The Road Ahead
In the weeks that followed, Catelyn had rode south with Ser Rodrik to inform Lord Stark of the treachery that had befallen them, not trusting a raven to deliver the news of the attempted assassination on Bran's life without being intercepted.
He had awoken shortly after she departed, and Maester Luwin's concerns were true, Bran could not feel anything in his legs, and was bound to be a cripple for the rest of his life, which did not do much to rid Torrhen of his guilt.
Robb, Torrhen, and Rickon were sitting up on the high table in the hall, breaking their fast, when Maester Luwin came with a letter from House Manderly. The castle had lost its liveliness since the departure of their sisters and parents, and Torrhen's daily tasks had become too repetitive for him to handle.
"Wyman Manderly is inviting you to a feast that will take place in two weeks' time, my lord." Maester Luwin told Robb "He also wishes to discuss their ongoing contributions to the region."
"Well, I will need to reject Lord Manderly's invitation, Luwin." Robb quickly decided "I have been too busy with my duties at Winterfell, I am sure he will understand."
The Maester nodded in understanding "Of course, my lord. Lord Manderly will undoubtedly understand your circumstances."
A suggestion then emerged from Maester Luwin, a glimmer of a potential solution "However, if Torrhen were to attend in your stead, then it may go a long way in maintaining this key relationship between Winterfell and White Harbour."
Torrhen, who had been shovelling porridge into his mouth, looked up at the mention of his name, and began to shake his head vigorously in protest, wiping his mouth and swallowing the food.
"I have duties here as well, and with Bran's state, I do not believe it would be wise for me to travel so soon after his recovery, what if there is to be an attempt on his life again?" Torrhen pointed out, in protest of the idea of travelling so far from Winterfell.
"It is safe to presume that his life is no longer in danger, if anyone was to attempt it again, we would be prepared, I have guards making sure his room is protected at all hours." Robb mentioned.
"We do not know that to be the case, anything could happen." Torrhen insisted.
"Luwin is right, you should go, and it will do you good to spend some time away from the castle, get to know our bannermen." Robb replied, continuing "I have everything handled, we will find a new steward while you are away."
"I suppose I do not have much choice in this matter." Torrhen shrugged "I suppose we will have to prepare swiftly, Luwin? It is a long journey between here and White Harbour. A few of our household guards will do, I would rather move without drawing attention to unpleasant company."
"I shall begin the preparations now." Luwin said, then leaving the hall through the main doors, and with that, Torrhen rose from his chair, running his hand across Rickon's hair "Everything should be prepared for your departure on the morrow."
"Where are you off to now?" Robb questioned.
"I'm off to the Kitchens to see if they have prepared Bran's food." Torrhen rolled his eyes "And to now prepare myself for a long journey, we shall speak later."
Torrhen made his way down to the kitchens, where he was met with the smell of roasting meats and freshly baked bread that wafted through the air like a comforting embrace. The kitchens were a bustling hub of activity, with cooks and kitchen servants moving efficiently as they prepared the meals for the entire castle.
His presence did not go unnoticed, as he was greeted with bows and smiles as he made his way through the chaos.
He spotted a young woman, her apron dusted with flour, and approached with a familiar ease. "Turnip," he greeted with a playful grin, "Has Bran's meal been prepared?"
She smiled warmly, "Aye, m'lord. We've made his favourite. It's cooling on the hearth now."
"Thank you," Torrhen said, appreciating her efforts. "Were there any leftovers from last night's feast? Magnar's appetite grows by the day. Soon, he might need to hunt for himself."
Turnip chuckled, her eyes twinkling. "M'lord, you're always welcome to whatever the kitchens have to offer."
"I'm well aware," Torrhen smiled back, "But everyone in this castle should have their fill before the direwolves."
She gracefully moved to the hearth, fetching a pot and skilfully ladling out a rich stew, teeming with succulent meats, into a wooden bowl. "I'll make sure some of the scraps are sent to the kennels," she promised.
With a final nod of gratitude, Torrhen accepted the bowl and made his way to Bran's chambers. Approaching the door, he addressed the guards with an authoritative tone, "You may step aside." A gentle tap, and a muffled invitation from inside beckoned him in.
