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The grim and eerie winds that whistled through his ears was a dark and forlorn song to listen to. Its touch was cold and biting, even for him. His grey eyes were heavy, set above dark sunken pits. He was aging too fast; he was too young to feel such weight upon his bones.
Eddard Stark was a silent fortress assailed by an army unending. Robert had taken Lyanna, even after all he had done for his cause. Catelyn despised the boy he named Jon, he of his line but not through his Tully wife's womb. He had just gotten into a scathing argument concerning the natural born son. Not only that but now she was pregnant again, and he feared what the stress would have done for his beloved's health.
It was problem upon problem that never relented. He had half the mind to go to the godswood, to feel the comforting presence of the old gods; but, ever since Lyanna all he felt when he basked under the gaze of the weirwood was no longer comfort but pity and scorn.
He had failed as a brother, a friend and a father.
He thought back to the men who accompanied him to that wretched tower. He thought back to Howland Reed and a barely living Ethan Glover. He remembered the face of a grief-stricken Ashara Dayne as they brought her ruined brother into Starfall.
He would never forget those burning violet eyes that bore into him.
His grey eyes were affixed to the south, longingly searching for his beloved sister. It had been too long since he last met her, she tried to smile through the tears as she was wedded to King Robert Baratheon. He remembered her fear and apprehension as she spoke of her unfaithful husband.
Every story of Robert's 'conquest's only brought even further disgust and anger within Eddard. A thousand innocents had died for the chance of marrying his sister gods damn it!
Eddard Stark stood on top of the walls of Winterfell. His body unmoving but his mind wandering throughout the seven kingdoms.
What was the entire point of it?
The Rebellion?
Was it to overthrow the Targaryens? To murder bloodily the children of Rhaegar and Elia Martell? Was it for the throne? The damned throne that Robert didn't even want at all?
Lyanna? Robert himself said it was all for her, was that a lie then? Robert already break his vows with his licentiousness.
Robert, what had happened to let their friendship become so frigid? What was it that caused his once brother to isolate himself within the viper's nest?
Eddard didn't know, all he had was a lingering fear deep in his chest.
Was Robert no better than Aerys?
It daunted him, the very prospect that the rebellion was all but a folly.
He shook his head, shaking off several flakes of snow that were resting upon him.
These thoughts served nothing but to sow doubt. There was no point in regret, all that needed to be done was to make just what was unjust.
He took a deep breath; he was of the North. The North was of him, he felt the winds that scoured the land. The first blanket of pure white snow, the rustling of the ironwood leaves. He heard the tumbling of the mountain stones, the waves of the Bay of seals and the bracken water of the Neck. All of this was of the North, of him and his bannerman.
Robert if he had still sense would know that even Northmen have the fury in them.
Lyanna will return back home, back to the north.
That was his vow to himself, even if honor demanded him to serve Robert dutifully. He would ensure Lyanna would return home.
If she didn't.
Then winter would come to King's Landing.
The wet-nurse left them after having let them suckle on her teats, he stared at them as they played with one another. He looked on as they laughed and smiled with their babe talk.
He allowed himself a single smile. No matter what Catelyn would say. They were brothers, no matter the womb which birthed them. They were Starks, in blood and spirit. Nothing could take that away from them. They were both sons of winter.
He carried Robb, the boy gave him a gleeful smile. He was young and already he saw the features of his beautiful mother. He possessed soft blue eyes and a small waft of auburn hair on his scalp. He looked over to Jon, the younger by several months, who was soundly asleep. The boy was still bald but he had once received a glance of his eyes.
They were cold, dark grey. These were Stark eyes he told himself.
A quiet shuffling noise shook him from his reverie. He turned and saw his lady-wife standing just beside the door.
She looked at him with eyes of ire and sadness.
"Have you come for your son or your natural son Ned?" At least bastard wasn't mentioned.
She saw the single tear running down her high cheekbones, her fair skin glowing with her new pregnancy. The luster on her auburn hair slightly fading as she was getting tired.
It was painful, to act so cruel towards her. She deserved much more than silence, but it had to be done. This was a promise; it was his honor that prevented him from doing so.
"Aye." He answered evasively, her lips curled slightly upwards. Set to a sad face.
"Who was she?" He did not wish to have this conversation again.
"This woman your heart loves more than I?" He felt his chest cave in at that question, Catelyn will always be his heart's desire. Though he may have doubts about the rebellion, his love for Cat was not among them.
"She was only a woman." Her eyes narrowed and she had an angry frown.
"Only a woman? She who makes good honorable Eddard Stark hide secrets from his wife?" Her voice wavered as she moved towards him, her hand hanging from the side, almost ready to deliver her chastisement.
