord Stannis' return, but as the current Hand is still absent, I felt compelled to seek you out."

"Is there anything else you feel… compelled to share?"

"Several Crownland Lords have been summoned to the Keep. The Queen has some great matter she wishes to broach with them," Varys added.

Ned's spine straightened, "Great matter?"

He disliked the look in Varys' eyes. A man who heard too much knew too much but said very little. What other secrets did he know? Perhaps the most pressing one?

"Tomorrow, I will seek out Lord Renly. With his support, we can keep the city stable until Stannis returns," Ned decided.

Varys nodded and walked to the chamber door. Before he left, he turned back: "I should warn you, my Lord. Lord Renly has made plans to depart the City soon, and my little birds say that Lord Stannis has not stirred from Dragonstone, nor does he plan to."

Varys left Ned in the darkness.

//////

"What a wretched King I've been. A fool, a drunkard. Will they say I was as bad as Aerys?"

The last words of his dear friend had been somber. Robert finally woke after days under the influence of the poppy. One last bout of strength, Pycelle called it. The Demon of the Trident wallowed in his bloody bed, unable to even see his foster father one last time. The Grand Maester had declared it, and a messenger was sent to the Great Sept, the rest of the realm would soon know: King Robert Baratheon was dead.

A few hours after the Silent Sisters had come for the body, Ned sat in the Tower of the Hand, working through several missives. The door to the office was thrown open, and Renly Baratheon marched in, clad in fine riding leathers and mail.

"Renly?" Ned stood.

"Jon Arryn is dead," Renly said.

"I must go to him," Ned mumbled and took off down the stairs. Domeric and Donnel on his heels. He practically sprinted down the hallways, brushing past servants and guards. At the door to Jon's chambers, he saw a mass of Valemen, all hunched forward.

"Let me through!" Ned cried, pushing past the mourners.

The chamber was crowded but kneeling at the bedside was Ser Egen and Quinn. Ned staggered and slumped against the sheets. His hand desperately grasped for Jon's cold fingers. Jon's face was twisted in pain, his mouth curled. Before questions or tears could pass his lips, Ser Egen stood and leaned to Ned's ear.

"Lord Stark… the maid found his lips stained black," Egen whispered, a malignant rage in his words.

A deadly clarity fell onto Ned's mind. His devastation crested like a wave over a rock, and though the torrent of pain raged, sense returned to him. He saw Renly enter at a more sedate pace.

Ned took a final moment to lean forward and pressed a gentle kiss to Jon's forehead. Loudly, for the benefit of the room, Ned said: "Send for the Silent Sisters and assemble his household. Arrangements must be made to send young Robert back to the Vale," Ned ordered. "Who is watching over the Young Falcon?" he asked.

Egen and Quinn paled. All colour fled from their faces as they desperately looked over the mass of guards in the chamber. In their haste to see Jon Arryn, the guards had abandoned their posts. With nary a word, all three of them were rushing out. Robin's room was closer to the infirmary so the Grand Maester could attend him whenever he had time. A woman's screams echoed in the hall. Ned threw himself around the last corner.

The Hound stood outside Robin's door, restraining a hysterical Lysa Arryn. The woman was madly clawing out and thrashing with her whole body. Her rage was directed at Prince Joffrey, pressed against the wall with blood streaming from cuts on his cheeks and lips.

"MONSTER!!!" Lysa shrieked, "MONSTER!!!"

At the sight of Ned and the Valemen, Joffrey shouted: "Take her to the dungeons!"

A band of Redcloaks surged forward and took Lysa from the Hound, who all followed Joffrey as he fled deeper into the Keep, towards Maegor's Holdfast. Ned nearly gave chase but remembered why they had run all this way. He followed Egen into Robin's quarters. They were too late. 

No black lips stained Jon Arryn's son. Instead, the boy laid slack, his face a dull red. His hair was mussed, and a pillow lay fallen on the floor. No heartbeat filled his chest.

Quinn fell to his knees; he slammed his hands to the floor over and over. Egen threw his helmet against the wall with a scream. Ned was silent, his anger churned, his heart hammered, and he felt detached.

The rest of the guard followed swiftly. Renly grasped Ned's shoulder. Even Baratheon's imperious attitude cracked at the sight of the dead child.

"Lord Stark- Eddard, we cannot stay here. The Queen is making her move, she has the Redcloaks, and with Baelish free, she has the Goldcloaks. We cannot stay here, see sense!" Renly pleaded.

Ned spit back, "Do not speak to me of sense!"

Renly pulled his hand back.

"Egen, prepare the bodies and gather your party. We will get you out of the City," Ned commanded. "I'll send a runner to have my men at the docks leave through the Mud Gate. Renly, the Lockes, and Dustins are manning the King's Gate today; they will hold the gate open if the Queen orders otherwise."

With a firm slap on the back, Ned pushed Quinn into action. The Baratheon and Stark parties were frantically packing for a swift departure in quick order. He sent Domeric and Donnel to spread the word and 50 men down to the stables to prepare horses. The Queen must have been preoccupied with her son and Lysa. The Redcloaks that troubled them were easily intimidated, and the Kingsguard was nowhere to be seen.

As the last of the supplies were loaded, Ser Kyle Condon ran into the courtyard: "Lord Stark, the Queen, has announced that Prince Joffrey will be crowned King today!"

Ned thought of Robert's will, tucked in with his other documents. He'd been hesitant to present it to the Court without speaking to Jon first. What good would it do now?

Mounting his horse, Ned ensured his men were all accounted.

"We make for the King's Gate!" Ned shouted.

With haste, the smallfolk in the streets parted for them. Ned could only hope that Donnel, Rickard, and Furrow made it to safety and rejoined them outside the walls. When they passed the Mud Gate, he saw the portcullis dropped. The clash of swords carried on the wind from River Road. Battle raged at the King's Gate.

Roose fought from horseback beside Lord Condon and the Flints. Domerick stood near a fallen horse fending off Lannister men. Coming from the side streets, Renly and Ser Loras led Tyrell and Baratheon men against a mass of City Watchmen. Ned drew his sword and charged in, cutting into red-cloaked necks.

The melee was bloody, but Ned and his men steadily forced the Redcloaks off River Road and into the alleys. With the main way cleared, Garrus Cerwyn blew his cavalry horn, and as one, the two groups surged out of the King's Gate and onto the Gold Road. With all speed, they followed the road west and crossed Blackwater Bridge. From there, Ned had little choice but to follow Renly and the Tyrell men south to the Roseroad.

Sunset arrived, allowing them to stop for a rest. In the distance, Ned saw the towers of a castle and guessed they had reached Tumbleton on the eastern Mander. After assuring that they'd left no one behind, Ned and his commanders gathered at Renly's makeshift fire. 

The Lord of Storm's End stood and laughed, "Well done, Eddard! A heroic escape, just the sort of thing to get the bards singing."

"I thank you for your aid and your warning, Renly, you as well, Ser Loras," Ned said. 

Renly shrugged off the appreciation, "I should be thanking you and your men. It was Lord Bolton and Lord Locke's swordsmen that took control of the gate and stopped its closure."

Renly turned to the Northmen and pointed to the rations being handed out, "Please, take enough food for your men. I was unsure if you'd be able to secure enough provisions."

Ned motioned the men to the task. Renly beckoned him over to a log, and they sat near the fire.

"I assume you'll be heading to Storm's End?" Ned asked. "Word will reach Stannis swiftly. We must marshal our forces for when your brother makes his claim."

Rather than an enthusiastic agreement, Renly frowned.

"Lord Stark," Renly uttered, "we aren't going to Storm's End."

"I don't understand," Ned said.

"Our destination is Highgarden."

The fire burned intensely at their feet. Silence stretched between the two men; Ned was speechless.

"You would run?" Ned couldn't quite believe what he was hearing.

"Not running," Renly countered, "preparing. With Robert dead and Joffrey, a bastard, the realm needs a King that can unite it. That King is not Stannis."

The full horror of Renly's words dawned on Ned.

"You are forsaking your vows and the laws. Succession is clear, Stannis is Robert's heir, and you after him," Ned insisted.

"Stannis has no chance at winning the throne," Renly said, "I have the Reach and the Stormlands," he glanced back at the knot of Valemen guarding the shrouded forms of the last Arryns. "With some clever words, I'll have the Vale too." Ned saw Ser Loras and three other knights step into the firelight. "With your aid, Eddard, I can have the North and the Riverlands. What will Tywin Lannister do then? With all of Westeros set against his monstrous grandson?" Renly wondered.

"Stannis is the rightful King!" Ned growled.

"According to the law, so was Aerys," Renly dismissed.

"I will not abide by this," Ned declared and stood defiantly.

Loras made to draw his blade, but Renly hastily shoved his former squire's hands away.

"No harm will come to any Northman," Renly said. "Lord Stark, I'm afraid you're outnumbered. In the morning, two hundred knights will arrive from Long Table."

Ned gazed out and realized the younger man spoke true. The flags of the Reach and Stormlands outnumbered the Northern. Here in the heartland of the ancient Gardener Kings, Ned was at the mercy of the rose and stag. Renly stood at the heart of their disloyal union.