Inside, Bran lay propped up in bed, with Old Nan seated beside him, her gnarled hands resting in her lap. "I've brought you something to eat," Torrhen announced, placing himself at the foot of the bed. "Have you been keeping out of mischief?"
Old Nan chuckled warmly. "Indeed he has. The young lord seems to have taken a liking to my tales."
Bran, feigning indignation, retorted, "I most certainly have not!"
"Stay calm. You need to conserve your strength," Torrhen advised, glancing toward Old Nan. "Perhaps you could give us a moment alone?"
Old Nan just raised an eyebrow, her needles clicking away methodically. "I'm as much a part of this room as the walls," she remarked, not budging from her spot.
Torrhen sighed, recognizing the futility of arguing with her. He turned his attention back to Bran. "Talk to me," he coaxed gently. "You've hardly left this room. Do you want me to have Hodor bring you down to the hall?"
Bran's gaze was cloudy with frustration and grief. "Why? So I can be reminded every moment that I'll never walk again?" A lone tear made its way down his cheek. "All I do is lie here and hear the same tales from Old Nan."
"Find strength, Bran. With me away, visitors are bound to come. I'd rest easier knowing you're there by Robb's side, helping him," Torrhen said, his eyes sincere, trying to coax even a hint of motivation from the young Stark.
"You're leaving?" The word escaped Bran's lips, a pang of surprise evident in his eyes. Torrhen's revelation was unexpected. "Where to? Are you headed south, like Mother?" His voice held a mix of hurt and confusion, underscored by the downturn of his lips.
"Yes," Torrhen replied, the weight of his decision evident in his gaze. "I'm sorry, Bran. I hadn't meant to surprise you like this; it's all happened so suddenly. I'll be at White Harbour, on Lord Manderly's invitation. Not as far as Mother, and still in the North." He hesitated, absorbing the look of distress on Bran's face. "I promise to return soon. And remember, Robb and Rickon are still here with you."
"I know," Bran whispered, trying to mask the hurt in his voice. "It's just... everything's changing so quickly. First Mother, now you." He took a deep breath, attempting to gather himself..
As the minutes passed, Bran and Torrhen continued their conversation, finding a semblance of comfort in the familiarity of each other's company. However, time was of the essence, and soon Torrhen had to take his leave. With a final nod of understanding and a soft promise of a safe return, he departed from Bran's room.
Making his way through the dimly lit corridors of Winterfell, Torrhen reached his own chambers. There, he began the task of gathering his belongings, mentally and physically preparing for the journey that lay ahead.
"Enter," he responded to the soft knock at his door. As it slowly swung open, the familiar grey robes of a maester came into view. Recognizing them instantly, he greeted, "Maester Luwin, have you come to offer a parting word for my journey tomorrow?"
"Indeed, I thought it prudent to see how you're faring. After all, Robb's decision didn't sit particularly well with you," Luwin remarked, his gaze assessing. Torrhen let out a rueful chuckle in response.
"I remember it was your suggestion, wasn't it? Even though you're well aware of how vital my presence is in Winterfell right now," he said, fixing the maester with a sharp, reproachful glance for the first time.
"What troubles you so, Torrhen?" Luwin inquired, eyes searching the younger man's face. "Your brother has proven himself more than capable of overseeing Winterfell in your brief absence, he is lord in your father's absence afterall."
Torrhen's expression grew distant. "It's the swiftness of it all. Just a short while ago, every corner of this castle echoed with the laughter and voices of my family. Now, only four of us remain. With my departure, that number dwindles to three."
Luwin took a moment, his gaze deepening as he formulated his words "Torrhen, separation is hard, especially when it feels like all you've known is slipping away. But remember, distance can often strengthen bonds and provide clarity.
Torrhen sighed heavily, brushing off Luwin's wise counsel "It doesn't make me any more content with the situation. My family's place is here, in the North, not mingling with those Southerners." his resentment was clear; he had not approved of his father's decision to serve as the King's hand, believing the North should remain distanced from the politics and deception of the South.
Luwin, understanding the deeper layers of Torrhen's unrest, replied with a discerning tone, "It seems the heart of your discontent isn't just the journey. It's the broader connection with the South you resist."
He paused, ensuring his words carried weight.