"You dare not reveal her name to me! Your own wife! We spoke our vows under the eyes of Gods both old and new! So why do you not even tell me her name if she were but a woman?" Her hand was a scant few inches from his long face, hovering like an executioner's sword above the nape.
Tears dripped into the stone floor, her eyes staring at him accusingly.
'What was my sin?' Those eyes told him.
'What have I done for you to treat me so?' They begged with pained anger.
Eddard Stark felt like he was the most wretched man in the world. What sort of husband makes his lady-wife cry within the presence of their babe?
He held her gently, she slammed balled fists into his chest albeit halfheartedly. She cried on his chest, Robb had started crying too.
Eddard held her head, smiling at her with grey eyes.
"I cannot tell you who the boy's mother is, my honor would not allow it; but, know that there is no woman in all of Westeros who've I've loved more than you Catelyn Tully." He spoke softly but with a warmth not commonly found among a Northman.
"Stark, Catelyn Stark." She whimpered as she felt his embrace.
Things were getting better now; Catelyn had been mollified. Her hostility towards Jon had cooled but did not completely dissipate, that was fine. He did not expect her to forgive him. All he wanted was her to accept Jon was of his blood.
The problem was Jon.
He was now in the solar,reading through the multitude of letters that had started pouring forth since Robb had arrived here. He was holding a letter that bore the seal of House Karstark, a cadet branch of his own house.
He however didn't seem to be staring at it, but through it.
His mind lingered on someone else, Jon. Robb was only a babe and already proposals for his hand were being sent. Yet there would be none for Jon.
Mayhaps he should be sent to the Wall? It has always been custom for bastards of Stark blood to become a brother of the Night's Watch.
Then an image of Lyanna appeared.
He shook his head; Jon was no bastard. He couldn't decide that for him. He would give the choice to Jon when he was older. Jon may be his blood, but he wasn't from his womb. He couldn't force him to do things that he did not agree to on his lonesome.
Yet at that moment his thoughts drifted towards Robert. The King still had an unquenchable hatred of the Targaryens. He remembered the oath that Robert spoke.
'All Targaryen's must know my fury.'
He thought back to Jon in his cradle. How silent he was when he stared at everything.
Jon would live a difficult life, a life where honor would not be enough to save him.
It irked him to think of such things; but, the pain of Lyanna being confined to King's Landing had been addling his sense of honor. It was difficult to remain loyal to honor when one's sister was subject to a lifetime of torment just because he had fulfilled it.
So how then would he have Jon prepare for his difficult path? How would he ensure that he knew honor and ruthlessness in equal measure? How could he help him avoid the same fate the had befallen his poor mother?
He felt a sickness in his tummy as he thought of potential solutions.
No. It was wrong, he could never let Jon go there. His mind had been foolish for thinking that particular thought. It was just one of many, yet it was one that managed to worm its way into the forefront.
It was a ghastly idea; he didn't believe he was giving it the dignity of his consideration. It was a foul and cruel thought.
Yet he could not deny, there was some merit to it on closer inspection.
Sending Jon there would have protected him, the hosts of that place had warred with his house for countless centuries, but had remained loyal during the Rebellion. They were old and rightly feared if the stories of their malpractices were half true. He doubted they'd be foolish enough to let any harm befall even his natural son.
But it would mean Jon would for a long time be away from Winterfell. He wanted him to live here, to be raised here. For him to experience the things his siblings and he did when they grew up within their home.
Yet they did not have the burdens that Jon had, they did not have the stain of bastardry and the danger of his bloodline. Jon needed all the strength he needed for this.
He needed to be fostered with a cold and cruel house in order to survive.
His hand was shaking as he looked towards Maester Luwin. He was old, with grey eyes and grey hair. He wore a grey woolen robe and the heavy collar he wore seemed to weigh him down. He was busily attending to the letters, shifting the pile as to make it easier for the Lord Stark to read.
"Maester, I need to compose a letter." The Maester acknowledged him with a curious glance.
"Have you already accepted one of the proposals milord? Eddard shook his head.
"This is a different matter altogether, prepare a raven."
"Where to?"
Ned Stark grimaced grimly.
"The Dreadfort."
"Foster your natural son within mine halls?" Roose Bolton was an unnerving man to converse with. He was plain of face except for his dark eerie eyes. His voice was soft but carried a hidden menace.
They had said he still partook in the right of first night and of flaying, that evil practice that Eddard had banned within the North. Roose was dangerous, he could not deny that. Mayhaps a dangerous man would be necessary to ensure Jon's survival.
"I hope the circumstance of his birth does not offend you lord Bolton." Eddard spoke solemnly, still having doubts in his course of action.
"I too have a natural son whom I've taken under my wing. His mother had perished and he was brought to mine attention just recently." Roose spoke like him, cool and without warmth; but, that was where the differences laid. Roose seemed to be the sort of man incapable of warmth at all.
