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Chapter Text

There was once upon a time as never before, for if it were not, it would not have been told.

Lord Stark rode through the streets of Norbury at a brisk pace and soon the gates of Winterfell opened before him. Dismounting his horse, he barely set foot upon the ground when in great cries, his brothers came forth to greet and hug him, his overlong absence now ended.

"Stay put!" he yelled out at them. The young Starks stopped in their tracks, confused at his behaviour, and the youngest, little Rodrik, began to sob.
At his mother's disapproving look, he was quick to speak again: "I've come home blooded. I must first go to the Godswood before I can greet them. I thought to see to the rites at Gavensgrave, but it is ill-advised to do so at that place, for all that we took both the blood and the wolf for ourselves. It is better to seek the waters at home."

He would have taken care of his horse himself, were it not for the urgency of the task. He then went towards the Godswood and passed the wooden gates that barred entry to those who had no right to be there, nodding towards the guards posted there.

The Godswood was more than likely the largest one in all the realm, several acres of wood inside Winterfell's own walls. With a great pond with water colder than ice, but never freezing, surrounded by two and forty weirwoods older than his house, all with carved faces. Some joyous, some growing, some angry, some weeping, all emotions a man could feel were shown upon their carved bark. Amidst them, equal in number, in stature and in age, were great monoliths of carven stone, with the same faces cut upon the stone.

Were he not a Stark, he would have been overwhelmed by what seemed to be a hundred and more eyes looking at him. But he had been under their sight since he was old enough to understand death, when his father took him to witness an execution - a rapist having his throat slit by a dagger of bone and dragonglass, the blood dripping from the open wound on the ground and on the roots of an old heart-tree, its mouth open in a scream of anguish, but its eyes angry and vengeful, witness to justice and vengeance.

He soon dipped into the pond, the stain of blood upon his soul washing away in the cold water. He climbed out and dressed himself again and sat beneath the roots of a heart-tree, whose face seemed in deep and dark thoughts. It had been his favourite since he first set foot in the Godswood, and he liked to think that it was because whatever was beyond those eyes was more preoccupied by its own thoughts, than by the sight before him.

Under that tree, with its pale white bark, and red leaves like bloodstained hands he took out his sword. The blood had dried upon the bronze blade, marring it and half-hiding the old and mighty runes engraved upon it. He took out water from a claypot near the tree to clean his sword, wiping it with a cloth.

Ice, the ancient blade of bronze, carved with half-forgotten runes, had been wielded in battle by his ancestors since ages beyond the counting and remembering of Westeros. If a greenseer of great might and power peered into the weirwood trees to look in the furthest past, he would not have found its beginning.

The Singers of the Earth had not smelted metals, carrying but blades of stone. Bronze, and the Stark's blade had come into the sunset lands carried by his ancestors of the First Men, from their forgotten homeland in Essos, perhaps bearing another name, now discarded.

Neither the Old Tongue, nor the runes were of these lands. The Singers spoke their True Tongue, the giants their own, and the spirits of nature all tongues of men and beasts. They had no need for written language, for their songs and histories lived in the trees.

For that, Ice was foreign to this land and to wash it in the sacred waters of the Goodswood was as ill-advised as to cross a battle-ford. None knew what the power inside it would find an insult, striking forth against that interloping power and magic. he was not fool enough to try it.

Clean and with no blemish upon his soul, he rose again, for all he wished to lay on the roots and imitate the tree and his thoughts. But there was no time for brooding.
His mother was first to receive him, in his father's old solar, for he could not accustom himself to call it his own. She had brought a meal that he set aside on his desk, eager to answer the inquiring look upon his mother's face.

"Bole and Branch were easily put to rights. Some sheep had to change hands. It was the Glover who was the problem. He took heed of his steward's words, who took heed of the ones of a wandering hedgewizard that the next winter shall be much shorter than the summer before it. And thus he set aside but one tenth of his harvest. How did he think to hide that from me when the day came to send it to Winterfell, only the gods know."

He had risen from his seat and paced around the solar, all the while gesturing heavily, with his words remembering anew the anger he then held towards his foolish vassal.

"Even more grievous, he sold what he did not need to Ironborn merchants - food for winter, sold to the Ironborn!. He claimed he was gathering coin to pay the crenelation tax to the king, so he could build his keep anew from stone. This too without asking for my leave."

His mother made to open her mouth, but he continued: "I did not kill him, mother! But by the gods, how I wished to put my hands around his throat! I called him a fool and that again, in a hundred different ways."

"'Twas his champion that took offence to my words, the Glover was too shamed to speak. He challenged me and spoke aloud things that should be kept in whispers, so I fought him. I felled him easily without a wound on myself - no need to worry, mother. As I said before, I had thought briefly to cleanse myself in the waters at Gavensgrave, for it was closer than home, but it was an ill thought that came to my mind then. I carried his blood upon my soul all the while home, but he was but gifted only in battle, so he did not trouble me in his death as he did in his life."