"Your mistrust of the 'Southerners,' as you call them, might be veiling the bigger picture. With your father as the Hand, the influence and stature of the North have never been this significant."
Torrhen, lost in thought, remained silent.
"I'd rather not dwell on this topic any further," Torrhen interjected, breaking the contemplative silence. "Tell me, who will accompany me on this journey?"
Luwin thought for a moment before nodding. "Ah, yes. Ser Kevan Locke will be leading your escort. He's an experienced traveller, having made many trips between Winterfell and White Harbour. Alongside him, four of our most capable guards will accompany you. You're in good hands with them."
Torrhen raised an eyebrow, mildly impressed. "Ser Kevan Locke? I've heard of his reputation. A loyal man and a skilled swordsman. It eases my mind knowing he will be by my side." He paused, taking a breath. "Thank you, Maester Luwin. Despite our differences in opinion, I know you always have Winterfell's best interests at heart."
Torrhen, feeling the weight of the upcoming journey, decided it was best to familiarise himself with the preparations firsthand. He beckoned for Luwin to accompany him, and together they left his chamber, making their way down the winding staircases of Winterfell.
The stone beneath their feet was cold, bearing the frosty soul of the North, but the warmth of the torches lining the walls cut through the chill. As they descended, the sounds of the bustling courtyard gradually grew louder, echoing the life that thrummed throughout Winterfell.
"Maester, what word of the harvest?" Torrhen inquired, thinking ahead.
"The reports have been promising. Our stores are filling, and if the gods are kind, the yield will be plentiful enough to support not just Winterfell, but also some of the surrounding villages." Luwin responded.
Torrhen nodded. "What of Rickon? I worry for him, with all of us scattered."
Luwin smiled gently. "Young Rickon is resilient. He's been spending more time with Old Nan, listening to her tales, and bonding with Shaggydog. It's good for him."
Reaching the courtyard, the two were met with a hive of activity. Stable boys readied horses, smiths hammered away at fresh steel, and the guards drilled their formations.
Amid the hustle of the courtyard, Maester Luwin led Torrhen towards a small gathering of guardsmen near the stables. Among them stood a man who looked different from the rest, the likely candidate for Ser Kevan Locke.
Kevan was a tall man, with a sturdy build that hinted at years spent training in the rough terrains of the North.
He had an ash-blond beard, cropped close to his face, and intense green eyes that observed his surroundings with a hawkish gaze. Unlike most men of the North, who typically wore their hair long, Kevan's was shorn close, revealing a series of scars on his scalp – testament to many a battle survived.
He was clad in chainmail that glistened in the sun, with the sigil of House Locke— Three black water lilies on pale violet—prominently displayed on his surcoat.
"Ser Kevan," Luwin began, drawing the man's attention, "May I introduce Torrhen Stark? He'll be under your protection for the journey to White Harbour."
"No need for an introduction, Maester." Kevan nodded his head respectfully "I often watch you train in the courtyard, my lord, a fine warrior you are becoming under Ser Rodrik's tutelage."
"Thank you, Ser Kevan." Torrhen, always one to measure a man by his demeanour, responded "I have heard great things about you, I look forward to learning much more as we travel to White Harbour."
Kevan's eyes were sharp as they studied Torrhen "My lord, it is truly an honour to get to escort you. Rest assured, we will see you safety to White Harbour, I have taken the route many times."
The exchange between the two men, steeped in mutual respect, echoed in the courtyard.
Throughout the day, preparations for the journey began in earnest. Carriages were checked, provisions loaded, and final strategies discussed. Torrhen did not sleep that night, and was plagued with the thoughts of what may happen when he is not there.
Following day…
The ancient godswood of Winterfell always had a way of enveloping one's senses. The rustling of the leaves, the gentle sounds of birds high above in the canopies, and the ever-steady flow of the brook nearby offered solace in moments of turmoil. The weirwood's face, carved millennia ago, looked down with haunting red eyes, seeming both mournful and understanding.
Torrhen's connection to this place was profound. Many times, throughout his life, he had come here seeking guidance or simply to reflect. His sword, grounded in the earth before the tree, seemed to act as a conduit between him and the gods of old. The direwolf Magnar, with his imposing presence, lay beside him, ears perked, eyes scanning the forest, and yet there was a distinct calm in his demeanour.