Still it was nice for Jon to get the chance to be fostered with one of a similar situation.
"May I know his name lord Roose?" Roose Bolton's cold eyes never strayed from him. They blinked so rarely that it felt as if he had been staring at him since the start of conversation.
"Ramsay Snow. You did not ask for me just because you wanted to know the names of natural sons my Lord Stark. What is the reason for your request?" Eddard felt uncomfortable telling Roose Bolton anything. It was like telling secrets to a Faceless Man.
"Jon needs to be strong." Stark said wretchedly. He was admitting to a Bolton that the Starks have become weak, but that was the truth. Lyanna was far away in King's Landing; Benjen had left in a quiet rage for the wall, resentful of how Eddard failed to bring back their sister, and Eddard himself was conversing with the most dangerous being in the North.
House Stark was not in the best of circumstances. Moreover Jon would eventually need to learn how to play the Game of Thrones if he ever wished to see his mother again, and only one house in the North were masters of it.
"I am flattered that you think mine house strong enough to foster your natural son." Ned didn't know if Roose was being sarcastic or contemptuous. It was so hard to know anything from his cold and monotone voice.
"The Lord Bolton has a daughter correct?" Roose remained quiet. His Ryswell wife had born him twins just after the Rebellion, a boy and a girl. Unfortunately, she perished due to childbed fever.
"Do you suggest she be betrothed to your heir?" Eddard shook his head, he was expecting that answer.
"She will be betrothed to Jon." Roose became deadly quiet, his eyes flickering with subtle malice.
"You brought me here just to slight me my lord?" Roose said dangerously, unheeding of his status as bannerman of Eddard Stark.
"Slight you? You think your daughter being betrothed to the new lord of Barrowtown a slight?" Eddard would not admit it; he did not expect the Lord of the Dreadfort capable of surprise.
Lady Barbery Dustin had perished of fever during the course of the Rebellion. Eddard didn't know whether he was relieved or saddened by that fact. In one hand it meant he would not receive an earful for not bringing back home the bones of Willam Dustin, on the other it meant house Dustin was no longer. There were probably some descents of House Dustin left, but it would be all but impossible to track down the ones closest to the main house and hence control of Barrowtown would revert back to him.
He thought long and hard about it, the bannermen would have found umbrage at Eddard Stark making Jon Lord of Barrowton, but it was the easiest way of removing the stain of bastardry on Jon. By making him the Lord of a new cadet branch of house Stark. He couldn't send him to the wall. His mother would never have forgiven him otherwise, Benjen already fulfilled the Stark duty of manning the wall. So this left Jon in a precarious situation.
Roose Bolton was of a similar mind, planning already just how he could benefit from this.
"The other bannermen would not take this lightly." Eddard nodded sadly at Roose' words.
"You make your natural son the lord of a powerful seat, half a dozen houses were sworn to house Dustin." Eddard nodded again.
"I have made my decision." He spoke plainly.
Roose continued his staring.
"You remain unconvinced?" Roose' let down his eyelids, thinking and thinking. He rested his chin on steepled fingers, his long hair hanging over him as he locked himself in his mental musings.
His eyes opened after the longest time, and he had a terrifying grin.
Roose Bolton did not smile; all he did was a poor imitation of one.
"The name of the boy's new house, is it set in stone?" Eddard eyes widened at that, he had forgotten such a basic thing.
"No, I suppose then that will be a task up to Jon." Roose smiled again, Eddard wished for him to not do such a ghastly show.
"Mayhaps I offer a suggestion? How does house Dreadwolf sound?" Dreadwolf? Such a frightening name.
"Jon Dreadwolf, I do not like the sound of it." Eddard found it to be a disturbing name to pronounce. There was nothing dreadful about the little boy. His mother as well would have found it queer to let him take such a name.
"It is an apt name. Your son with mine daughter would give birth to a house of both Bolton and Stark blood." Eddard did not think of it in such a way.
"Mayhaps this is a cause for celebration? Old enemies now united through blood with the birth of this new house." It sounded nice, but Roose Bolton made it sound more sinister than it should be.
"House Dreadwolf of Barrowton, no! Mayhaps Dreadbarrow? Let their words be 'Our Teeth our Sharp'!" Did Roose Bolton just sound out potential house words? Was he honestly excited about this?
Eddard Stark in that solar with the Lord of the Dreadfort felt like he had played a dangerous hand.
The way Roose spoke giddily of this, about how he spoke of this house. It perturbed him.
He couldn't help but think back of an earlier period of history when a new house was created the sameways "Dreadwolf" was.
A period where the red dragon fought the black one. An age where the Targaryen swords Blackfyre and Dark Sister clashed against one another.
Had he just condemned the North to a similar fate? He did not know.
All he knew was this.
Winter was coming.
And wolves and flayed men needed to band together to face it.