He could feel Maw hidden in the shadows just behind him. It would be easy, Ned thought, to order his wolf forward. To tear out Renly's throat, cut down one of the knights, and then command his men to flee into the darkness. A sliver of his savage desire shone in his eyes. Renly swallowed and laid a hand on his blade.

Ned could not bring himself to do it. 

Perhaps The Hungry Wolf or Brandon Ice-Eyes could have shed blood that night and added another song to their grim legacies, but The Quiet Wolf would not.

"Very well," Ned resigned, "I shall go with you in peace."

Renly relaxed and told Loras to return to his dinner. The other knights remained.

"I only ask," Ned added, "that some of my soldiers accompany the Valemen. If you mean to sway their liege lords, then my word will carry weight."

Renly acquiesced and thankfully left Ned alone by the fire, taking his knights with him. Roose and Domeric sat down soon after. They joined in his brooding when Ned revealed their newfound status as hostages. Domeric stood to inform the rest of their force and ensure no one panicked. Roose was quiet. No doubt, he would spend the night thinking and give counsel tomorrow with a fresh mind.

"What happened to your man, Wispin?" Ned asked.

Roose cut the last piece of his meat from the bone, "Following at a distance. I'll cut loose one of the horses for him with your permission. He can be in Riverrun before the week is out."

Perhaps Ned should look into finding his men like Wispin. Loyal men who knew the skills of a cutpurse and skulk.

"Where's your direwolf?" Roose asked.

Ned pointed behind him. Roose looked over his shoulder and jerked forward, dropping his meal into the dirt. Ned held back a smile. Maw's eyes shone like candles in the grass. Maw retreated into the field with a push of thought, intent on hunting his dinner. Roose regained his composure quicker than most.

"Another war," Ned said.

Roose reached down and threw the dirty pork into the fire, "It was inevitable."

Ned watched the meat blacken and crisp, slowly burning to ash.

"Winter is coming, Roose. We shall do our best to make this short. If blood must be spilled, let it be spilled quickly. I have had enough of these games. Stannis or Renly, whoever sits the throne, in the end, will owe us a debt, and they shall pay it."

Roose turned, and the shadows on his gaunt face were a strange comfort to Ned's dark thoughts.

"Well said, Ned… Well said."

The following day, the knights arrived as Renly promised. Ser Egen was confused, Quinn offended, by Renly's ruling. Ned bade them return to the Lords of the Vale. Marrick and his Flint host joined them, carrying a personal letter from Ned, addressed to Bronze Yohn Royce. 

Of course, Renly inspected his letter before sealing. He saw nothing amiss. Robert would have thought Ned insane, and Bronze Yohn would have been confused. Ned's letter included a personal anecdote, purportedly to prove the letter was genuinely from his hand. The story described a conflict between the raiders of the Mountain Tribes, where Ned and Jon Arryn came across one of the "Eagle-Men" poisoned by the wife of his dear friend, "Black Boar," after the "Pecking Bird" revealed the Eagle-Man's hidden camp. The Eagle-Man's son was also killed in the attack. 

Ned implored Bronze Yohn to recall the chaos among the tribes in the aftermath and avoid that tumult now and march to the true king with all haste. The message could have been more subtle, but the hidden meaning would hopefully convince Yohn that Renly's letter was mainly true. If nothing else, the Lannister's poisoning of Jon Arryn and the mysterious death of Robert Arryn would rouse the Vale against King Joffrey.

Their force made good time along the western road to Highgarden. Ned's worries curdled and twisted as they approached the seat of House Tyrell. A sweat-soaked messenger ran from the gates before Renly could introduce him formally to the Lord Paramount of the Reach.

"Lord Baratheon! Lord Baratheon!" The boy, some Tyrell cousin by his garb, shouted, "Tywin Lannister has marched from Casterly Rock!"

Renly clapped his hands, "I knew the Old Lion wouldn't sit idle. Tell us, where has he gone?"

"Riverrun!"

Renly's smile faded. 

Ned could only stand tall against the cold dread that gripped his heart. Starks had come south, and once again, tragedy hounded their every step.

//////

Chapter Text

“Grey Wind! Calm down!” Robb shouted, desperately trying to grab his companion’s attention.

The large direwolf was more interested in a wrestling match with Ghost. The three of them had caused Robb nothing but headaches since Green Eyes followed his parents south. Beorn had done his best to keep the animals in check while he, Jon and Sansa focused on managing Winterfell. Needless to say, with the wolves finally reaching physical maturity, Beorn had his hands full.

“Jon, call back Ghost!” Robb yelled to his brother. 

Robb slipped in the mud trying to separate the dogs while Jon, the smug ass, was laughing alongside Val. Robb could see the humor in the situation. All the Stark children had been stressed by the past months, some levity was a welcome sight.

The North’s requests and problems didn’t pause just because the Lord of Winterfell was absent. They arrived by raven and foot, looking to Robb for fair judgement. Sansa had stepped into their mother’s shoes with plenty of help from Jeyne, Beth and surprisingly Dacey Mormont. It was an unfair judgement to think because the heiress of Bear Island wore a mace, that she had abandoned all other skills. 

Jon had also taken a share of the load. He ventured down to Wintertown frequently to manage affairs among the influx of new occupants. The vast majority of the “Wolf Canal” labourers had left for their next destinations, but a sizable number of families and craftsmen had set up semi-permanent business near Winterfell. It got Jon out of the castle, usually with Val in tow. Few petty matters survived her wit and words, which opened the way for Jon to settle the arguments peacefully.

Val took pity on Robb, now with dirt up to his knees, and whistled a loud tune. Ghost pivoted on his heels and made a dash for the couple. Leaving Grey Wind to turn his pounce on Crag, who’d been having a nice nap by the pool in the Godswood. Robb’s morning prayers had been interrupted by the wolves’ arrival, Jon and Val not far behind. The feast at Last Hearth was only a few weeks away and preparations were nearly completed for their journey. Beorn was wrapping up his business in Wintertown while Sansa was giving final directions to the servants taking over her regular duties. 

Originally, Sansa, Dacey and the Karstarks were going to Last Hearth alone. Word of the celebration had spread through the castle and once it was explained to Val, she insisted on attending. Jon had been hesitant to ask Sansa but their sister had jumped at the idea and asked Beorn and Mari to come as well. Robb felt secure enough to shoulder being the only Stark in Winterfell. Lord Cerwyn had come for an extended visit and Maester Luwin would be staying behind, Robb wouldn’t lack for counsel. 

The last message from Father had placed them near the Trident. That had been sent a few weeks ago, Father would have arrived in the capital by now. He guessed that a lengthy letter from Mother was on its way from Riverrun.

Leaping forward, Robb wrangled an arm around Grey Wind’s neck. The wolf was nearly too large to trap in a headlock but Robb managed it. He cursed in the Old Tongue the whole time but Grey Wind belatedly realized it was time to rest.

Robb wiped off the dirt and dust as he left the Godswood for the front gate. He smiled widely at the sight of Alys carefully fixing her mare’s saddle. Grey Wind sauntered forward to catch her attention.

“What have you been doing, Grey?” Alys asked the wolf, picking a few red leaves from his pelt.

Grey Wind shoved his snout into her pockets, searching for some treats no doubt.

“Nothing for you there, boy,” Alys told him. 

Robb joined her and threaded their fingers together as Alys indulged Grey Wind with pets.

“You’ll write?” Robb asked.

Alys caught his eye and shyly smiled, “I’ll have a letter ready before we even arrive, I’m sure.”

Robb cast a quick look at the rest of the men and women preparing their horses in the courtyard. Ser Rodrik would be leading the escort personally while Jory took command of the castle. The old man was preoccupied with his saddlebags, allowing Robb to dart in for a quick kiss. Alys was thinking the same thing, she’d kept an eye on Dacey Mormont talking with Wylis about a problem with her horseshoes. The future Lady Stark grabbed a fistful of Robb’s copper hair and met him halfway. Robb reluctantly pulled away all too soon.

“I shall miss you terribly,” Robb told her, “these last weeks have been wonderful.”

Alys blushed then reached out to brush a few strands of her hair off his shoulder.

“We have a few years yet before our marriage,” Alys reminded him. “Plenty of time for more visits.”

“Plenty of time for you to out-think me, you mean.”

Alys laughed, thinking back on their evenings of riddles and games. She and Sansa held the current six-day winning streak.

“Father asked that I return to Karhold after the celebration,” Alys added. “Mother cajoled him into reviewing the winter fund and Torrhen fumbles his sums no matter how slow he writes.”

Robb nodded with a frown, “I imagine I’ll be just as busy. Another batch of messages arrived yesterday. House Liddle finished their peak markings. Luwin and I will need at least a week to bring them in line with all the other measurements.”

Alys kneeled down to give Grey Wind his final scratches, “Also, Harry took your last letter to heart. When he was a child, our grandmother used to tell stories about old folk on the Grey Cliffs tasting Winter on the breeze. He’s been riding up and down the coast, visiting hamlets and homesteads, looking for elders willing to walk the cliffside.”

“If anyone can convince an ancient Nan to go for a stroll, it would be Harrion.”

