The sounds of steel clashing woke the Lord of Winterfell out of his slumber, his hand rushing to the dagger at his side. Yet, no strike befell him. He needed a few moments to remember where he was. His face turned into a scowl as his body ached with stiffness. He moaned, and tried to ease his soreness. I've fallen asleep again He thought, as he gently rubbed his eyes. The dark room was made visible by the frail sunlight that insisted in creeping in by the window. The ray of light managed, however, to light the scrolls and parchments that stood in the sturdy wooden desk, reminding him of last night's unfinished tasks. I will finish it soon he promised to himself, a promise, however, he knew he could not keep.
He stirred again, and decided it was time to rise. He summoned the strength of his legs, and they failed him. His hand, however, did not, as he managed to take hold of a nearby shelf, saving him of falling to the cold, hard, floor. Young no more his mind whispered softly to him, as he straightened back to his feet. He gave timid steps closer to his privy and basin, eager to relieve and refresh himself.
After his needs had been attended, he beckoned to the basin. The cold water removed the last traces of sleep in his features. As he reached for a piece of wool, he stared into his face, and took his time judging it. His dark hair was at shoulder length, and, as he ran his fingers through it, some patches of it fell along. His beard covered his face, and he admitted with some grudge he looked older than he was. Eddard was near his fourth decade in this life, and yet the days where he and Robert spent on the Eyrie were still fresh in his mind. However, the grey did not lie. That will not do, he mused. The Lord of Winterfell needed to look strong and fierce to his folk, and not a tired, old, lone, wolf.
He tied his hair back with a small piece of leather and carefully trimmed his beard with a small knife. Once he was pleased, he went back to the dark room to change his attire. He had worn the same for years now. A clean chain mail with comfortable dark boiled leather to cover, dark breeches and boots. And to guard him of ever chiller winds, his fur coat. Finally, he crossed the room to retrieve the resting Ice, strapping it on his back. A war attire, to be sure, but one he spent far too many days accustomed to it. Finally, he stepped upon the dais, the sun striking at his eyes. It didn't take long to trace what had taken him out of his sleep.
Many lords in Westeros didn't spend much attention to their offspring. Most viewed them as flesh and blood tools, born to serve them or to contribute solely to their house's legacy. The second son of Rickard Stark was not among them. Ned loved his sons and daughters. Unlike his father, he made an effort to be close to his children, even when his duties weighted heavily on his shoulder. Even in something ordinary as practice, he could read them as if they were an open book.
Below, at the training ground, his children struggled, under the watchful eyes of Ser Rodrick Cassel. His firstborn and heir, Robb, trained with the hostage, the Greyjoy boy.
Eddard tried to accommodate Balon's last son as best as he could, providing much more than the other Lords would've. The boy was raised amongst his own, and Eddard made sure that Theon was to be respected by the people as if he was a Stark himself. In turn, the boy came to respect him, and soon there were often days where he had shown up at his solar, late at night, seeking comfort. I could not deny him then. Ned's shoulders slumped, as he remembered the day when he took charge of the little, frightened child. But as his eyes saw, and Robb's arm surely felt, Theon was no longer a boy. He had grown, and while his strength didn't seemed greater than Robb's today, a man grown he was. And skilled with a bow, he saw it many times past. Would I be able to strike him down, after all these years? The thought turned his empty guts cold. But he knew that one day Theon would return to the Iron Islands, and a decision would be made. Eddard hoped with great eagerness of a day that the Iron Islands and the North would make peace. And Theon might be the key to it. He might.
His thoughts shifted to his firstborn, and the cold he felt quickly sipped away from him. Robb managed to regain the upper hand, and bring great trouble to his ward.
His first son.
He had the auburn hair and the looks of a Tully, but one could not deny he was a Stark. Eddard had heard many times as the boy grew that Winterfell and its Lord were to be proud of its heir, From smallfolk to even some of the other Lords. "He's still a summer boy" was the unspoken response. And deep in him, Ned knew it to be true. Robb was a strong, just and obedient son. One a Lord would be glad and prideful to have. Nevertheless, his firstborn was born and raised in the safety of his shadow and the strong, hard walls of Winterfell. Winter has not come to him yet, but it will, he knew. And then and only then, Robb would prove his worthiness. As did his father before him.
"I yield" Theon cried, as he had his back to the ground and a sword pointed at his throat. It seemed no harm was done, given the smile across both of their faces, as Robb helped him stand.