The crunching of leaves underfoot heralded the approach of another. Torrhen, though deep in thought, sensed the presence even before Magnar's ears twitched in response.
Lifting his gaze, he found Robb's figure emerging from between the trees. Dressed in a simple tunic with his auburn hair falling loosely, Robb seemed to blend seamlessly into the godswood. The older Stark stopped a short distance away, allowing Torrhen his privacy for a moment longer before he approached.
"Have you come to change your mind and let me stay?" Torrhen asked, glancing sidelong at Robb while still gazing at the heart tree.
Robb's footsteps slowed, his face shadowed with a mixture of regret and resolve. "I wish I could, brother," he began, his voice heavy. "But this isn't a decision I made lightly. It's for the good of our house and the North."
Torrhen took a deep breath, his grip tightening momentarily on the hilt of his sword. He pulled it free from the soil, standing to face Robb more directly. "I know," he admitted, though there was a hint of bitterness. "But it doesn't make it any easier."
Robb approached, placing a hand on Torrhen's shoulder, a gesture of camaraderie and understanding. "Every decision carries its weight," he said, his eyes meeting his brother's. "But you're strong, and you'll represent our house with honour."
Torrhen looked down, brushing a loose strand of hair from his face. "It's not about honour, Robb," he murmured, his voice low. "It's about more than that, everything is happening too quickly, father and our sisters… Bran.. then mother leaves, and now me, surely you must see there is something wrong?"
Robb squeezed his brother's shoulder gently, understanding the depth of the emotion coursing through Torrhen. "I feel it too," he admitted, his voice thick with emotion. "But what are we do? We need to keep up with appearances, so that is what we shall do until finally, we have a chance to be together again, all of us."
"Should even the faintest shadow of trouble fall upon Winterfell, you must send word to me," Torrhen implored, his eyes intense with the gravity of his request. "Swear it to me, here, before the gods as our witnesses."
Robb smiled, drawing his brother into a brief, tight embrace. "I swear this to you, brother." he whispered, pulling back. The two shared a moment of understanding,
The distant sound of hooves and the commotion of preparations broke their reverie. It was time for Torrhen to set forth. Taking one last look at the weirwood tree, he smiled "Well then, it is time I set forth on my journey to White Harbour."
Robb nodded in agreement, brushing away the raw emotion that threatened to spill. The two brothers made their way back through the godswood, their footsteps in sync as the rustling leaves bore silent witness to their bond.
Emerging into the courtyard, the starkness of the morning sun cast long shadows, making the scene seem surreal. The Stark banners fluttered in the breeze as Winterfell's retainers and household members had assembled to see their lord off.
Rickon darted forward, wrapping his arms tightly around Torrhen's legs."Promise you'll come back soon," he whispered.
Bending down, Torrhen ruffled Rickon's hair. "I promise," he murmured, pulling the boy into a tight embrace.
Straightening up, he turned to face Robb. Words weren't necessary between the two, the depth of their bond evident in their locked gaze. After a brief, wordless moment, Robb extended his arm, and the brothers shared a forearm grip.
The moment was fleeting, and Torrhen soon found himself hoisted onto his steed. Ser Kevan Locke, already mounted, signalled to the rest of the guard to ready themselves.
As the hooves began to rhythmically clatter against the cobblestones, a chorus of farewells and well-wishes echoed through the air. The gates of Winterfell slowly closed behind them, and Torrhen cast one last lingering look at his ancestral home before setting off to White Harbour.
As they made their way through Wintertown, Torrhen took in the somewhat muted sights and sounds of the settlement just outside Winterfell's walls.
The warmer season had thinned out the once-bustling community, with many of its inhabitants returning to their villages, a few children played in the streets, but their games were subdued, lacking the vibrant energy of winter when families and traders from all over the North flocked here to be closer to the warmth and protection of Winterfell.
Yet even in its muted state, Wintertown held a certain charm. Here and there, merchants prepared their stores for the coming cold, mending roofs and stocking up on goods. A local smithy, recognizing the Stark sigil, gave them a respectful nod as he hammered away at a piece of metal, the rhythmic clang echoing in the near-empty streets.