“He mentioned Shepherd Derwyn has all of Hilltop in a rush, she convinced Alderman Beck to build another root cellar and to finally have the mill repaired. Harry also sent Torrhen off to find out why our Great-Uncle Arnolf hasn’t been sending his extra stores to Karhold. It’s almost like everyone knows something is coming, but no one can agree on what to do first.”

Alys looked up to see Robb staring into the overcast sky, his thinking-frown firmly in place. She knew the coming winter weighed heavily on his mind, moreso with Lord Stark so far away. He was determined to prepare their kingdom for the harsh snows.

Winterfell sent requests to every corner of the North for measurements, guesses, old stories and habits. Alys’ mother, Rellyn, had been rightly concerned when her daughter wrote home about Lord Stark’s intense interest in forecasting the end of summer. The Lady of Karhold even reached out to her estranged kin at Widow’s Watch. Whatever response was returned, it had roused her mother, hence Karhold’s winter fund being re-examined from top to bottom.

Ser Rodrik called out and the riders began to assemble. Robb helped Alys into her saddle. He made the final rounds, bidding goodbye to his family and thanking the escort for their dedication. 

His final words were solely for Alys. He softly kissed her knuckles, opened her hand, then pressed a small amol into her palm.

“I’ll be waiting for you,” Robb told her. “The world seems so much clearer with you nearby.”

That final word filled Alys with a deep happiness, what she would now say for certain was love. Their party set off along the path, wheeling onto the Kingsroad, following the White Knife north. Sansa rode up beside Alys and peered down at the amol , now tied around her wrist.

Alys ignored her friend’s chuckles and pointed looks, “Can I help you, Sansa?” she asked. 

“No, no, no,” Sansa demurred, “I just thought you should know that Robb’s act of romance has made Jon very jealous.”

“Which one?” Alys asked.

“Smalljon is already planning out his carving,” Sansa told her, “As for my brother…”

The two women looked back to see Val and Jon riding side by side. Jon Snow had always appeared despondently shy. As a young girl, Alys wondered if Robb’s brother was mute. This past visit to Winterfell, she’d heard Jon speak more than the last dozen years combined. Val herself had little patience for meekness, she evidently enjoyed pushing Jon into boldness. To be fair, once Val cracked the man’s shell, Jon Snow would eagerly rise to her challenge. The Skagosi woman had a way of making the Bastard of Winterfell forget the strict manners he awkwardly imposed on himself. Alys was almost tempted to try and push Robb to passion once or twice, maybe once they were wed. 

Jon’s infatuation with Val was obvious. Alys thought it was charming how he went out of his way to make her feel comfortable. Skagos was quite the remote place and Shepherds were odd folk at the best of times. It was understandable that a noble castle was new ground to her.

Alys knew Winterfell’s staff had gossiped about the pair. Eddard Stark’s second son disappeared off to the east, only to return with his cousins, a weirwood maks and fair young woman. Lord Stark had not made any announcements of betrothal, The staff guessed they were quietly courting until Jon’s status as Lord of the Gift was secured. She couldn’t imagine a bold woman like Val waiting very long to marry.

It would be interesting to see the reactions to the Gift’s return at the celebration. Last Hearth was bound to be busy regardless. An event focused on the younger generation of the North was a new concept and Sansa had painstakingly combed through her archives for all sorts of interesting traditions to introduce. 

The North hadn’t held a large, stable court since the days of King Torrhen. Harvest feasts had become the main vehicle for young nobles to meet and mingle outside of singular visits between Lords. Many families were sending representatives and a slew of older relatives would be chaperoning. Alys was mentally readying herself for the various conversations the other heirs would drag her into. Even a so-called “casual” feast like this would be rife with drama.

She wondered if any of the ladies would set their eyes on Jon Snow? More than a fair share of minor Lords would draw steel for the right to help start the new branch of House Stark. If nothing else, it would be worth the hassle to see Val’s response to any new “competition.”

Alys wondered if Sansa and Smalljon would be willing to bet on who lost their temper first: Val at some pretty lady dancing with Jon? Or Jon when a Lordling decided to try charming Val?

//////

With the northern mountains at their backs, they veered east after passing Long Lake. Last Hearth was not the largest castle in the North. By a measure of sheer area, Winterfell cleanly held the title. Sansa, however, thought Last Hearth deserved to be called the grandest. To her eyes it outshone even the seat of House Lannister. Of course, she had never been to Casterly Rock, only read descriptions and seen sketches.

Like Casterly Rock, Last Hearth rested upon Glammar, which was no mountain, it was a massive hill that rose out of the Roaring Forest, north of The Last River. Sheer rock laid across the hill’s north and western face, bracketing the sloped earth that fell from the top down to the southern tip which was bordered by a deep stream. 

At its foot was the Umber’s main township, Chainhouse. A walled settlement that was more heavily defended than most villages so close to a large keep. Sansa knew that smallfolk this close to The Wall were wary of living anywhere in the open.

Last Hearth itself encompassed the top of Glammar. Seven huge halls encircled a single tall keep. Unlike Winterfell, Last Hearth was mainly built from wood except for two walls that spanned the hill path leading from Chainhouse up to the castle; these were wrought from thick mountain stone. A gift from a Norrey woman who won the hand of an Umber Lord when Smalljon’s ancestors still claimed to be Kings of the Bay.

The first time she saw it, Sansa was struck by the picturesque vista. All those years ago, the sun had risen on the horizon and its beams spilled across the wooden buildings, giving the entire feature a warm glow, so unlike the grey colouring of Winterfell. The light fell across the cliff face and the stone face sparkled! As if jewels were hewn into the caves and cracks. Smalljon had blushed like a red rose when Sansa waxed poetic about the sight. Greatjon had been brought to tears when she sang her first song about the castle. A Giant’s Garnet was now a staple of House Umber’s feasts. No doubt Smalljon would convince her to sing it for the celebration.

Chainhouse was quiet, apart from a few people calling out greetings to her and Smalljon. They were the first noble party to arrive and no doubt Last Hearth’s steward, Hother Umber, was busy preparing. Judging by the small group waiting at the foot of Glammar, their approach was anticipated. Sansa smiled and greeted Oma and her younger sister, Elma, while Lady Tyla pulled her son into a gentle embrace. A comical sight, since Lady Tyla was only a few inches shorter than Smalljon. People who thought the size of her betrothed came solely from his father were mistaken. Smalljon once confided that the Greatjon noticed his wife because she towered over the other Ladies at every feast. After Smalljon had gone to bed, Oma had whispered that her father was looking for a bride he wouldn’t smother in his sleep.

“Lady Sansa, we are overjoyed to see you return,” Lady Tyla said.

“It’s always a pleasure, my Lady,” Sansa replied. “You know Lady Alys Karstark, Lord Eddard Karstark, and Lady Dacey Mormont. I’d like to formally introduce you to my half-brother, Lord Jon, my cousins Beorn and Mari Wolftongue and their companion, Val of Skagos.”

The Shepherds, including Val, were given a respectful nod. Lady Tyla was polite, especially to Sansa’s brother. No doubt Smalljon had already written to his parents about the new title. Sansa would need to carefully inquire to the Umber’s thoughts on not being granted the Gift themselves.

She did notice Jon having a heated conversation with Val just out of earshot. Jon gestured sharply at the ground then back down the hill. The two locked eyes. Val nodded and laid a hand across her chest.

“Sansa?” Smalljon called.

She turned away from the private moment and joined Smalljon on the path to the Family Hall. Her mind focused firmly on the impending festivities.

//////

“Welcome, Lords and Ladies!” The Greatjon boomed. “All our guests have arrived, Last Hearth is grateful to host you.”

The feasting hall was awash in torch light. The Umber’s main hall was heavily decorated: centuries-old carvings climbed the pillars, the walls were adorned with splintered shields and ragged banners, large tables bordered a huge cooking pit, a hog roasting over it, and a throne sat at the back of the hall, a squat chair of bronze with an impractically large greatsword sunk and chained to the floor acting as the backrest.

Sansa and Jon sat beside the Umbers at the head table. A good 80 people filled out the rest of the banquet. Their guests ranged from older heirs like Daryn Hornwood and Dacey Mormont to younger representatives; a large group of Knotts and Buckleys from the Mountains, many of House Karstark’s Masterly families, House Umber’s vassals, and a surprisingly large party of Bolton vassals. Sworn swords and older cousins and uncles filled out the rest of the seats. 

Everyone had spent the past few days making awkward introductions, igniting old rivalries or forging fast friendships. Sansa had assigned Smalljon and his cousins to roam the castle and keep the peace. He broke up no less than three fist fights, one wrestling match and six different “improper encounters.” The lack of supervision outside of a scant few older relatives was too tempting for a few of the young nobles.

“Before we begin, I will allow Lady Sansa Stark to speak.”

The Greatjon gestured for Sansa to stand. She carefully straightened her dress. The attention of the entire hall was nerve-wracking, but Sansa had performed before enough crowds that she pushed past her own discomfort.