"By the gods, son, you frightened me half to death when you told me you came blooded all the way to Winterfell." spoke his mother. "I have half a mind to send a barrel of the waters with you next time you ride into the woods or the mountains, but I do not know enough of the workings of gods and men to decide if that would solve anything, or bring more troubles upon yourself."

"I wish your father told me nought of the weir workings of these lands and of your people when he took me out of White Harbour and wed me. I am even now half-ignorant and more afraid of what I do not know instead of what I do know. It has brought nothing but needless worry upon my days - and I'm still the lady of this castle, I have enough to busy my days with. Your siblings are three handfuls with their father gone into the stone, and when you leave, I can hardly herd them in line."

"They are wolves, not sheep, mother. You cannot herd a pack. You might as well let them run all day through the forest so that they may be tired enough to sleep." he answered her with a smile.

"You know what might ease my burden, son?", his mother asked, with a weird gleam in her eyes. "You're four and twenty, and you have seen one winter as a grown man. The time for you to wed has long begun. It is a truth universally acknowledged, that an unwed lord in possession of a good title and lands, must be in want of a wife. Just say the word, and I'll send ravens to all the forty and two clans to send their more accomplished and pretty maidens for a feast, and you can make a choice from them. A good-daughter would serve me well, so I could shed some of my many duties."

The young Stark lord remained silent a moment, deep in thought. At last, he spoke: "I have given thought to marriage myself, mother. But it is not a daughter of a clan of mountain or wood that I wish to wed. I've had this thought since first my father took me to Gavensgrave. The Greywolf's sons were slain by the Starks thousands of years ago, but the sons of winter took his daughter as brides, and gained the direwolf for our house. It is the selfsame power of the Greywolf that now flows so strongly in my veins."

"I mean to go South to find a wife. I've heard tell that the grandmother of Lady Westerling was a maegi from Essos who foretold the future, and Gawen Westerling has a daughter old enough to wed. If I ask her hand, he would not refuse me, for I am a Jarl and a High Lord and he is impoverished and mine would be the greatest offer he could receive. And, I confess, to wed a Gawen's daughter like a past Stark wed a Gaven's daughter? It is like the Gods did not bother to whisper my doom, but yell it out as a thunder."

"If that is not meant by the Gods, the blood of Mad Danelle still flows in the blood of Riverlander maidens. Or, if I could raise my eyes more high and count my ambitions greater, the king's sister is yet unwed. And the words of ancient oaths go like this: "By earth and water, by bronze and iron, by ice and fire.". There is earth and there is water in our blood, as we worship the Gods of Forest, Stream and Stone. There is bronze, for many a Royce wed a Stark, and there is iron, wherever of the Andals who brought it to these shores, or of Ironborn daughters that my ancestors took as war-brides. There is ice - that ever flows in our veins since the days of the First Unnamed and his offspring. It is the fire we lack."

His mother stood dumbstruck for a moment. "I cannot give you wise counsel if you speak of these things. If that be your will, then be it so. But I ask that you give a less fanciful reasoning to the choosing of the brides of the sons of my blood. And, son of my heart, take care that these weir ambitions do not take you to your own doom so far from your own heart."

The lord and master of Winterfell rose from his seat and gently kissed his mother on her cheek.

"Worry not mother. You speak some truth, since the question of my name, or lack of it, has made my people whisper and compare me with the First Unnamed, and claiming it to be an ill-omen. You must keep silent the reason I shall choose a Southron wife, lest they claim me Him returned to life again."

"But I shall take much care. And I am not so wild of blood, that I would boldly step to a path of doom. If it is of wicked hands you worry - do not. I shall take half a hundred of the best men of my warband to guard me. And if the Gods will that I perish far from my own hearth and the stone beds of my ancestors, worry not. My blood is of pale bark and red leaf and my dreams green, and I am not of grey stone, and my spirit shall dwell beneath the roots of ancient trees and I shall look upon my kin in death more freely than my father in his self of stone."

"If I shall not return, then let it be so. Fate goes ever as she must. My brother shall go from Stark in Winterfell to the Stark of Winterfell, life shall go on, winter shall come and be overcome again and again. Life does not rest at my death - so grieve me not overmuch."

The widowed lady of Winterfell nodded in mournful agreement, and then returned to more living things: "Do you intend to sail to the Crag then, or you shall go South by way of the Neck? Beware that if you pass through Frey's keep on your way to the Westerlands, he'll be likely to wed you to a daughter or grand-daughter of his, and your quest will meet a sudden end."

