Chapter 10

"You have my thanks and the thanks of all the North for bringing my sisters home safely," the new Lord Stark announce loudly enough that the whole gathering could hear. "It may be Sansa's name day, but this is a gift to us all."

Ned bowed to the slightly older lord. "I was honored that your father trusted me with the task. He also asked that I deliver these to you as well." He handed over two packages wrapped tightly in leather, one small and one long. "I have fulfilled my pledge."

Robb Stark looked between the two items. Slowly he reached for the long package. He hefted it then swiftly cut the bindings with a knife from his belt. The leather fell away to reveal the rippling Valyrian steel of Ice, the Stark ancestral greatsword. The auburn-haired lord rested the point of the blade on the stones and leaned his head forward to touch the cross guard. He held that pose for several seconds while the crowd of Northmen stood silently behind him. Sansa and Arya both stepped closer and laid their hands on their brother's arms.

Together the family mourned.

After time the Northern lord stood straight and swung the blade's harness over his shoulder. Robb squeezed the smaller package in his hand then tucked it in his belt without opening it.

"Again, a blade is returned in a time of sorrow. You have my gratitude," Robb said.

"I offer you my condolences on the loss of your father," Ned replied quietly. He did not speak for the ears of the crowd. "I did not know him well but cannot fail to recognize his courage and devotion to duty."

Equally quietly Robb hissed, "Starks have no place in the south. I wish Father had never gone. It cost us too dearly and it was all for naught."

The travelers had received word of Eddard Stark's murder at the hand of the Bastard Pretender when they arrived in White Harbor. Lord Manderly kept a number of agents in King's Landing, and they sent word as soon as Lord Stark's head was displayed outside the Red Keep's Gate.

Not three days after the death of King Robert was announced, the Lannisters had proclaimed that the former Hand had been tried and executed for assassinating the King. It was also made known that anyone repeating Stark's treasonous lies would share his fate.

The southern lord had expected the usurpers would be smart enough, or perhaps sane enough, to keep Stark alive as a valuable hostage against the actions of the North. Alas, that was a vain hope. Or perhaps the man had found a way to ensure his own death, thus depriving the Lannisters of the opportunity to use him against his family. The young knight wished rather than expected that had been the case. He thought it more likely the brave lord had met his fate under the skinning knives and hot brands of the traitors in the infamous black cells. The Blessed sent up another prayer for Stark's soul.

The girls had been devastated by the tragic news and Ned had been forced to delay their journey three days, giving the family time to pull themselves together while under the care of Lord Manderly.

Eventually the corpulent lord had provided the travelers with transport and supplies to ease the rest of their journey. He also sent his younger son Ser Wendel to lead a troop of guards to accompany them.

The Manderly men had quickly joined in the nightly training that Ned and Forel held for the girls, all of whom were learning to protect themselves better. At first, the mermen were humoring the young ladies, until Arya managed to disarm Ser Wendel and draw blood with Needle. After that they took the training a bit more seriously and gained a deal of affection for the she-wolves, including Jeyne in that group. The steward's daughter had proven wicked with a skinning knife, thanks in part to the time she spent with Desmond, a tanner's son.

The expanded group traveled by boat up the White Knife, stopping each night to camp or room at one of the few small river inns. The made it more than halfway to Winterfell before being forced onto the road. During the trip Ser Wendel had explained how his elder brother Ser Wylis had already taken the bulk of the house's forces to Moat Cailin when Robb had called the banners.

Ned looked at the forces gathered outside of the high walls of Winterfell. More than eight thousand troops were mixed with craftsmen and labors all prepared to move south. Most were camped and looked like they had been for some weeks. The Dornishman expected that many of the lords and knights of the host were enjoying the hospitality of the castle rather than sleeping rough in the surprisingly cold northern summer nights.

The northern nobility had all been gathered to meet the travelers outside the castle when they arrived. It was mid-afternoon. The last half day had been the easiest of their trip. Sansa, Arya, and Jeyne were energized by the return to familiar territory. They were pointing out familiar landmarks and remembering past events tied to them. The horses picked up on their mood and were trotting more briskly despite the weeks-long ride.

"What will you do now?" Ned almost whispered to Lord Stark after a moment.

The Lord of Starfall knew that in the prior history Robb Stark had been responsible for the death of thousands, though he had done it all for what he felt were the right reasons. In the end, the young leaders' choice to break a vow, putting his own feelings ahead of his duty led to the horrific Red Wedding. Certainly, the faithless Freys held the greater share of blame, for they betrayed guest rights and their sworn liege on such a massive scale. But this hot-blooded young wolf had sparked the conflagration.