“As we open this celebration I hope you all take this chance to meet your neighbours, near and distant. I speak for my father, Lord Stark, when I say that the North, now more than ever, must be united. United in strength, hearts, and mind. Together, we have weathered three hundred years of the dragon, the invasion of the Andals, and before that, the Long Night itself,” Sansa said, her tone serious, words echoing beneath the rustic walls. “This summer has been long and for the most part peaceful. The winds are changing, when cold winds blow we must hold to each other to survive.”

The audience was enraptured. Their goblets left untouched, a few of the Mountain Clans had even clasped their hands over medallions and amols dangling from their necks. She saw the skepticism in a few faces. Sansa had carefully prepared her opening speech with Jon, Beorn and Mari. If she was going to be the Lady of Last Hearth, she would need a good relationship with the Mountain Clans and the Karstark neighbours. She knew her Tully blood would cause some amount of discomfort. The fact that her Mother followed the Seven was enough reason for the more devout Northmen to mistrust her. Sansa needed to establish herself as a true Northwomen before her peers. To put a new story on their tongues when her name came up in their circles.

“Let night come, let the enemy draw their steel. We shall gather around our fires and bear our bronze. Those who seek to conquer us shall hear the echoes of our wolves. Those who seek our friendship will feast at our sides. The summer was long and now the sun wanes. We who sit here now are the future, one day the burdens of our family will rest on our shoulders. We shall strive to be worthy of it. Winter is coming.”

She could see the hall react to her speech. It was apparently inspiring, Robb had convinced her of that fact. The real test would be to recite it again.

“ Yoz nott ther, yoz otter herol hal. Far finna rus soln, dor herol aira. Ottern vinna dov arn, iul ber dov hlak fer ulfern. Ottern vinna dov aith, iul odask feygg eta holn. Solnmar ferd langr, soln dol ban. Wintre dov koma.”

Sansa recited the Old Tongue in one strong breath. She’d stayed up over many evenings practicing the words, her rhythm and pronunciation. This was too important to interrupt with hesitant pauses or syllable corrections.

Many were struck by her use of the ancient language. Despite Beorn’s presence in Winterfell, signalling the Shepherds return to the heart of the North, Jon had learned on Skagos, that many Houses were skeptical that the Starks had truly embraced the old traditions again. Lady Catelyn’s background and her Father’s fostering in the Vale were stones around the Stark children’s feet. Robb was even more pressured to prove himself a worthy future Warden of the North. If Sansa and Jon could convince the next set of Lords and Ladies, then Robb’s task would be all the easier.

For a split second, she feared the silence was proof she had failed. Her words sounded hollow to their ears and she would be forever labeled a failure, a trout trying to be a wolf, an andal who didn’t bel-

“Winter is Coming!” A woman with Knott stitching cried.

“Winter is Coming!” Yelled a trio of lordlings from the Lonely Hills.

Smalljon damn near leapt onto the table, “Winter is Coming!”

Greatjon slammed his mug to the table, “Winter is Coming!”

The whole hall erupted and the Greatjon’s rumble called for the first course of the meal. Sansa had begun the celebration on the right foot, now she had to ensure it stayed the course.

//////

Chapter Text

“Come on now, young man, don’t leave us in suspense!”

Jon took a drink of his ale to avoid answering Greatjon’s question. He’d been left at the Head Table when the dancing started. Sansa and Smalljon had opened the floor with Alys and her brother following. Now that they were both in their cups, the Greatjon had opened up a discussion about the Gift. Jon got the sense the Umber was intensely curious about his plans for the new lands.

“I’ve settled on Ghoststark, Lord Umber,” Jon announced.

He’d settled on his new title just days before departing Winterfell. Jon’s brothers and sisters had come up with nearly ten different names. They covered a variety of themes: Rickon had fought valiantly for “Jonstark,” while Arya and Bran bickered over whether “Wallstark” or “Giftstark” was superior. Sansa was more inclined to follow the traditional colours and suggested “Blackstark” to signify his connection to the Wall; Jon felt it was too close to Blackfyre. Robb had been adamant that “Whitestark” was a fine name, he pointed out that it avoided tripping over Greystark and Redstark. Though Robb conceded it may confuse Jon’s lineage with the Whitehills near the Wolfswood.

Jon decided his new name should reflect something unique about him, just as the Karstarks were named after their founder. Ghost was his closest companion and he knew that the silent wolf was his most memorable feature. Mance and Dalla had even started calling Jon, Vitulf , Whitewolf, when they felt like being clever. Thus, he settled on Ghoststark. 

His banner was still undecided. His bags held dozens of charcoal sketches. He knew his main colour would be white, but he had no great deeds to his name, so the design was bare at the moment apart from some depiction of a white wolf with red eyes.

Greatjon smashed their mugs together, “A fine name!”

The two went back to discussing the logistics of bringing the Gift back into the Northern trade routes. Lord Umber was only somewhat familiar with the lands. He promised to send word to Chainhouse, where some of the residents originally came from the Gift. Jon would appreciate the chance to talk with them and learn the realities of his new holdings.

“Have you spoken with Edwyle yet?” Greatjon asked.

“Briefly, he and I agreed to spar some time this week. We were both younger and less seasoned the last time we fought in Winterfell.”

Greatjon smiled, “Edwyle’s got a good head on his shoulders, might not be the brightest of the bunch but he’s got common sense trickling out his ears!”

Jon laughed appropriately, he picked up somewhat on the Greatjon’s undertones. Taking a risk, he decided to try and respond properly: “I know he enjoys visiting his cousins in the mountains, has he spent much time in the Gift?”

“Roads and Wildlings can’t be left to themselves. He’s made his fair share of trips to the Wall, either taking prisoners your father sends or escorting the occasional Wandering Crow.”

“I’ll have to ask him about it, maybe he won't be opposed to finding a more… permanent home, farther north,” Jon implied.

The Greatjon smiled and toasted again. It seems Jon’s first attempt at negotiating had passed muster. If he could bring Smalljon’s brother into his service that would certainly smooth any future dealings.

“Lord Jon?” A voice called.

A woman his age stepped out of the crowd and approached the table. She was near his age and had chestnut hair done in two thick braids. Her dress had motifs of goats jumping over bushes. It took a moment, but Jon thought she came from the Lonely Hills, House Umber’s most southern holdings.

“Would you care to dance?” she asked.

Before Jon could refuse, Greatjon grabbed him by the neck of his tunic and stood him up.

“Young Jon would be delighted, Lady Cull!” Greatjon shouted.

Lady Cull took Jon by the hand and pulled him onto the dance floor. They joined the rhythm of the tune and were quickly swinging and stamping alongside the rest of the guests. At Sansa’s insistence, Jon had brushed up on his dances before the feast but he didn’t expect to actually use them, only to find he spent the next hour on his feet. 

First was Lady Cull, then there was Lady Torrd, then Lady Bairn, and eventually the names blended together. Jon kept his partners straight by taking in their dresses: the Umber nobles wore heavy cloth embroidered with animal and plant motifs, the Mountain Clan women integrated small jewels to their hides, and most of the other guests had prominent family sigils on their person. Dacey Mormont even took his for a round when Eddard Karstark took a brief break.

Stumbling off the dance floor, Jon avoided any eye contact and flopped down into a chair. Taking a goblet, he eagerly drank down water and wine, whatever was in front of him. Jon couldn’t believe that Sansa was still dancing. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to dry the sweat clinging to his neck.

“Lord Jon?”

Jon sucked in a deep breath and fought down his urge to frown. The night was half-over, he could make it through another few partners. He looked up from his drink at the woman standing by the table.

“Yes, my lady?” Jon answered.

Jon saw her smile and darted a look behind her to a group gathered around a wine pitcher. He had a feeling this was some kind of wager.

“I hoped to beg a dance from you, Lord Jon,” she said.

One thing all his partners had in common was that title. They emphasized it. He’d known that any of the guests who found him distasteful or “unworthy” avoided him altogether. That didn’t stop a few elbows on the dance floor being thrown his way. He swore someone had muttered “bastard” as they passed in the circle.

Jon prepared for another round when someone stepped to his side.

“Snow, get off your ass,” Val demanded.

She grabbed Jon’s hand and pulled him out of the chair before he could move.

“Excuse me,” the lady protested.

Val ignored her and led Jon to a side table near the hall doors. Beorn and Mari were relaxed, each having indulged in the feasting. Beorn in particular looked flushed and giddy.

“And what’s made you so happy?” Jon asked.

Mari giggled, “Beorn got himself a proper dance with Arrana, Mors Umber’s daughter.”

“Better be careful,” Jon chuckled, “Smalljon nearly ripped Prince Joffrey in half for glancing too often at Sansa. I can’t imagine what Crowfood would do to you.”

“Crowfood is that old man with the eyepatch?” Val asked. “He wouldn’t stop staring at me after we arrived. He even asked me who my mother was. A strange man.”

Jon turned to Mari and Val, “Are you two attending the Ladies’ Court tomorrow afternoon?”

“Your sister wants me there to keep things from getting out of hand,” Val said.

Mari nodded, “Sansa asked me to officiate it and give a blessing. What are you two planning?”

Beorn’s happy glow dimmed, “I was thinking of going down to Chainhouse. I know Yorrick is skulking around somewhere. Let’s avoid him, if possible.”