Stark laughed. "I shan't go to the Crag. There is to be a tourney celebrating the tenth year of the king's reign and that is a sufficient excuse to mask the reason for my leave. I shall go to King's Landing and hope that any potential wife would be there for the tourney."

"I'll go through White Harbour and visit your kin. Cairne would feel insulted if I went through his lands without stopping a guest in Barrowton. And him thinking himself greater than me for the reason of being the Warden of the North irks me much. I shall shun his lands on this occasion and cross through the city of your birth and take a ship south. I might stop at Runestone on my way."

Once his mother left, the young lord went to his brother's chamber, to sooth his sorrow. He knocked gently at the door.
"Who is it?" a teary voice asked.

"It's me, Rodrik. Would you let me in?" he asked.

"Alright" his youngest brother answered, though he did not seem eager for it.

Stark opened the door and went to his brother, who was hidden under a blanket on his bed. He sat down and apologised:

"I am sorry that I yelled at you, Rodrik. But you know why you couldn't touch me. I have to leave again soon, and for a long time, and I do not want to go with you angry at me. So please forgive me."

The boy's head peeked from under the blanket and his tears stopped: "I'll forgive you, but must you go again so soon?"

"I must, little wolf, but I promise, I shall take you hunting before I go. Just the two of us." he promised.

Rodrik suddenly leapt out of his bed, and made for a door. The lord grabbed him under his arms and put him back on the bed.

"Where do you think are going at this hour? Is nearly night and you must rest."

The boy, excited, answered his question in a tone as if he told the most obvious thing in the world: "I have to leave bread and milk in the woods for the sprites, so they wouldn't chase away the beasts before our hunt."

His eldest brother laughed aloud, tussling the youngest's hair.

"Do not worry. You rest, and I shall take care of it. I'll keep watch over your dreams, so no night terrors might come your way."

Chapter Text

Chapter II: Let Us Sit And Speak

He was welcomed into the house of the Patrician Vytner with bread and salt, according to the ancient custom of hospitality. A merchant by trade, soon he turned the small talk d to matters of commerce – of lumber, furs, and amber, and other such things.

“I have no complaint of penury, Jarl Stark. My profits grow ever more, and so those of the Braavosi – the Sealord most of all. Vymanio Manderro goes fatter by the day through our trade and is grateful for it.”

“I believe that he shall achieve what no Sealord has achieved before now. His own father. His father was Sealord in his time, and Braavosi have never allowed a son and grandson of a Sealord to succeed in that office, for fear of making a dynasty. But Manderro’s firstborn is First Captain at Sea, he has given his key to the second one, and the younger is steward of his estates in the hills and has the loyalty of the Andal irregulars in those lands, for defending them against Norvoshi prodding. If he dies, the magisters would be wise to heed their power in the next election.”

“And once that happens, one cannot say when his family will give up the reins of power. Their Andal blood and noble history, for all that they adopted the customs of their new home, still yearns for the principle of inheritance.”

“Speaking of their ambitions, my daughter has told me you mean to wed. Manderro has a granddaughter of age, and I think he would be most agreeable to match her with yourself.”

“I am afraid my eyes seek elsewhere a wife. Not beyond the sea, just below the Neck. I’d thank you if you do not spread these news in the city, not until I leave. I have no wish to be assaulted by the patricians of the city, and their “comely” daughters.”

“Oh, I know the feeling,” laughed his stepmother’s father. “Since my wife took her skin and returned to the sea forever, I have been plagued by their ambitions. But her leaving has not unbound me from the vows I made. I am a married man still.”

“Are there any matters I must keep an eye on during your absence?” he changed the subject.

“None, I think,” answered the Stark. “Cairne is behaving, the Ironborn haven’t been troublesome for a long time, nor the wildlings. As for Bolton, his bastard tried to stir discontent, hunting maidens in my own lands. He was captured, and I delivered him to his father for justice. Lord Bolton accepted him, but not wishing to be seen a kinslayer, he gave him back to me alive, so I might carry out the sentence myself. He gave him back alive… but with nary a piece of skin left on his body. Seems they have not forgotten their skill.”

“If his own father flayed him alive,” inquired the patrician, “what did you do to him?

Petting the fur of the giant direwolf by his side, the lord of Winterfell answered. “I fed him to White Fang.  It is what he deserved from trying to renew a hatred buried a thousand years ago.”

“I confess I am not a man for histories, and legends,” said the merchant. “But that seems an interesting tale to know.”

“We Starks value guest right as sacrosanct, and in winter we never turn a man in need from our hearth. Be he friend or foe.”

            “So you gave hospitality to a Bolton a thousand years ago?” the other man asked. “Pardon me for doubting that such could end up so ancient a quarrel.”

