These Bones
By Myriddin
The air was cold and biting with the frost of early winter, evident through the misty haze fogging the air. Any skin left exposed was numb from the chill, as he tugged his fur-trimmed cloak closer around his shoulders. The pre-dawn quiet was dark as he made the long trek across the yard, the snow crunching beneath his booted feet the only sound to be heard.
He walked a path familiar to him since childhood, careful as he climbed the stairs leading to the battlements, mindful of the ice clinging to the steps, and it wasn't long before he reached his destination. Gloved hands rested against the ancient stone as he sighed, leaning forward to take in view of the open fields barren in the cold and the Wolfwood rising up in the distance. White wisps appeared in the air as he breathed out once more, feeling weary down to his bones.
He was getting old. He knew that. There was more silver in his hair than not, the creases in his craggy face were deeper than ever, and his joints and old injuries ached in the Northern cold he had missed so much during his time in Essos. So much had changed since he had first left Winterfell at barely six and ten. So much had changed, and so much had been lost.
Decades before, Rodrik Stark had been the youngest of the seven children born to Lord Beron and Lady Lorra of Winterfell. Rodrik and his siblings had still been young when their father successfully drove back Dagon Greyjoy and his ironmen, but lost his life in the process. He hadn't been old enough to remember the succession mess that followed his father's death, but he knew his mother and grandmother had fought hard to secure his brother's place. As a result, Donnor had barely been old enough to have hair on his chin before responsibilities and burdens of the Lordship were thrust onto his shoulders. Wolf-blooded as he was, Donnor balked under the weight, and his reckless rebellions led to his death less than a year later, thrown from his horse after attempting a dangerous jump.
Willam ruled next, and he ruled well, despite his youth. Both Willam and Artos were married off quickly after Donnor's death. Rodrik still remembered how Will had been so infatuated with his pretty Glover bride, he had practically glowed with excitement when she came to Winterfell. His grief when he lost her to childbirth was great, but his sorrow when he lost their little son Brandon a few years later had been even greater.
The tragedies left their mark on Rodrik in the form of such an aversion to marriage, to exposing himself to the kind of pain Willam had gone through, that when he was finally old enough for matches to start being discussed, he fled.
He traveled. All over the Seven Kingdoms, and then across the Narrow Sea. Years passed. His brothers had children and the North knew peace for a good sixteen years under Willam's wardenship, through two harsh winters, until Raymun Redbeard dared to call himself a king and bring his reavers over the Wall.
Willam wasn't quite the fighter of his brothers' caliber, but he was brave and charismatic, a true leader. He roused his men alongside the Umber to bring a fierce assault against the wildling interlopers, and when he fell to an enemy blade at Long Lake, it was Artos who avenged him. Survivors said they had never before seen a rage like the one that had taken hold of Artos Stark that day, when he took Ice from his brother's limp hands and cut his way through the wildling ranks until he had slain Redbeard himself.
Rodrik closed his eyes with the remembered pain of receiving that fateful letter, written in Artos' uncharacteristically shaky hand, and how it had arrived in Braavos months after Willam's body had been lain on the funeral pyre. He had just returned from a long campaign with the Second Sons to find the letter waiting for him at the inn he habitually rented a room at, leaving the reading until after he had his fill of gull pie and ale and flirted with the kitchen wench who served him.
It was only later, sated and half-drunk as he read his brother's words by candlelight, that his contentment turned to grief. It was only after destroying his room and scaring away the woman in his bed that his anger cooled and his head cleared, his tears fought back from falling. The Wandering Wolf sailed for White Harbor, where Artos was waiting to receive him and unable to even wait for the privacy of closed doors, the brother fell into one another's arms upon first sight.
The grim reality they had to accept was that they were the only two remaining. They had once been surrounded by family. But then Berena had died in the cradle, just before Rodrik was born, then Errold and Alysanne succumbed to the Great Spring Sickness. With Donnor and Willam gone as well, all they had now was each other. And it was up to them to be there for the next generation.
Life became about guarding Willam's children after that. Edwyle was barely ten and two, Jocelyn even younger, wolf cubs who hadn't yet cut their teeth and needed the protection of what remained of their pack. The brothers split the duties of the Lordship Edwyle was still too young to attend to. Artos handled the political, Rodrik the martial and together they split the domestic.
Rodrik spent his mornings drilling the guard and supervising Edwyle's weapons training. In the afternoons, when Artos claimed their nephew for lessons in management, politics and finances, he was charged with Jocelyn's care, making certain she attended her own instructions. He grew used to being wrangled into participating, whether it was picking flowers, clumsily partnering the spry young girl in her dancing lessons or serving as a living pincushion as Jocelyn learned to sew, mend and stitch.
It was a good life, a kind of domesticity he hadn't known since childhood, but like all things, it was subject to change. All children grew, as did the little wolves of Winterfell.
Artos sighed heavily from where he sat at the heavy ironwood desk in the lord's solar. A large pile of papers lay scattered across the desktop. "Another of the King's sons refuses to honor his betrothal."