The bald Shepherd had left a bit of a mark on poor Beorn. Jon wondered if his cousin would still take the insults lying down. Jon wasn’t sure he would remain neutral if the gruff man came looking for a fight. 

Jon reached over to refill Beorn’s cup, “We could take Ghost and Crag down the hill. Smalljon will be busy with the other guests, so we can slip away for a few hours.”

Val clapped her hands together, “Enough with the planning!” She stood and grabbed Jon’s hand again. “I’ve left you alone to entertain these girls, now we’ll have a proper dance,” Val told him.

Genuinely excited for the first time that evening, Jon happily followed his… whatever Val was, onto the dance floor just in time for Smalljon to call for a rowdy tune. They spent the rest of the evening in each other's arms. If Val was conspicuously absent from her shared chamber with Sansa and Dacey until the early hours of the next morning, neither woman was keen to mention it at breakfast.

//////

The next morning, Sansa took the Ladies of the castle with her to Last Hearth’s Godswood to hold her impromptu court. It sat nestled along the ridge of Glammar, with only a low rock wall to mark the boundaries. Mari pointed out that instead of any trail, huge slabs were laid into the earth almost like paving stones. Oma mentioned there were old legends about an ancient castle swept off the hill by a great winter storm in ages past. The First Umber Kings found the ruins and decided not to risk their own home being thrown clear into the Roaring Forest. They refused to build anything with rock except the foundations of Last Hearth. Oma’s matron used to joke, “You never know when you’ll need to set your own roof aflame.” A strange saying that wriggled in Sansa’s mind as she waited for the women to settle.

She’d adapted the idea for the event from Good Queen Alysanne’s Woman’s Courts and the informal meetings that the Lords of Winterfell held during the Harvest Feasts. The Ladies’ Court would be an opportunity for the visitors to speak officially to her as the eldest daughter of House Stark, about issues that their male relatives might find hard to bring to her father’s attention.

It was a stressful afternoon, with Sansa relying heavily on Dacey, Val and Mari to keep the discussions civil and on track. More than a few attendees brought up conflicts between their smaller Houses: The Masterly Houses of the Umbers were discontent with the Masterly Houses of the Karstarks over the flow of trade along the Last River, the Mountain Clans wanted the rights to hunt further south claiming their normal herds were straying away from the Bay of Ice, the Lonely Hill representatives wanted reparations from some Bolton vassals for allegedly poaching deer before mating season.

It was all quite chaotic, and privately Sansa thought it exhilarating. These were tangible problems that she could help solve. The fun came to an end when Alys nearly knocked out Tess Dourlocke’s teeth over some rumor that Harrion Karstark had gotten a child on Tess’ aunt. It was past time to eat, so Sansa called for a closure of the court. Mari gave a blessing and Sansa thanked Lady Tylla for her gracious hosting. Their party split to find refreshments as Beorn and Jon returned to the Halls.

Val walked straight up to Jon and caught his attention with a few rubs on the chin. Really her brother was a bit too much like Ghost.

“Did you have a nice time?” Sansa asked the boys.

Beorn nodded, looking less miserable than that morning, waking up hungover and receiving a subtle threat from Mors Umber would put a damper on anyone’s day. 

“A bit of fresh air always does me good,” Beorn said. He added, “We also found something interesting near the base of the hill.”

Beorn pulled open his satchel and grabbed a handful of small dark stones, holding them out for Val and Sansa to inspect. They were chips of rock with the most interesting colouring. Shimmering ebony slick and shiny inside a glass-like coating. Sansa recalled Maester Luwin had some pieces like it in his study.

“It’s dragonglass,” Sansa pointed out.

Jon stepped forward with his own handful, “Aye, there’s lots of it embedded in Glammar’s rock. Though there were sections that looked almost hollowed out, like it had been mined.”

Val had picked up a few pieces, “There’s a lot of the stuff past the Wall. If you can’t get your hands on good enough stone or bronze, a few desperate folk know how to fashion knives and arrows out of it. We never called it dragonglass, the wisewomen call if Eldsker, fire-rock. Graves near the Frost Fangs are filled with it.”

“The Children carry weapons from it. They used to deliver a hundred daggers to the Watch every year, for new recruits,” Mari told them.

“Have they spoken to the Great Shepherd about it?” Jon asked, “They never said anything to me.”

“Mance and Father are still exchanging messages last I heard. I can send a letter to ask,” Beorn replied.

Jon realized too late that Sansa was standing with them. He froze, like he’d been caught stealing sweets from the kitchen.

Sansa’s eyes were wide: “Children? Jon, have you spoken with a Child of the Forest?” she furiously whispered.

Sansa was rushed into a side chamber, away from any prying ears. Naturally, she was quite disturbed not just by the revelation that her brother had spoken with the ancient people of Westeros, who, even with Beorn’s reassurance that some still lived, seemed more a fairy tale or legend. Jon’s explanation required revealing the truth about Val’s heritage and the meetings with Mance Rayder. His sister was dumbstruck, she sat in a chair and carefully absorbed everything. The urge to panic was difficult to fight.

“Father knows?” Sansa asked.

Jon nodded. Sansa took a relieved breath.

“The Others are moving, will they attack the Wall?”

Beorn crossed his arms, “The Children seem to think so.”

“How long do we have?” Sansa wondered.

“We’ve no clue,” Val told her, “Mance hopes that by moving all the Free Folk south it’ll slow them down. The last scouts I heard from said the wights were roaming openly on the west side of the mountains. We know the Others have been spotted on the Giant’s Stairs though, some say they’ve come closer to the Wall in secret.”

“It could be years,” Beorn added, “the old tales say the White Walkers marched down into Westeros in separate forces, of different sizes. Supposedly, sometimes they retreated and launched small raids to rebuild their armies. Now, The Wall will stop them from going unchecked.”

“We have time,” Jon reassured her. “Once Father returns, he’s going to visit Castle Black and open talks with Mance.”

Sansa calmed and gave her brother a kind hug. She could see that the secrets had been a hard burden for him. No doubt he would inform Robb when they returned.

“There’s nothing we can do now. Let’s just ensure the rest of the event runs smoothly,” Sansa told them.

//////

That night, Jon laid down in his bed and dreamed.

Cold winds blew drifts of snow the size of towers across a barren field. Jon stood on a tree branch hundreds of feet in the air. Amid the storming flurries he spotted a black form gliding through the sky.

It was a crow. 

With every beat of its wings, Jon saw a fresh layer of snow and ice cling to its feathers. It was desperately flying despite the heavy frost. He tracked the crow’s destination- a massive monolith that was unmistakably The Wall far to his left.

The crow called out shrill and clear: “North! North! North!”

Another gust of wind swept down from the distant mountains. The tree Jon perched on trembled. 

The Crow cried: “Snow! Snow! Snow!”

Jon tried to hold on but the earth itself churned and his grip faltered, sending him careening out of the tree towards the ground. He screamed as he fell.

He screamed again as he jolted awake in bed.

For a brief moment Jon held his breath. Taking in the dream, the vision. He sat up and turned, ready to go wake Beorn in the adjoining room. His cousin beat him to it. Light illuminated the cracks of his chamber door and Jon rose when someone knocked.

“Beorn?” Jon whispered.

The door creaked open and Beorn leaned in, his long hair tousled and eyes red from a small candle in his hand.

“I need to talk with you, Jon,” Beorn said.

“About what?”

“I think I saw something in my sleep. Winter, snow, The Wall,” Beorn began, “and a-”

“Crow” Jon finished.

Jon thought Beorn looked hunted, disturbed. 

They both threw on more clothes and sat down at the small table near their fireplace. Judging by the coals it had been a few hours since they’d gone to bed.

“I’ve never seen anything that vivid before,” Beorn commented.

Jon was reminded that Beorn was accustomed to vague feelings and hazy recollections outside of the one green dream he experienced while escorting Green Eyes to Winterfell. Jon thought the vision felt similar to his wolf dreams, a much more comforting experience than consciously warging, which he still struggled with compared to Arya and Bran.

“Where were you?” Jon asked him.

“At the base of the Wall. I was watching the crow fly when the wind picked up, then I heard a crack and a chunk of ice and stone fell from above me. I jumped out of the way but landed on a sheet of ice. It gave out beneath me and I woke up when I started drowning,” Beorn described.

“What do we do?” Jon asked.

Beorn rubbed the sleep out of his eyes: “We should find Mari in the morni-

A rush of kicks hit the door to the hallway. Beorn walked over and cautiously answered. Mari pushed past her brother, barging into the room. She must have run from her own bedroom, she was sweating and her gown was askew.

“You're both okay,” Mari sighed in relief.

“You saw the crow too?” Beorn asked her.

“I saw the whole thing,” Mari confirmed. “The storm came down from the mountains and swept across the forest. I was high above it all in an eagle, the crow was beneath me. I was distracted,” she turned to Jon, “I think I saw you, perched on a massive weirwood tree branch. Well, I assumed it was you, it was a direwolf with white fur and red eyes. Although you had big patches of black fur running along your back.”

“Did you see Beorn?” Jon wondered.

Mari made an effort to straighten her clothes and tidy her long hair.

“Perhaps. There was something standing at the base of the Wall, it was tall but wreathed in mist.”

They all sat in silence, contemplating their shared experience.