Ned could only hope to steer him towards a different path this time.

Stark glanced to either side and replied, "This is not the time or place to discuss my plans. Perhaps later."

The Northern lord raised his voice and continued, "For now I invite both of you to share in the hospitality of Winterfell." He gestured and a man brought forward bread and salt, offering a bit to both Ned and Forel, the only two strangers. They each took a bit and a subtle relaxation spread through those nearby.

Dinner at the castle that night was one step short of a feast. Sansa and Arya were the centers of attention of the Stark household, especially the younger Stark brothers. Jeyne was seated with a small group that Ned hoped were her extended family. Septa Mordane was nowhere to be seen. From their discussions on the road, the southern lord knew that even after a dozen years the septa still felt out of place in the heathen North. There was a small sept in the castle, where he assumed she was praying.

Ned and Forel seemed to be attracting the attention of some of the collected bannermen.

"I hear they call you the Giantslayer," boomed the voice of Lord Umber. He was one of the few men Ned had ever seen that approached Gregor Clegane in size. "Fancy having a go in the yard tomorrow to see how you do against a northern giant?"

"I've never claimed the title, but I'm always looking for new opponents," Ned replied cheerfully. "There's always more to learn."

"Bugger sparring," spat Ser Helman Tallhart, a grouchy knight. "What can you tell us of the war? I've been hearing all sorts of ravenshit. The Golden Bastard holds King's Landing. The Baratheon Brothers are working together to take it back. Or they're working at cross purposes, each calling on lords from Crackclaw Point to Oldtown to rally to them. I hear the Lannisters are raiding the Riverlands, that they've defeated the Trouts and are ready to march on the North. There's so much being said, but no one knows what to believe!"

Much of the conversation in the hall quieted at the older man's outburst. Ned was unsurprised to see most eyes in the hall turn to him. He thought quickly about what he could or should say then raised his voice to be heard. "I do not know what all may be true. I know I was with the King when Lord Stark revealed the betrayal of the Lannisters and the cursed origins of the three children. I was there when the King named them traitors. And I was there when the King suffered a fatal apoplexy. I know the Hand had nothing to do with his friend's death, other than giving him a hard truth. So, the lie spread that Lord Stark killed Robert is just that – a base calumny."

There was a great deal of murmuring at that.

"Lord Stark knew his decision to stay in the capital and fight against the traitors was likely to lead to his death. He chose to make that sacrifice to preserve his honor and the honor of his friend." The Dornish lord continued, resulting in a louder, more feral growl.

"Lord Stannis was not in King's Landing when all this was happening. Lord Renly had begun to distrust the Lannisters before the King left the city. He was quietly gathering forces from the Stormlands to counter their numbers in the Red Keep. I spoke with him on this very topic. But that was when the King was still well, and the extent of the lions' treachery was unknown." Ned paused to consider his next words. They might be seen as inflammatory but reflected his thoughts.

"I cannot say what happened to Renly's plan to oppose the redcloaks in the Keep. Nor can I guess what his plans now might be. His is the Master of Laws and maintaining public order in King's Landing is part of that remit. He may be gathering forces to clear out the thieves and murderers now holding the city."

"What of the Riverlands?" Lord Cerwyn asked.

"Again, I do not know. I've heard rumors, as have you. I was told that while the King was on his hunt, Lord Stark received petitioners from the Riverlands claiming reivers led by Ser Amory Lorch had raided the area near Goldtooth. Lord Stark sent a hundred men, including a number of his own Northern guards to take the raiders in the name of the King. He chose Lord Mallister to lead the relief force. What happened after is out of my ken."

"Lord Mallister is a good man," said Ser Rodrik Cassel, the Winterfell Master-at-arms. "If the numbers are anywhere near on his side, he should be able to put paid to them."

"Word from my uncle is that Lord Mallister was grievously wounded in a battle at some ford near Pinkmaiden," the new Lord Stark reported. Ned thought it fitting that he demonstrated both his larger connections in the Kingdoms and more recent intelligence to his bannermen. "Lord Mallery of the Crownlands, Ser Raymun Darry, and at least two other knights with them were killed in the same battle. The reivers took greater losses, but still ravage the lands. Lord Edmure expects to be able to contain them soon. He says nothing about any invading armies of Westermen. Nor does he ask for Northern assistance."