Rodrik's brows arched to his forehead. "Another? You would think Aegon's foolish little princes would have learned their lesson after what happened last year. Lyonel Baratheon's bruised pride is tender still."
Artos snorted. "Prince Jaehaerys eloped with his sister Shaera. They've consummated and everything. There's nothing His Grace can do."
"That's Tully and Tyrell, then." Rodrik let his head fall back with a groan. "Lady Melantha was cousin to the Queen. If the fighting breaks out again, duty dictates what we have to do."
"I know," Artos replied grimly.
"Then what do we do?"
"We strengthen and reinforce. Within our borders and out." He shuffled through several of the papers set before him. "It's high time my boys were married. Edwyle too." Artos ran a hand over his balding head. "Thanks to Queen Betha, the Blackwoods are the greatest power in the Riverlands. And the Vale...the Royces are second only the Arryns."
Their mother, Lorra, had been a Royce, and Rodrik understood his brother's trail of thought. But still, he had to point out, ever pragmatic, "Uncle Albar's passed on. Why should the young ones uphold an alliance with blood they've never met?"
With another sigh, Artos steepled his fingers, giving Rodrik a considering look. "I've got a dozen offers for Jocelyn's hand I haven't responded to yet."
"Ah," Rodrik responded knowingly, and a touch acerbically. "And one of them is from House Royce?"
"I don't like it either, Rodrik, but winter's coming. It's already fall. We don't have time for Southron squabbles."
Winter-gray eyes locked in a battle of wills, but soon, Rodrik surrendered with a grim nod. "Fine. But make it a betrothal for now. Our girl's not a she-wolf yet."
Jocelyn's Southron match sat ill with them both, but the necessity overcame their discomfort. For her brother, however, it was imperative that Edwyle's wife be a daughter of the North, especially since his mother and grandmother had been Southron. They began to narrow down houses from which to seek a match. Artos had his twin sons, Benjen and Brandon, married to a Dustin and a Hornwood respectively. Artos' wife, Lysara, was a Karstark, their uncle, Rodwell, had been wed to a Manderly, and there had been marriages to Houses Umber and Cerwyn among their father's cousins.
When Edwyle turned four and ten, Artos decided it was best to take a tour around the North, with the dual purposes of introducing the houses to their young Lord and visiting the families with eligible daughters of marrying age. With as large and encompassing as the North was, the visits were split, Artos to accompany Edwyle to the east, covering Long Lake and the Lonely Hills, then following the coastline toward Ramsgate and Old Castle, Rodrik to go west.
Rodrik made his way up through the Wolfswood and across Sea Dragon Point, enjoying the hospitality of the Forresters, Glovers and Mormonts, before beginning his trek up into the mountains. Clans Liddle and Norrey proved to have only sons to offer, but still they insisted up hosting and feasting in his honor, and by the time he came to the Flint holdings, he was already several days behind when he would be expected to begin his return to Winterfell.
Like their neighbors, the Flints were happy to receive a visit from a Stark, especially a son of The Beron, who Old Rickon Flint had fought beside against the ironmen. He was, of course, introduced to Rickon's daughters and granddaughters, half a dozen in total. They were ladies, pretty and courteous, but also they were daughters of the mountains, stubborn and strong-willed. It amused him to think of his gentle nephew wed to one of such fierce character.
It was on the last morning of his visit, enjoying companionable bouts on the sparring grounds, that his life changed forever. He was delighted to knock the burly clansmen into the dirt, proud to still outmatch young warriors half his age. His satisfaction rendered him over-confident when he was faced with his last opponent, a lithe, wiry youth whose fellows towered over him by at least a head. Rodrik had experience on his side, but he was a muscular, broad-shouldered man, and the nimble young warrior used it against him.
Rodrik landed hard on his back, the wind knocked from his lungs, after his feet were swept out from under him. He could only stare stunned as wild laughter and applause came from the spectators and the triumphant fighter appeared in his field of vision, pulling off the leather helmet to reveal a smirking feminine face.
"Well-fought, lord wolf. I thank you for the challenge. My stone-headed brothers never fail to fall for that trick. I feel you might be different."
Rodrik could only blink, accepting her outstretched hand as she hauled him to his feet with a surprising strength. She was tall, of height to look him level in the eye, strong and sinewy with sword-calloused hands, a bright gleam in her eye and a smile that stole his breath all over again. Rodrik did not stand a chance.
When he returned to Winterfell, it was a guilty relief that filled him when he was informed Edwyle had grown infatuated with Marna Locke, the beloved niece of the Lord of Oldcastle. And when Artos received a raven from Lord Flint, it wasn't their nephew's name that was mentioned in the letter.
She was such a beautiful sight, waves of wheaten hair falling around her shoulders, curling into ringlets soft and smooth as corn-silk. Blue eyes danced as they gazed upon him, though he couldn't understand how anything about the sight of him could cause such delight in anyone. Arya must have caught a glimpse of his thoughts, already knowing him so well despite the short time they had been acquainted.