“We have to go north,” Mari declared.

“What?” Beorn said.

Mari stoically made her case: “The message is clear. The Crow needs us in the North.”

“You think this is a message from the Three-Eyed Crow?” Jon asked. The mysterious figure that needed “to be brought south” according to the Children.

“Whatever or whoever they are, it’s clear they're in need of aid,” Mari explained.

“We can’t just ‘go north,’ we don’t know where to go!” Beorn pointed out.

“Even if we did know, we can’t just pack up and leave,” Jon added. “The Umbers will think us mad if we just announce a trip Beyond-The-Wall, by the Gods how are we even supposed to get past The Wall?” 

“Jon,” Mari leaned forward, the flickering candle sending waves of crimson across her face, she appeared like a shadow flickering in the sunlight, “you saw the same things I did. The ice and the snow is coming, winter is coming. I know in my heart that if we do nothing, the crow will be swallowed by the cold. If the Children spoke truly, we must save it. Val can be our guide. It won’t be easy but there must be some way to slip by the Night’s Watch unnoticed. Once we’re through, we can find Rayder. Hopefully, our dreams can point us in the right direction.”

Mari felt her connection to the Gods deeply and she had never found cause to doubt it. Beorn’s skepticism shone through clearly. Jon would be the deciding vote. He worried that Mari would leave on this journey with, or without him.

“What can we do, Mari? Against something out of myth?” Jon asked her.

Mari held out her hands, one to Jon, one to Beorn.

“Everything we can.”

//////

“You’re sure you want to go now?” Smalljon asked.

Jon clapped his future good-brother on the shoulder, looking more confident than he felt: “It’s just convenient. I’m this far north already and it’s been a few years since my Uncle visited.”

“But why aren’t you going straight to the Wall?”

Jon pointed to the two men speaking with Beorn by the stables.

“Lord Umber was kind enough to ask those men to draw me a better map of the Gift. I’ll spend some time visiting the old holdfasts, hopefully one will be suitable for a keep,” Jon explained.

Smalljon scratched his beard, “Sansa and I would feel better if you had some guards going with you.”

“They’ll only slow us down,” Jon insisted, “besides, weren’t you the one who said the raids have dwindled to practically nothing? The Gift is the safest it’s been in years.”

“Doesn’t mean there’s no fucking Wildlings skulking about,” Smalljon pouted.

Sansa walked over and took her betroathed’s hand.

“Beorn and Mari have gone wandering plenty of times on their own, Jon’s in capable hands,” she told him.

Smalljon acquiesced, “Alright, alright! I just wish he was going with you back to Winterfell,” he said.

Sansa blushed when Smalljon laid a kiss on her hand, “Ser Rodrik won’t let a hair on my head be harmed.”

Jon left the two to their own goodbyes while he rejoined Val by their horses. Packs of supplies and camping gear were stowed in their saddlebags and they even had an extra horse to carry other equipment. According to the Chainhouse pair, there were a handful of still-standing structures in the Gift, most were in shoddy condition but with some work they could be rebuilt. After a quick survey, he would make his way to Castle Black to visit Uncle Benjen, then return to Winterfell. That was the plan he’d shared with the Greatjon anyways.

It was only partially false. Mari was confident that the closer they got to the Wall, the clearer their dreams would become. Jon really was going to get the lay of his new land, and hopefully pick out a suitable hold to take for his own one day. Until they received some clairvoyance or direction, they’d be wasting their time near the Wall, so why not make it a trip.

Without other options, Beorn had agreed to accompany them and Val had been enthusiastic about getting out of the castle. She had been worried by the shared visions Jon had seen, especially since she knew nothing of a “three-eyed crow.”

Jon took one last moment to admire the architecture of Last Hearth, bid Sansa a fond goodbye, then led his party down the Glammar, through the Roaring Forest, along the Last River and up the Kingsroad. Their first stop was a lone tower, called Queenscrown.

//////

Chapter Text

Leaving Smalljon behind was harder than Sansa expected. They’d been side by side for most of the last seven weeks, ever since her nameday. The first kindlings of affection had steadily built into a cautious romance. It may not have been dressed in courtly finery or poetic overture but Alys and Eddara were convinced that Smalljon was truly besotted. They’d exchanged small gifts and gestures: Sansa’s collection of songs and poems had been shared with most of the Umber family, and even if Smalljon was no artisan, he took her riding and brought fine hides and furs from the hunt. Arya had joked in her letters that despite Sansa’s disappointment at a Northern match all those years ago, fate had thrown her into a marriage out of song.

Sansa replied that her relationship with Smalljon wasn’t all a fairytale. Her betrothed’s head was harder than a bull’s. If he thought someone had insulted him, nothing could dissuade him from demanding “due justice.” When he was a stripling, more than one visitor to Last Hearth had beaten Smalljon bloody in the yard over such demands. Once he hit his growth spurt, the beatings started going the other way. Similarly, if they disagreed on some matter, Smalljon demanded to be proven wrong before he considered compromising. Even Greatjon had difficulty bending his son’s ear.

Nevertheless, Sansa did her best to hide a few stray tears when Smalljon tied two amols around her neck on her last day in Last Hearth. He was no man of great words, but all Umbers felt very strongly that partings should be taken seriously. More than one kinsman had left the castle only to die in a Wildling raid. Alys had left for Karhold with Dacey already, leaving her alone except for her guards and attendants. Smalljon kissed her cheeks, she kissed his brow, Shepherd Yarrick gave a blessing and Sansa was on her way. 

The celebration had been exhausting but most of the guests had taken the time to complement the festivities. Mari assured her more than one House had found new friendships and tentative allies that distance and weather typically stymied. Dacey was confident that before the year was out a handful of marriages would be announced, all thanks to Sansa’s idea. Hopefully, more events like it could bring the next generation of Lords and Ladies to support Robb like the older nobles did her father.

Speaking of her brother. She returned to Winterfell during a rainstorm and Robb welcomed her home with warm tea and an entire platter of lemon cakes. He’d done well managing Winterfell on his own, though she could tell he’d been lonely. 

That evening, she sat with Robb in Father’s solar and explained the truth Jon had learned on Skagos, as well as his new destination. Robb nearly leapt to his feet, the wish to follow their brother on the tip of his tongue. Common sense prevailed and instead Robb resolved to look back through the Stark Histories for more information on this mercurial threat. Maester Luwin was confident that their winter calculations were reaching a final stage. Hopefully, they would have a tentative prediction once Father returned. With all the excitement over, they settled back into their routine. 

Peace only lasted until a letter arrived by raven from White Harbor with shocking news from Lord Manderly: King Robert was dead. No sooner than Robb had begun drafting an urgent message to their father another letter followed, from the man in question. It described the sad extent of King Robert’s injury on a hunt and a private fear that His Grace was not long for this world.

The birds were delayed and often messages sent days or weeks apart from each other arrived simultaneously. Ravens’ wings flapped in a desperate cycle, arriving and departing every day. With letters and missives flying back and forth so frequently, Maester Luwin requisitioned two of the household servants solely to keep the birds well fed and rested.

No sooner than they’d grappled with the sudden death of the King then Stannis Baratheon’s declaration arrived. Lord Baratheon claimed the Iron Throne for himself as Robert’s heir, declaring Prince Joffrey, Prince Tommen and Princess Myrcella, bastards of incest. Not to be outdone, Joffrey Baratheon penned his own announcement, labelling not just his uncles Stannis and Renly as criminals, but their father as well!

“King” Joffrey accused Stannis, Renly, Eddard and the late Jon Arryn (what a shock it was to find out that the Lord of the Vale had also perished) of scheming to usurp his birthright. In a royal order, Robb was told to present himself in King’s Landing to swear allegiance in place of “their traitorous patriarch.”

Robb and Sansa had no clue as to their father’s whereabouts and none of their letters to Riverrrun were returned. The latter mystery was answered by an urgent word from Seagard. Lord Jason Mallister alerted them that the Lannisters had marched out of Golden Tooth and laid siege to Riverrun.

Such an insult demanded an answer. Sansa was to remain behind and rule as the Stark in Winterfell while Robb called the banners to assemble at Moat Cailin. Robb knew that time was of the essence and every account he found in the Stark Histories about mustering included some complaint about how marshalling the Lords to Winterfell involved entirely too much annoyances. When King Torrhen set out for The Trident to treat with The Conqueror, he ordered his vassals to meet him in the Neck. The most southern Houses could take more time to properly equip themselves, and the most far flung vassals would be too harried to make trouble upon their arrival.

The stressed Starks were given a modicum of relief when just as the armies of the North began to move, a message came under the Tyrell seal, in Ned’s own hand:

My dearest children, I pray to the Gods that you are in good health. War is in the air and I fear the winds will bring nothing but woe with every new sunrise. I’m unsure when my words will reach you but I shall do my best to explain all that has happened…  

Ned wrote about his flight from King’s Landing with Renly and the devastating circumstances of Jon Arryn and Robin Arryn’s death. Their father was the “honoured guest” of the newly crowned King in the Reach, and would accompany him on the march to King’s Landing. They also learned that Lord Yohn Royce had been elected Lord Paramount in absentia. Supposedly the hosts of the Vale were heading to King’s Landing to find an answer for their liege lord’s death; though no one was sure if King Joffrey or the Queen Mother were in a position to appease them. Rumors had already reached White Harbor that the Lannisters had sent the Mountain to kill both the infirm Jon Arryn and strangle the Young Falcon in his sick bed.