"Then why have you called us, if not to go south and protect your Lady Stark's kin?" asked the irascible Tallhart. "Is it revenge for your father you're after? Are we to tear down that shithole of a city and …"

"No!" Robb slammed his palm flat on the table, silencing the growing murmurs of agreement. "Before I was born, men of the North bled and died for revenge in a Southron war. Yet those lives spent did not bring back my grandfather, nor my uncle, nor my aunt. Eight years later more men of the North bled and died in another Southron war. And again, we gained nothing from it. Now there is yet another Southron war. And another Stark is already lost to it. My father made a choice," the lord nodded towards Ned. "A sacrifice for his friend who was his king.

He stood and pulled a note from his belt. "My father wrote to me the night before he was taken. He told me what he was doing and why. He asked me not to bring the North into another Southron war to revenge his death. His death, he said, was his choice, not the Lannisters'. My father felt his duty to and love for his friend was worth his life, but not the life of a single additional man of the North. He asked that we all stay in the North, protect it from Southron armies and seaborn raiders. For you know the squids and the sister-scum will likely take advantage of the chaos to return to their old ways. We will protect our home and prepare. Rebuild Moat Cailin. Fortify the shores. Build a Northern fleet if necessary."

His voice was harsh, almost ragged with emotion. "Winter. Is. Coming! And we will be ready! Here, where we belong. And if the lions or the stags or even the fucking dragons reborn come for us, we will show them the steel of the North and they will do the bleeding and dying. Here, where we belong."

"Fuck the south!" came a voice from the crowd.

"Fuck the south," agreed Lord Stark grimly then sat as the hall took up the profane cheer.

Ned, the only southerner present, felt a shiver pass though him. With a nod to Forel, he slipped from the hall and headed towards the small chamber the Stark had offered him for his stay in Winterfell.

He saw Sansa and Septa Mordane in a cross passage. It looked as if the young lady was going to approach him. A light touch from the septa stopped her. "Good night, Lord Dayne," she said, her voice soft but carrying.

"And to you, Lady Sansa," Ned replied with a bow. The two women continued down their corridor while he turned down his.

It took some time for him to get to sleep that night.

Images drifted through his dreams. Sansa and Arya in various places in Winterfell, the great hall, the yard, the library, the sewing room, playing with their brothers and talking with the Northern lords. He saw Robb in the godswood, holding Ice before the heart tree. He saw the crippled Stark boy being lifted into a special saddle. He saw the Northmen building stone walls and wooden ships. And food being laid in for the coming winter.

Then he stood before the Seven in their shadowed hall.

"You have done well," spoke the Father. "And you shall have your reward."

"But you must choose the gift," said the Smith.

"Will you have the Healer's Touch?" offered the Mother.

"Or the Champion's Steed?" asked the Maiden.

"Or the Commander's Voice?" urged the Warrior.

"You may only choose one," cautioned the Stranger.

"What sort of man will you be?" intoned the Crone.

Ned understood the nature of the three gifts. The Healer's Touch would let him cure anything but death once per day. He pictured Bran and knew that with this choice the boy could walk again on the morrow. The Champion's Steed was a horse that would answer his call if he was anywhere on land and could bear him at speed twice that of any other horse and maintain that speed all day. The Commander's Voice would allow any men he commanded to hear his voice clearly from anywhere on the field even in the heat of battle.

They were all miraculous boons. He set aside his vision the young Stark's face. He was no Maester, and he hoped to prevent more than one death a day by shortening the war. He would do that as a knight errant, relying on his own prowess, rather than as a commander of great armies.

"I choose the Champion's Steed."

"Then this is your next task," said the Warrior.

Suddenly Ned was in the yard of a castle. A ragged blue banner hung high on the wall still showed the faded form of a nude maiden wrapped in white. In the yard twenty men gathered – seven on one side and thirteen on the other. Among them were many that Ned recognized. Foremost of those was the Mountain, who stood in his black armor but with no helmet. His face was a horror, his chin and lower jaw missing. His beard had been shorn showing the bloody bandage that bound his throat. Clegane was waving his hands. Before him stood Amory Lorch, Vargo Hoat, and a chunky knight with orange and black sunbursts on his quartered shield. The first two were some of the brotherhood's greatest enemies. The third was unknown.

Suddenly the Mountain lunged forward and grabbed Lorch's round head with both hands and squeezed. It popped like a rotten melon. This caused the men behind Lorch to react.