            “It was not a single Bolton. That year, winter came suddenly, and before it came, Bolton’s army was besieging Norbury, far away from home and their own harvest. It was a week after the first blizzard came that the King of Winter gave way to mercy and offered bread and salt to the Red King, and to his whole host.”

            “Perhaps they first thought to weather the winter inside our walls, and slay us when spring came, but they did not. After the snow thawed at last, the Stark of Winterfell gave them enough food to see them home, and they left in peace. Perhaps Bolton feared that the Old Gods would bring a wrath unknown since the days of the Hammer of the Waters upon his house and his land for daring to break guest right offered even to a foe. Perhaps, for we know not his thoughts.”

            “But they left nevertheless, and for a hundred years there was no war between our lands. There were wars and skirmishes afterwards, changing borders, but none of us sought to bring about the extinction of the other. It was a peace, if it can be called that, that served us both well. It has also served you well, for without that, neither of us would allow a city at the mouth of the White Harbour not under the control of our house.”

“Your Grace, a raven has arrived, from Winterfell,” said the Grandmaester as he entered the council chamber.

Its members were in an immediate uproar.

“It is an ill omen to hold a tournament now winter has come,” said Lucerys Velaryon, Master of Ships and Lord Admiral. “The gods do not look lightly on such affairs when a man must fill his stores for winter.”

“Aye, Your Grace,” intervened the Master of Coin. “Perhaps it would be better to leave it for when spring comes. It will ease the hardships upon the treasury during the coming winter.”

“Ahem,” coughed Grandmaester Marwyn, to catch everyone’s attention. “It was not a white raven, but a black one. Winter has  not come yet.”

“And what does Jarl Stark write?” asked Jon Connington, the Hand of the King.

“Write?” laughed Marwyn. ”You do not know the Starks well, do you?”

He lifted the raven’s cage, so all could see it. And the raven spoke. “Your Grace, the Stark in Winterfell announces his presence at the tourney.” Brief and to the points, in simple words. Yet unsettling words – for those who knew not that a raven from Winterfell delivered a message not by written means, but by the words of the raven.

An art, the Starks said, taught to them by the Children of the Forest, forgotten by all men of the ages that passed, but the Starks. It was a queer thing, and some men called it magic, some septons called it the arts of a demon bound by the Starks in their service, while the maester insisted it was a skill that anyone could taught to any raven, if the Starks did not jealously and stubbornly guard it.

“When has last a Stark come South?” inquired the king. “ I have never seen one at court, not even in the days of my childhood. Except on the day of mine coronation – but Lord Stark left as soon as he swore his oath.”

“Starks never dawdle in the Southern kingdoms, Your Grace,” said the Master of Whisperers, Roger Blackwood. “They keep to their Winterlands and leave the rumours to make them stranger than they seem. They’re more likely to go to Braavos than to King’s Landing, for they have more interests there – they trade flows down the Knife, to White Harbor, and from there, their timber, and furs, and forest glass, and whatever goods they also sell are sailed to Braavos, who parts easily with its coin – for their arsenal is greedy for lumber, and they make a fair profit in selling furs on the shores of the Narrow Sea.”

“And what of the Jarl Stark?” asked the king. “Does any know of his character? Does he come to prove his valour in the tournament.”

“There is not much known of him, Your Grace,” answered Marwyn, “save for the fact that according to the records of the Citadel, his mother ostensibly gave him no name – he is Stark, son of Edrick Stark from what their scholars shared with us. As none in their lands keep a maester, the matter could not be clarified.”

“As for proving his martial valour,” he went on, “ I judge it unlikely. They say that the last tournament in their lands was on the wedding day of his grandfather and were banned since then.”

“No name?” wondered Stannis Baratheon, Master of Laws. “What queer custom is that?”

“Never mind their strange names,” intervened Velaryon, “but why in the seven hells have they banned tournaments?”

“To first answer Lord Baratheon, they do not name their children until their second year of life,  thinking that otherwise would mean bad luck. We received word of his mother’s passing but one year after he has born, though we know not why his father did not care to name him. If he has given himself one, following his father’s passing, we can only guess.”

“As for the tournaments, Lord Velaryon, they have never held jousts, and the melee on that wedding day ended up with seven and ten maimed men, and four and twenty dead. The Stark lady had a frail constitution, and he loved her much, so he assented to her plea. And the ban has prevented since then quite a number of feuds such deaths can bring.”

“It is most likely, Your Grace, that the Jarl Stark comes South to renew Winterfell’s oath to the Iron Throne. After all, he has been lord in his own right for some time but did not come to King’s Landing after his ascension.”

“Then let us give way to other matters,” said the king. “If we debate each lord that comes to the tourney it’ll be the hour of the wolf when I leave this chamber.”