I have only just learned of the Lannister invasion of the Riverlands. Though the term invasion may be ill-suited. According to the Tyrells, Jamie Lannister departed King’s Landing shortly after my escape and rode hard with a host of Redcloaks. He broke off from the Gold Road then defeated two small hosts of rivermen near Pink Maiden and Acorn Hall. The Kingslayer joined with Lord Tywin’s army and together they laid siege to your grandfather’s hall. The rest of the Riverlands have been left mostly untouched, though a party of House Piper was taken prisoner when they approached the Lannister camp. I’m convinced that the Old Lion means to capture your mother, Arya, Bran, Rickon and the Tullys. He could force the North and the Riverlands to sue for peace, leaving them free to confront Renly and Stannis.

It is my shame to admit I can do nothing. Our force is under strict guard and King Renly is adamant that we Lords stay close at hand.

I must place faith in you, my children. 

Robb, you must call the banners. The Lords of the Riverland are hesitant to enter into this conflict, especially against the Lannisters and King Joffrey, even if the Tullys are in danger. In this instance, your mother’s blood will be nothing but a boon. Drag the loyalists along with you and make for Riverrun. You MUST break the siege and rescue your mother. I know you will make me proud. Know that this retaliation will likely lead to open war with the Westerlands. I do not order this lightly.

Sansa, Winterfell will be in your hands. Not only the castle, but the morale of the people left behind. Uncertainty in the field ripples back to home surprisingly quickly. Even under the best of circumstances, men of the North will die, and it will be up to you to keep the peace.

Jon, I know you will support your brother and sister in this, but now is the time to begin accepting the responsibility of your future title. Robb will need all his focus for the forseeable future. You will be his eyes and ears when he is otherwise occupied. Much the same as I was for Robert during the Rebellion.

I shall pray everyday for you all, as I know you will pray for me. Be safe.

Your Father, Lord Eddard Stark

Sansa’s heart cried out to know that Jon was too far away to reach. They could not afford to waste men and horses gallivanting off into the Gift. Unfortunately, he was on his own.

///////

The walls of Moat Cailin once again witnessed a Northman’s warpath. 

The official letter from Lord Stark assuaged many of the Northern Lords’ anxieties. The branding of their Warden as a traitor was a disturbing echo of a similar royal decree made many years ago. King Robert’s death, Stannis’ accusations, the Vale’s uncertain emergence into the war; things were moving at a pace, Robb and Sansa would not have their kingdom left behind.

It was fortunate that with their father’s excursion to King’s Landing and the aftermath of the Battle on the Stones, very few Houses were eager to sit out yet another chance at glory. Robb’s final count was 26,000 soldiers at the ready, composed of heavy cavalry and a strong core of foot and pike. He’d been reassured by his advisors that Riverrun could hold out under siege for weeks, giving him time to muster a strong force.

Grey Wind prowled in front of Robb as he made his way through their camp. The main hall of the Gatehouse Tower was filled to brim. Robb stood in the doorway, at his flanks were his future good-brothers, Harrion and Smalljon. Robb noted the Greatjon arguing with Lord Hornwood, saw Maege Mormont laughing beside Lord Glover while Lord Ryswell spoke intently with The Nott and The Liddle. Lord Karstark was mired in his own personal circle which contained most of the Bolton vassals who had marched uneasily with their Lord absent. The Manderlys were in full force, their livery standing in stark contrast to the muted tones of Lord Reed and his lieutenants.

The last group was more conspicuous. A gaggle of men and women huddled by the hearth, decked in green robes with white masks. The Shepherds had been sent from Skagos and he knew many of the Lords had brought their own. Robb wondered how much say they would want in the council meeting. According to his father, no Shepherds had made themselves known in his own war sessions.

“Lords of the North!” Harrion called out.

The men and women continued to rouse and rabble. 

Robb was about to call a howl out of Grey Wind when Smalljon bellowed: “QUIET DOWN!”

It took a moment for Robb’s hearing to return.

“Be seated,” Robb commanded.

The large table had been cobbled together and it was just large enough to squeeze everyone around it, with plenty more standing in the wings.

“You have answered the call of House Stark, for that I thank you. I shall be clear and straightforward. I plan to march through the Moat in three days. Lord Reed’s guides will speed us through the Neck to the Twins. Once we’ve crossed, Lord Mallister and a number of River Lords are waiting to join us near Seagard,” Robb laid out his plan. He picked up a long stick near his chair at the head of the table and used it to point on the large map laid across its surface. “We’ll then follow the coast south to Pendric Hills, past Raventree Hall and make straight for Riverrun.”

“Will the Lannisters not try and stop us?” Lord Manderly asked.

Lord Karstark stood, “We can expect some force to be sent to slow us down, but by all accounts the Lannisters have not fully committed to a campaign in the Riverlands. The Old Lion still has to worry about Renly Baratheon marching on King’s Landing.”

Lord Flint of Widow’s Watch spoke next, “I want to know why we’re not gathering our full strength to crush the lions!”

That earned some rumbling from the room.

Robb raised his hand, “On the advice of Lord Stark, I have ensured enough fighting men are left behind to properly defend the North. With Lord Royce leading the Vale, I have decided that we need not overcommit.”

“What shall we do once we break the siege?” A Lord yelled out.

“Take the Rock!”

“March on King’s Landing!”

Everyone in attendance suddenly needed to contribute.

“Are we declaring for King Renly?” someone shouted.

Robb wanted to cut that argument short: “Until my family is safe from the Lannisters, that will remain undecided. For all we know the kingship may be decided within the next few weeks. I personally hope that Lord Stannis and Lord Renly can come to an amicable resolution.”

There, that should be political enough to keep the gossip at a minimum. Robb could nearly feel the wrinkles forming as the men went around and around in circles over the same subjects. He brought the council to a close after hearing the arguments for the marching order. Overall, his men were enthusiastic about the coming battle, Robb hoped their good cheer endured the long journey ahead.

“Harrion,” Robb motioned the Karstark over to him, “go speak with the Shepherds, ask them if they have anything to share. I don’t want any surprises before we depart.”

None of the green-cloaked attendants spoke up during the meeting, not even to voice their own opinions. They had watched and listened, nothing more. Robb busied himself seeing a handful of Lords stop for a quick word with him before leaving.

Harrion returned wearing a puzzled frown.

“A Shepherd by the name of Lady Tilla said they have no official opinion on the council matters,” Harrion told him. “Unofficially, she wished to inform you that the ears and eyes of the Great Shepherd will travel with you.”

A loaded statement. Robb cursed under his breath. Old Gods save him from cryptic mystics. Jon had complained enough about the Shepherds’ habit of keeping information close to the breast. Robb could only assume that Shepherds would be spread throughout his ranks, likely serving as footmen or even cavalry if they were wealthy enough. For all he knew, they were attendants and stablehands. It could be a good thing, Robb conceded, to have extra insight into his own force; if the Shepherds would deign to share their knowledge with him. Lady Tilla did emphasize it was The Great Shepherd whose influence was being spent.

Those worries were set aside, the campaign required his full attention and Robb couldn’t afford to be distracted. The Moat had been well fortified by Lord Reed using the extra materials from the canal projects and he had agreed to partner with a selection of minor Houses to garrison the fortress against the south. If matters turned against them the army would need a safe place to retreat.

As he promised, three days later Robb raised Ice at the end one last valourous speech to the roaring of the northern army. He became the third Stark since the Dance of Dragons, to march to war in the Riverlands. Somewhat amusingly, before the Conquest it was a common sight for the Direwolf to come south in arms, especially during the cold leadup to winter. When supplies ran low, Robb’s ancestors were not above raiding their Andal neighbours. Many Princes of Winterfell had gone south with their fathers, to come back bloodied and alone. Robb could only hope he would not return as the new Lord of Winterfell.

//////

The Crossing was closed to them, as Robb suspected. The Twins blocked the road to his family’s salvation. House Frey had not been totally idle during the chaos sweeping the countryside. Across the river a sizable camp hosted part of their army. 

News on the road was sparse but Robb was able to find out that Renly had finally left Highgarden, though his pace was slow. Stannis had purportedly sailed from Dragonstone, though no one could confirm his destination. The Lannisters were rumored to be massing the rest of their armies in the Westerlands which was the reason so many River Lords had pulled back their forces, in anticipation of a full-scale invasion. That left Riverrun isolated, and the northern host, its best chance at rescue.

Robb was greeted outside the gates of the eastern castle by Ser Stevron Frey. The heir to The Twins was reasonable enough, despite his weasel-like appearance, though it was obvious to Robb the man was tired. Still being heir to your family's holdings at the age of sixty would strain anyone. Regardless of Stevron’s hospitality, it still took two days of bickering through messengers to arrange a meeting with the Late Lord Frey.