Some surged forward, some back, but it did them no good as the Mountain laid into them barehanded. He ripped an arm of the sunburst knight and used it to brain the man next to him. Clegane's flapping mouth was frothing with mindless fury. The six men behind him surged froward with him, slaying any who survived the giant's wrath.

The only one to live was the Black Goat, and only because he prostrated himself before the Mountain and begged, even as Clegane stomped the bloody mummer's left arm to flinders.

This vision was followed swiftly by scenes of the Mountain burning and killing with a group of followers, smaller but more vicious than ever they were in Ned's past life. At each atrocity, a maester who Clegane kept chained to the loot wagon would post a notice with three words spelled out – Bring us Dayne.

"Kill the Mountain."

The next morning Ned sought out Lord Stark. He found the new ruler of Winterfell in the yard. Before the Dornishman could catch Robb's attention, he felt a hand crash down on his shoulder.

"There you are!" boomed Lord Umber, draping his arm around the smaller lord's shoulder. "We were concerned that you were thinking of skipping out on our spar, Giantslayer."

Internally Ned winced. That was exactly what he had planned. Not because he had any fear of the large Northman, but because he was anxious to get on the road south. People were dying. But he had to consider the other factors as well. He was currently in good odor in the North. He had gained favor for returning both Lord Stark's sisters and his family blade. But that reputation could easily be lost if the other Northern lords thought him a coward.

While the mistaken opinions of near strangers meant little to him, he was politically astute enough to know that he would be burning bridges unnecessarily if he left them thinking badly of him. And while he might never need the good will of the North, it might also be essential at some time in the future. It was worth half a day.

"Of course not. I was simply getting my beauty sleep." Ned ran his fingers through his long pale blond hair, then made a show of tying it back with one of his Aunt's braided leather bands.

Almost every man in the yard had stopped to watch. When he finished, he turned to Greatjon and asked, "How do I look?"

The larger lord simply stared at Ned until the Dornishman batted his eyes in imitation of Prince Oberon at his least serious. Lord Umber exploded in laughter, quickly followed by the rest of the men in the yard.

While they were so engaged, Ned went to the storage shed where he found a blunted greatsword. He tested its balance but found it lacking. The second he tested was much better. He pointed the first unbalanced blade out to one of Ser Rodrik's assistants. "That one needs some work before it's used again. It could lead to bad training."

The man-at-arms nodded and took the faulty weapon.

Greatjon was awaiting him in the ring. All the other combatants had stopped their training and were lining the fences to watch the upcoming match. Ned saw the large man also carried a two-handed practice sword. The young lord smiled. This was probably as close a match to the Mountain that one could find, at least in terms of size and presumably strength.

Maybe this would not be a waste of time, he thought as he donned his helmet.

"Come little man and see what a real giant can do!" Umber said as he too donned his helmet.

The first clash of weapons rang throughout the inner baily of the great castle. The two men locked blades; guards intertwined as they against pushed each other in a contest of pure strength. Greatjon's seven-inch height advantage meant he was pushing down. But Ned was stronger. Not by much, but enough that he was slowly moving the two swords towards his opponent.

"No fucking way!" the Northman growled, his voice deep and rumbling. "You are not stronger than me!"

"Maybe. Maybe not," Ned grunted. Then he took a shuffling step sideways and twisted both blades in a way that Forel had shown him on the Wind Witch.

It did not work quite as well with two-handers as with the slim one-handed weapons the Braavosi favored, but it was enough to cause Umber to step backwards to keep he sword in hand. That opened him to getting tangled with Ned's quickly planted foot. The Northern giant toppled backwards like a felled tree, his sword being wrenched from his hands.

"But I am faster and know a few tricks." Ned finished as he reached down, offering the older man a hand to his feet. Umber accepted it, then tried to pull the smaller man down. The young lord was ready for that trick and was braced against it. After a moment, the Northman relented and allowed himself to be pulled upright.

"Alright! Enough playtime," Ser Rodrik yelled. "Let's see some sword work or clear the field."

The two lords squared off against each other. Again, they clashed, but this time Ned used his reflexes to stop thrust the larger man before he could complete his first swipe. "Fuck! You are fast. Again!"

And Ned did it again.

"What are you going to do if I just defend, smartass?" Umber mocked as he took up a defensive stance. The younger lord could easily see it was not the large man's preferred position.