She reached up to cup his face, brushing her thumbs across his weathered, whiskered cheeks. "You're doubting yourself again, my wolf. Can you not trust that I know my own mind, my own desires? I love you, Rodrik. Do you love me?"
"I do," he whispered hoarsely, "Gods help me, but I do."
"Good." She kissed him. "Then make me your wife."
And he did. She was eight and ten to his six and thirty, too young, too beautiful, too full of spirit and potential for his grizzled, jaded self, but still, somehow, enough madness took hold of him to take her hands beside the weirwood tree and fasten his direwolf cloak around her shoulders.
It was madness indeed, but wasn't that the very definition of what it meant to be in love?
Life and laughter filled the halls of Winterfell once more. The next five years saw the births of Artos' grandchildren, Edwyle's heir, Rickard, and Rodrik's daughters, Branda and Lyarra. It became a sign that House Stark was to grow when the sounds of raucous laughter and bawdy singing came from the young lord's solar, where the Stark men gathered to drink and toast in celebration.
It was a time of joy and jubilation like nothing Rodrik had ever known. He would forever be grateful to both his family and the gods for giving him such a gift.
"Uncle?"
Rodrik was drawn back from his memories by the querying voice, turning his head to find his grand-nephew, Rickard, standing behind him. Rodrik's lips curled with amusement as he spotted the bundle the young man was carrying. Wrapped up snugly in a warm, fur-lined cloak, the only part of the small boy visible to Rodrik's eye was a few tufts of dark brown hair. "The lad's having trouble sleeping again?"
Rickard nodded sheepishly. "Aye. The only thing that seems to calm him any more is the cold. Lyarra and I are praying the next one's less wolf-blooded."
A familiar, bittersweet feeling filling Rodrik at the thought of his grandson. Little Brandon was Lyarra and Rickard's firstborn, the first of his grandchildren Rodrik had ever had the honor of meeting. Branda and her children were simply too far away for him to travel in his old age. There were still days he wished he had denied his daughters' request all those years ago, to join their cousins when Edwyle had been extended an invitation by his Blackwood relatives to attend a tourney being held at Blacktree Hall. The same tourney where Branda had caught the attention of the melee champion, Harrold Rogers, and she had been infatuated in return. He loved his daughter too deeply to deny her when the raven came.
It had hurt to lose his eldest to a upstart Southron squire, especially shadowed by so much other devastation. His brother hadn't survived the previous winter, and the loss of his last remaining sibling had left a hole in Rodrik's life and heart he knew could never be filled again. After a year of mourning, Artos' twins had taken it upon themselves to escort their widowed mother to Karhold, where she wished to retire. Lynara was too old and fragile for the long ride on horseback, so her sons commissioned a ship in White Harbor for the journey. Brandon and Benjen returned their mother to her birthplace smoothly and safely, but a fierce storm on the return trip sank the ship and his nephews with it.
House Stark, once so hearty and strong, became the bare bones of what had once flourished. Brandon's daughter had died alongside her father and uncle and Benjen's sons had been casualties of childhood illness. Edwyle, never the same after losing his beloved Marna to the birthing bed along with their child, passed after nearly a decade of declining health.
In the wake of the compounding tragedies, Rickard and Lyarra wed. The marriage had been arranged at Artos' suggestion, to show unit in their branching family tree and pacify the bannermen disgruntled that the two other daughters of House Stark had been made Southron matches. Marry the heir to Winterfel to a Stark cousin and they avoided offending or alienating one bannerman's daughter over another.
Perhaps it made him selfish, but the marriage had relieved him. At least he got to keep his precious Lyarra close. He had lost so much in the last few years, it couldn't be too great a crime to be a bit selfish this way.
He smiled softly, looking out once more at the stretches of snow-covered fields beyond Winterfall's walls. Despite the season, the dawning sun was crisp and clear, highlighting the sky in brilliant violets and reds. He turned back to his nephew and held out his arms for his grandson. "I'll take him back to the nursery, lad. Why don't you check on our she-wolf?"
The boy (for really, he was a boy in Rodrik's eyes, not yet twenty-five) managed to both grin and look apprehensive. He obediently handed over his sleeping son, whose grandfather was gentle as he cradled him close, and cast one last look over his shoulder. "Uncle..Lya and I thought that if we're to have another boy like the Maester thinks, we thought we might name him Eddard. Do you..."
"It's a fine name," he replied, remembering a nearly identical expression on a young Edwyle's face when Marna had gone to the birthing bed for the first time. "I think your father would be proud."
With a grateful smile, Rickard nodded and disappeared into the castle.
Shifting Brandon to rest against his shoulder, Rodrik cast one last glance at the horizon announcing a new day, then turned away, ready to meet whatever challenges it might present. Even old and grizzled, a wolf always had some bite left to spare in defense of his pack.