The expanse of the North opened up before them as they left the town's borders. The chatters and distant clangs of Wintertown faded, replaced by the rhythmic beats of their horses' hooves on the path.
Beside him, Ser Kevan's horse trotted effortlessly.
"Ser Kevan," Torrhen began, casting a sidelong glance at the older man as they continued to ride, "I've wondered. As a Northman, how did you come to bear the title of 'Ser'? Do the Seven hold sway in your heart?"
Ser Kevan offered a thoughtful smile, the landscape reflecting in his eyes. "You're not the first to ask, nor will you be the last. While the Manderlys have indeed brought the ways of the Seven to my part of the North, my own family has remained steadfast in our reverence for the Old Gods." He touched the weirwood brooch pinned to his cloak, its pale face carved meticulously. "This is the faith I hold close."
Pausing for a moment to let the sound of trotting hooves fill the space between them, he continued, "However, my knighthood doesn't stem from the Seven. It was after the siege of Pyke, in the aftermath of the Greyjoy Rebellion. I and many others were knighted then, not for religious reasons, but in recognition of our service and valour on that battlefield."
Torrhen nodded in understanding, "Just as it was for Ser Rodrik."
"Aye, but he had quite a few years on me at the time," Kevan said with a chuckle.
The journey continued throughout the day, the landscape around them alternating between thick woods and open plains. Conversations between Torrhen and Kevan flowed naturally, interspersed with periods of silence where each man lost himself in his thoughts, accompanied only by the rhythmic sounds of their horses' hooves against the dirt road.
As the sun began its descent, casting a golden hue across the horizon, the landscape started to grow dim. The road had taken them through an area that once thrived with activity but had since been reclaimed by nature. Occasionally, they passed old farmsteads, their fields overgrown and buildings in decay.
Ser Kevan, looking ahead and noting the encroaching darkness, pointed to a distant, dilapidated structure. "There," he said, directing Torrhen's attention. "We can take shelter there for the night."
The structure appeared to have once been a modest home, now overtaken by the wild. Its windows were shattered, and the roof had caved in places, but it would provide them with some cover.
Upon arrival, they dismounted, and Ser Kevan instructed the household guard to secure the perimeter while he and Torrhen ensured the building was safe.
After collecting some fallen wood from the trees outside, Torrhen made himself useful, and soon enough, a warm fire crackled in what once might've been the hearth of the home, its comforting glow cutting through the twilight.
The world Torrhen now found himself in was both familiar and jarringly alien. Every sensation was heightened; the gentle murmur of the wind felt like a symphony, and the scent of the earth seemed rich with stories of time long past. But the disorientation he felt wasn't just a product of these new senses—it was the perspective. The ground felt closer; the trees towered above in an almost imposing manner.
He moved forward, compelled by a curiosity that felt both his own and yet... not. Each step was effortless, agile. There was a power in these limbs that he'd never felt before. A primal urge arose, drawing him towards a stream nearby. The gentle burble of water felt like a call, an invitation.
As he approached the water's edge, a figure reflected on the clear, mirror-like surface. Not a young man of noble bearing, but a massive direwolf with grey fur, with patches of white, and piercing blue eyes.
The realisation hit him like a bolt of lightning: he was seeing the world through Magnar's eyes, feeling the world with Magnar's heart.
He took a step closer, watching the reflection intently. And there, behind the large figure of the direwolf, was another — a slumbering human form, unmistakably his own, resting by the fireside at the abandoned homestead.
A rush of emotions swirled within him. Awe, confusion, a touch of fear. This was magic, older and deeper than anything he had ever known. The bond he shared with Magnar wasn't just one of loyalty and mutual respect; it was a connection forged of ancient powers.
But as the weight of this revelation pressed upon him, the dream-like world around him began to waver. The stream's gentle song grew fainter, the towering trees began to blur, and the stark clarity of the direwolf's senses dulled. He felt a pull, a tether drawing him back to his human form, to the world he knew.
Emerging from the depths of sleep, Torrhen's eyes blinked open to the first rays of dawn. The memories of the night's journey through Magnar's senses remained vivid, each detail etched into his mind. Beside him, Magnar gave a soft chuff, his blue eyes holding a depth of understanding, as if acknowledging the shared experience. The bond between man and beast, once strong, had now transcended into something even more profound.