Ned probed with a simple slash. Umber tired the stop thrust trick, but Ned easily parried it. After a few more exchanges, the Dornishman spotted a flaw in the Northerner's arm position. A high feint and a low swing let him slip past the man's guard to lay a bruising cut across his inside leg.

"Hey! Watch the tackle, little man. I've still got use for that!" The crowd roared as Umber stumbled back rubbing his thigh.

"Again!" Greatjon barked then charged. Ned danced aside ready to swat the bigger man across the backside, only to find Umber had also moved unexpectedly and caught Ned in his shoulder with the greatsword's metal crossguard. In response, Ned tossed an elbow that rang the giant's helm. They both stepped back, and the crowd cheered.

"There may be something to you after all," Umber grudgingly admitted. "Again!"

They sparred for almost an hour. Ned had never met an opponent so closely matching his own stamina and strength. Ned was faster and slightly more skilled, but the older man had at least two extra decades of hard-fighting experience in a very rough school. Both men were strong enough to use their greatswords one-handed. This left Umber an extra hand or foot he often found a use for. The Northerner's unorthodox combination of sword and unarmed combat caught Ned unprepared several times.

"Enough!" the Master-at-Arms called. "No one can take their eyes of this cart crash of a melee, and I need to get others trained so they might someday be worthy to polish the armor of two such accomplish lords." The sarcastic vitriol in the bald knight's words was sharper than any of the blades on the field. "So, get your massive asses out of my yard!"

Greatjon was grinning when he got his dented helmet off. "I think you owe me a drink or six. By the gods you hit hard. My head's gonna be ringing for a week."

"I'm afraid I cannot. I have to begin my journey south as soon as I can take my leave of Lord Stark," Ned replied.

"What! Why?" Sansa demanded from behind the two men.

Ned turned to see both Sansa and Arya were accompanying their elder brother. None looked happy at his words.

"Why must you leave so quickly Lord Dayne? I was rather hoping for your company for some time," Lord Stark demanded almost petulantly. "There is still much I would ask you of your trip. And I would value your impressions of the people involved in the coming conflict."

"That is just it, my Lord," Ned replied quietly. "The conflict is coming. It has already started in the Riverlands. And while I fully agree with your stance of not bringing the North into another southern war, I am a southern knight and must return to fight."

"And for whom will you fight?" Lord Stark asked. His sisters both listened attentively.

"You spoke last night of reivers in the Riverlands," the Dornishman replied. "While there may not be a need for a full army to assist your uncle, I believe one man may make a difference. I also expect that I will find the Mountain among the enemy there."

"But you killed him!" Sansa stated.

"Unfortunately, that's just a rumor," Ned answered. "I wounded him, grievously. But it takes more than that to kill the cur. Now he's a mad dog and I feel it my duty to finally put him down."

"I understand," Lord Stark said after a few moments thought. "Wouldn't it be better to ride to Moat Cailin with my host. You might even find a few volunteers to accompany you south. I would not send them, but nor would I stop a few young men from seeking their fortunes in foreign lands."

"To be honest, my Lord, I will travel more quickly on my own. And if you let a few choose to fight in the south, you may find that trickle becomes a flood as fools seek adventure where duty demands their presence at home."

The northern lord sighed and nodded. Both men pretended not to notice Arya's affronted look. "Let me at least offer you a few sturdy mounts. It's a long way to the Trident."

Ned bent down to pick up his pack, which he had filled from the larder, and sword belt. Once he had them in place, he put his fingers to his lips and let out a piercing whistle. The sounds reverberated unnaturally and silenced the castle. There was a sound of thunder then the beating of hooves approaching the castle gate. All eyes turned to the entrance as a snow-white steed with purple barding bearing the shooting star of House Dayne. The horse approached Ned. As he drew closer it became obvious the star in the barding was the Seven-Pointed Star that symbolized the Faith.

"There's no need, my Lord," Ned said with a final bow as he pulled himself into the saddle. "One has been provided for me."

With a final wave to the two girls, Ned turned and rode south.

A/N: Character Changes

Level 25 (+10)

VIT +1

Gained Skills

Area Knowledge: The North [INT] = 17

Improved Skills

Conversation +1

Diplomacy +2

Politics +2

Survival +1

Sword +4

Tactics +3

Unarmed Combat +2

Quest Reward –

The Champion's Steed - a horse that will answer your call if you are anywhere on land. He can bear you at twice the speed of any other horse and maintain that speed all day. [100 miles per day overland, Not slowed by terrain. If killed will reappear when next called. Obviously supernatural]