The decrepit old lord’s hall was cloyingly packed, with more tables than a tavern. Frey cousins and children bookended each and every place to sit. The Lord of the Crossing himself was scrawny, bird-like, with enough sagging skin to stitch a bag out of. Walder Frey’s sharp tongue lashed fast and often, as if the old man’s lungs were a hundred years younger.

He demanded much of Robb. At first, Robb offered wealth in the form of an exclusive trade deal for northern goods, but Lord Frey was unsatisfied. Robb’s next offers were similarly based around payments, though the regular toll the Freys demanded for the army was unpayable. Lord Walder attempted to bargain for Robb to marry one of his dozen granddaughters instead. Lord Karstark nearly burst a blood vessel before Robb made it clear he was spoken for. They remained locked in a stalemate for another day and a half. Nothing would satisfy Lord Frey, and Robb refused to step on his grandfather’s toes by making promises that only a Tully could keep.

Finally, in frustration and desperation, Robb offered a betrothal between his brother, Bran, and a Frey girl of similar age. He emphasized that as the heir, the betrothal could be drafted, but not finalized until Lord Stark agreed. Lord Frey seemed disappointed at the measly concession. Mind you, it didn’t prevent him from also wrangling a new trade deal out of the proceedings. Robb began to suspect that Lord Frey’s brood were getting nervous about the thousands of northmen sitting outside their walls.

Robb led his men across the bridge nearly a week after arriving, he was already mentally apologizing to his younger brother for using him like a bargain chip. As he got his first sight of Seagard, relievingly surrounded by a sizable force under the Mallister banner, an urgent message arrived from Darry.

The King of Highgarden was apparently headed to Storm’s End and the Lords of the Vale were past the Bloody Gate and on the King’s Road. Just as importantly, Lord Royce had publicly announced his support for King Stannis Baratheon.

As matters now stood, King Renly commanded the allegiance of Highgarden and nominally the Stormlands, King Joffrey had only the Crownlands and Westerlands, while Stannis had the Narrow Sea, Vale and potentially the North and the Riverlands. The road to King’s Landing was open and Joffrey Baratheon was soon to be surrounded.

The bards were already calling it The War of the Three Kings, some called it the War of the Stags. No matter the name, the fate of the Iron Throne was soon to be decided.

//////

Chapter Text

The leaves were changing. It was a subtle shift, hard to notice among the plentiful greenery of the Reach. The fading colour was more obvious to Ned after they crossed into the Stormlands. Days passed slowly and with little to do, the Lord of Winterfell focused on his surroundings to keep his thoughts from spiralling with worry. His nerves were running high, rest was hard to get. Maw felt his restlessness and became irritable. The Rainbow Guard would not permit him in Renly’s presence, and since Maw was always at his side otherwise, Ned was forced to send him far from their trail, into the depths of the Kingswood.

Their men had been divided up among Renly’s sprawling camp. Most of the soldiers were being treated well enough, but the Lords and Commanders had been sequestered with Ned among Renly’s personal entourage, watched by loyal knights.

Renly’s crowning and the subsequent endless celebrations had disappeared when Stannis’ siege of Storm’s End began. Ned was surprised that Renly could take something seriously, after the gaudy and lavish wedding festivities. The Lords of Highgarden were perfectly willing to starve out the Crownlands and revel in their own stores. Westeros had underestimated how eager House Tyrell was to put a crown on their Lady Margery.

Tables laden with feasts were quickly left behind when the army swerved off the Rose Road to cut south-east towards the Kingswood. The march took them through Fell Fields, along the edge of the Red Mountains. They met no resistance. Practically all the Stormlords had pledged for Renly already, or were savvy enough to keep quiet. Their camp was now half-a-day from Storm’s End, by the next afternoon they’d be in sight of the ancient seat.

The Northern nobles were now arranged around the hearth in Ned’s private tent. They’d eaten their regular supper and retreated to private discussion.

“Is there no chance for peace?” Domeric asked.

“The Tyrells won’t stand for Renly bending the knee, not when Stannis has a Florent wife,” Lord Kevan Condon told him, while taking a deep draft of his ale. “Not when they have a chance for their own blood to wear the crown.”

Domeric frowned, “Wouldn’t it be wiser to remove the Lannisters before fighting over who replaces them?”

Roose looked up from the map in his lap, “Perhaps under different circumstances,” he told his son, “but the Reachmen know their odds of claiming the crown are worse if the rest of the kingdoms are allowed a say. Even if Stannis wasn’t already wed, they made no friends by siding with the Targaryens during the Rebellion. When a crown is to be won, you must take the opportunities that come to you.”

“Lord Bolton is right,” Rickard Ryswell chimed in, he was stitching together a rip in his saddle gloves near the tent flap, “The Tyrells backed Renly because if it comes down to them against the Lannisters, they have the numbers to win before the other kingdoms can interfere.”

“Stannis will lose the battle,” Domeric said.

Donnel Locke leaned forward to toss another log on the fire, “The Stone Stag’ll put up a fight. If he’d taken Storm’s End, he might even have outlasted them. Without the castle, his siege will end much quicker than Mace Tyrell’s.”

“What do you think, Lord Eddard?” Lord Kevan Condon asked.

The gathered nobles subtly turned to study their liege. Ned was standing over a table, his hands busy with a quill in a small book.

“After we left Highgarden, I tried to speak with King Renly in private, about peace talks with his brother,” Ned revealed. “For a moment, I thought he might agree with me but that door has closed. Barring me from the war councils made that clear.”

“Will he ask us to fight for him, m’lord?” Garrus Cerwyn asked. He and Ser Kyle Condon had taken a break from their dice game to focus on the conversation.

Ned stroked his chin, “Perhaps. Though our numbers wouldn’t make a difference.”

“I wonder whose idea it was,” Domeric pondered. “Did the Tyrells approach Renly, or did he seek them out?”

Jonos Furrow ran a whetstone across his sword, the Dustin axes gleaned on the polished pommel: “Renly’s brought fifteen thousand riders. If that’s not enough, he need only wait for his footmen. They'll stamp Stannis to dust,” he declared. The old campaigner was certain.

“One way or another, we’ll bend our knees and be on our way,” Roose told them.

Ned could only dip his head further to his writing, dreading the death looming before him. 

His dreams that night were dark; filled with smoke and fires, burning low beneath a great cairn of stone shaped like the maw of a dragon.

///////

“Lord Stark, His Grace requests you attend him.”

Ned was guided by one of the Rainbow Guard to the edge of the army, Roose and Kevan on his heels. 

The longer Ned spent in Renly’s company the more his resemblance to Robert strengthened. He was a mirror image of a younger Robert, more refined perhaps in some ways. It was the moods and whims that proved the Baratheon blood. Renly was gregarious and charismatic, men and women flocked to him no matter the setting and whereas Robert’s wits and sharpness had become mired in age and bitterness, Renly was fresh of mind. Hints and notes of cruelty shone through too. Robert’s humour always did turn just a little far towards maliciousness, Renly was not above the same pettiness.

Ned knew for certain that if Renly had finished his march to King’s Landing, the war would likely have tilted in his favour. With the Crownlands, the Reach and the Stormlands under his banner, it would have been easy to negotiate with the Vale. To earn the North and Riverland’s support, he would only have to send his massive army towards the Westerlands and force Tywin Lannister back under The Rock. 

That deft strategy also showed the capriciousness inherent to Renly’s cleverness. Not many would have the gall to usurp their brother’s claim, let alone with a historical enemy. Then again, it seemed that Renly had learned something from that torturous siege of his childhood. You must pay a price for victory. Ned only feared that both brothers were prepared to sacrifice the other for that chance.

“Lord Stark,” King Renly beamed.

The King was arrayed in his gilded armour, golden-rose crown firmly affixed on his black hair.

“Your Grace,” Ned acknowledged. 

One didn’t spit in their host's face while still on polite terms.

“I have thought on your words and decided to extend to my brother a chance to speak under truce. He has agreed, much to my surprise. You shall accompany me,” Renly informed him.

A tendril of hope curled in Ned’s heart as he was given a mount of his own. Their small party weaved through the foliage overlooking Storm’s End. Nestled beside the walls of Godsgrief, Stannis’ camp appeared tiny. 

They came to a cleared section near the cliff-side. Ned saw the man in question already waiting. Taking his chance, Ned urged his horse forward, leaving Renly behind.

On the banners before him, the crowned stag now wreathed in flame, Stannis’ attire bedecked in yellow and red to match. Standing out from the grim-faced escort was a fair woman wrapped in crimson.

“Lord Stark, I’m disappointed to see you here,” Stannis threw forth. “I was under the impression you knew where your loyalties should lie.”

“I was under the impression that a man of his word, keeps it,” Ned rebuked. “When you abandoned my men and I in King’s Landing, I deemed it necessary to escape with my life. Sadly, I’ve been unable to stop this folly from continuing.”

“Folly?” Stannis said, “You think a man claiming his rightful place is folly?”

“I think two brothers striking at each other while our enemy sits content on the throne, is folly,” Ned refuted.

“Time was against me,” Stannis explained. “I learned that Robert was wounded and Cersei was calling the Crownlanders to her. It was imperative that the Royal Fleet be moved and I couldn’t guarantee my own safety if I returned.”