Satisfied, Eddard's eyes searched for his other children, soon finding his second youngest son under heavy sweat as he mercilessly punished his straw opponent with a sword. An amusing sight, he had to concede. Poor Bran. As much as his boy struggled, he would never match his namesake. And Eddard should be ashamed to feel glad for it, but he would not.
His brother Brandon came into this world with a sword in his hand, everyone used to say. No sane man would dare deny his skill with a sword, or his fierceness or the so potent wolf's blood that filled his veins. The blood that made and unmade him he acknowledged, as his heart felt sorrow and pain, even after all these years. His Brandon, however, would prove himself in other ways, he knew. Maester Luwin always spoke highly of the child. "He has a mind sharper than any blade" the Maester often said about his third child. Brandon might not become a great warrior, but he could be a great Lord. One that would assist his brother in the harshness of the coming winter. The boy's arm finally gave, and before Ned could give him praise, his attention was brought elsewhere, as a painful scream was heard across the courtyard. He darted trough the dais, for he instantly recognized the voice.
His eyes found the cause and he quickly found himself laughing, which alarmed everyone to his presence. Yet, how could one not at such a scene? Below, his eldest daughter stood in misery, as she had fallen into the wet ground, soiling her beautiful face, auburn hair and clothes. Most unbecoming to a lady. For her misfortune, however, her opponent did not seem to care.
"Enough, Arya. Let go of your sister" He ordered, after regaining control of himself. His daughter gave a wicked smile, and obeyed. Sansa's face was as red as her hair, with both anger and embarrassment. She was about to cry and urge him to punish her sister, but he would have none of it.
"Grab your sword " he told her, ignoring her bewilderment. After sensing he would not relent to her silent plea, Sansa picked the sword and prepared to face her eager sister. The blush from her face soon disappeared along with the crowd's interest. Ser Rodrick instructed them to resume, and they did. Arya rapidly regained the upper hand. She resembles her so much. He thought fondly. Arya had been the only one of his offspring that was a Stark in feature and in spirit. She had his pale skin, dark hair, long face and grey eyes. Most of all, she had inherited the infamous Wolf's blood.
Once, when she was younger and much smaller, she mounted a horse on her own and rushed through the gates, giving start to a wild chase, as she disappeared into the woods. He himself brought her back into Winterfell, after a frantic search with his men. Her Lady mother was most displeased.
Later, when he questioned her, Arya said she felt the need to ride. From that day onwards, He permitted her to train amongst her brothers. She was punished, but she never showed remorse or ever left the yards, much to her mother's dismay, but not his. It was for the best, he knew. Eddard was keen on not repeating the mistake his father had done.
His daughters continued their sparring, if one would consider it one. Again, Sansa was on the ground, but this time she had tried to hit Arya wit unsure footing, and slipped. An improvement, at thevey least.
His eldest daughter was most unlike her younger, wild sister. She was sweet, docile and tame. She knew her courtesies better than all of her siblings, and loved the songs of knights and their chivalry, of ladies and their beauty. A Southron lady in all. His wife and her Septa took pride and joy in that.
Nevertheless, he did not. He knew the reality of war.
The songs never tell about how men butcher each other, surrounded by blood, pain and scream; how men soil themselves, begging for mercy only to receive none, how children and old alike are put to the sword alike, how women were raped and killed. That was the unspoken and terrible truth of war. And he knew it well. Gods, he knew it well.
Eddard took a deep breath, and curled his hands into fists, as he recomposed himself and reminded that he was at Winterfell. The war is over, he told himself countless times, until the dread feeling dimished, and he felt at ease again. Sansa, however, still fared no better. Perhaps I ought to send her to Bear Island, Maege and her daughters would do her good. He mused, fully knowing Caitlyn would not take it well. No matter. She would obey him. She had to.
To his annoyance, nobility and common folk knew about their troubled union. She was never meant to marry him, or wanted to, he believed. She wanted Brandon, it was known, and he wanted another lady. A tall, most beautiful lady with deep violet eyes, whose beauty he would never gaze again. Alas, the gods had other plans for them, and they honored their houses and did their duty. She had given him and House Stark five strong children, and he was grateful for it, no matter how much she would doubt it.
For she could never truly accept the boy. She would never accept Jon. A Stark in all but name. His promise.
Ever since he held the boy in his arms, long years ago, in that accursed tower, he knew he would love him as well as any other son. The secret child of his beloved sister, and Rhaegar Targaryen. Even now his heart pained when he had declared the infant his bastard, still knowing, however, that was the best way to ensure that the child lived. Some days, he wanted to scream to all gods and men that Jon was a trueborn prince, that Lyanna was not raped and that Rhaegar was a brooding, prophecy filled fool, but not a monster. Yet, he never did, for he knew the so, so dire consequences.
He had told the lie to him, years ago. He felt as if a dirk plunged into his heart when he saw the tears on Jon's young face. Yet, days after that, the boy aspired to be the best he could. He honed his skill with a sword every day, a strike better than the last. He would ride hard and fast until he was too sore to dismount. He had dedicated himself to Luwin's teachings, more than the rest of his siblings ever did. It filled him with pride.
Rodrik Cassel, his master- at- arms, often said that Jon was competent with a lance, good with a bow and best with a sword. He would become a fierce warrior, Ned was sure of it. One a lord would cherish to have at his command, while others would loath to be against.
And today, he would see him. Gods, it has been too long.
Three years ago, when Jon turned three and ten, he had sent him down to the Neck, to be under the care of his most loyal banner man, Howland Reed. In the eyes of Westeros, it seemed that Lord Stark tried to amend the relationship with his estranged wife. While he had to acknowledge that Caitlyn was glad Jon was no longer with them, she was not the true reason behind his decision.
He did it for Jon. And for himself, for he could not watch his dear boy in constant brooding. The lie was consuming him. Ned could not ignore that his lips seldom smiled. A beautiful smile, same as Lyanna's. And he could not ignore that it was his lie that made it vanish, either if said lie was for the greater good. So he let him go. And three long years passed since.
The Lord of Winterfell heard a horn being blown at the main gate, bringing him out of his thoughts. While others were confused and visibly alarmed by the sound of it, he was not. He had long waited for this moment. A guard came and informed him of what he already knew, and he then dispatched him with a nod. Eddard hastily descended from the solar to the hall, and finally was across the yard, in front of the main gate. There he stood, as expected of him. The gates of Winterfell slowly opened.
A company of riders swept the yard, no more than ten. All of them bore no color or sigil, only with dark worn breeches and jerkins, and thick hoods that covered their faces. One rider dismounted and walked closer to him, stopping at a respectful distance.
"Lord Stark. I answer your summons" The man said and, removed his hood and bowed.
"My Lord. Winterfell welcomes you." Ned replied, putting his arms around him, as if he was a long lost kin. In a sense, Howland was. In the war, the Lords had grown close, for they shared blood, tears and secrets. The Lord of the Neck was his most trusted vassal, one he could trust with the direst of secrets, as he did.
"It's good to see you again, Ned. It has been too long." Reed spoke. Eddard used to receive letters from his bannerman regularly, but have never seen him since the end of Robert's Rebellion, ages ago.
"Indeed. My Lord, have you brought him? Where is the boy?" Eddard asked impatiently, eagerness in his voice. If Reed felt any offense, he did not show.
"Boy, you ask? I've brought no boy with me" He answered, and made a gesture with his arm.
A tall and slender rider came forth, dismounted and made his face known. But everything Eddard could see, however, was Lyanna. Jon had a dark, long hair that went past his shoulders. A long, pale face that had all the features of a Stark. From Rheagar Targaryen, he inherited nothing but his eyes. Jon had a set of violet clear eyes.
"Lord Stark" the boy greeted him respectfully with a different voice that he used to hear. The cracked voice of a child was instead replaced by a deep one of a grown man.
"Jon" he replied, fondness marking his voice.
For a brief moment, they starred at each other. He knew. His fears ended as fast as they had risen, however, as he found himself embraced.
"Father" Jon whispered softy, and Ned felt tears upon his coat. He did not bother, for his own eyes were wet.
In that moment, He was no longer Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, but only a man reunited with his son.
He would have held him until the end of the world had he not heard his daughter scream her brother's name. Ned saw his youngest daughter leap into Jon, with impulse to knock a grown man down. But Jon did not fall. He caught her, enveloping his arms around her. They soon became a mess of sobs and tears. Only proper. She had missed him the most out of his children.
Robb and Bran quickly joined them. But Sansa and Rickon did not. It did not suprise him. Glancing back, he saw the silent fury across Catelyn's Tully features. She would not allow it. But, he would. Eddard's cold eyes gave her a silent, but clear command. Wisely, she relented, leaving the courtyard in haste, as Sansa and Rickon merrily rushed to their siblings.
He took his time, searing the image presented to him to the depths of his memory. In winter, "the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives" his father had taught him, a life time ago. Yet him, Brandon, Lyanna and even Benjen had left him. He now was the lone wolf.
One that would ensure see that this packed survived. And no god or men would keep him from doing so.