Ned sat upon a large weirwood root, the bloodied leaves of the Heart Tree lightly bristling above him. A weathered old journal rested upon his lap ajar, freshly written ink slowly drying. And though the summer light of high noon was strangled by the thick canopy of the godswood, pillared streams littered the waving grass, and glittered the once-black waters of the pool. He stared at the rippling waters, catching his reflection change with every glimpse.
The air was warm, by northern standards. As he glanced to every tree line, he could see every shade of green and oak possible, the only outlier the pale white of the Heart Tree. He could feel its weeping eyes watch him. But he paid it no mind, studying each root that dug into the ground like bones in flesh. The largest were sturdy and wide enough to sit upon, and for many a moment, he wondered how many a Stark came to ponder upon this very spot. For ten-thousand years, these woods had remained untouched. How much of history did he gaze upon? Perhaps the first drawings of the Wall, by the mighty Builder? The sorrow of the Burner? The solitude of the Kneeler?
He placed the feather quill that danced between his fingers beneath the pages of his most recent entry. He bound the book tightly, wrapping it in a soft, faded cloth, before adding another layer of small steel chains that fastened around an old lock from the drawers of his father's solar. As he traced the spine of the journal, he could feel a familiar twitch in his neck. His muddied paws hurried through the dirt, his dark fur clashing against the summer winds.
Ned hears it slowly trek from behind the Heart Tree. Its walk was uncaring, and carefree, and he found it irked him greatly. "Must you trespass my peace?" He says as it veers into view beside the pool, making no effort to remove the venom from his voice. It says nothing, licking its paws and rubbing them against the top of ears. He glares at the direwolf, who's fur seems as black as the now still waters. "Do I not suffer enough of your presence?" His voice is but a whisper, and he quickly leaves for the safety of the castle, the beast watching him intently. He was never truly gone, no matter how much he wishes to be rid of it. Lord Eddard's shadow, the people call it. Lord Eddard's curse, he would say.
The clashing of sticks flew through the wind as he passed the East Gate, followed soon by childish laughter and triumph. It felt familiar. He almost expected to find Brandon boasting, steel in hand. And for a moment, the slightest second, he wished for Lyanna to ride past him, Benjen chasing her reigns, giggling with glee, in a happiness that pained Ned's heart to recall. His Father would stand atop the balconies, his mother strong beside him, smiling. And Ned would be there too, and they were each of them alive, free from the horror that had torn them apart.
But it was a figment. A cruel joke of a nameless god he had spurned. For such a sight existed only in his dreams. The reality he faced stung, for the day would soon come, where he would have mourned his family longer than he had ever known them. Soon their faces would fade from his memory. Would he remember them only in his tears?
But the yard was not empty. A new voice boasted, sword in hand. Another voice cheered, hugging his brother. "My sons." My joys. My fires against the raging blizzard. Where would I be, without you? He kneels down, placing his hands on each of their shoulders. To which corners of the world shall I travel, to protect you? "Father," they say, like boys playing at soldiers. But they are boys, his boys. And no matter how tall they may grow, and no matter how broad their shoulders, or thick their beards, they will remain his boys, tussling in the yard, free of the world's burden, and their father's curse.
"Are you leaving today, Father?" Robb asks. He says it as if it no big thing, and yet Ned knows he wishes to come.
He nods. "Aye, on the morrow."
"Let us come with you, Father. We won't disappoint you, I swear it." Says Jon, and Robb follows with his protest.
He chuckled. "I believe you, I do. But you are boys of eight, not men grown," May you stay children for many an age, "When you are ready, you will join me. I swear this." And they nod, though he knows they wish to argue, and the sight makes him smile widely.
"Do not look so glum, I shan't leave you alone with girls and babes. The lords of the North would be glad to foster their sons with wolves as fierce as you."
"Truly?" Robb asks, his eyes gleaming with excitement.
He ruffles his hair. "Aye. Would you like that?"
"Yes!" He says, looking to Jon who soon follows. But the boy is hesitant, apprehension muddled behind his dark eyes.
"We will make you proud, Father." Jon says. He held his face in a poor imitation of a soldier. It was almost amusing, if it did not crush his heart. Jon, my son, he wishes to yell. Stay within these walls, within my sight. I will protect you, I must protect you, he wishes to cry out. And his mind drifts to the Lannister cloak, draped in red. A clever trick, to hide the blood. And he remembers the girl, barefoot, still wearing her nightdress. And the boy.. he remembers the boy.
"Aye, together." And Robb grabs his brother's shoulder and holds his wooden sword tightly. Robb, Robb, my boy, he wishes to scream. Be brave where I cannot. Be strong where I am weak, he wishes to say.
"Not a day passes where I am not proud of you, my sons." He says, his voice low like a whisper. From his back, he unsheathed Ice. It was nigh as tall as him, with deep ripples that swirled upon a smoky black blade as wide as his hand.
"Ice." The boys say in unison, awed. He placed the hilt of Robb, whose hands could not wrap around it, the blade resting flat upon Jon's. Even then, they struggled with the weight of the great sword.
"The blade of House Stark, forged in Valyria. One of generations, named for the blade of the first Kings of Winter." He brushed his hand carefully against the blade. "Soon enough, my bones will grow weak, and my muscles frail, and my mind old, I will bear the weight of Ice no longer. A duty given only to the Lord of Winterfell."
"When I depart, you shall be Lord of Winterfell, Robb. Aye, your mother and the maester and the men may guide you, teach you. And you would do well to listen, for wisdom is a virtue one is never born into. And it comes not with age." He places his hand upon Robb's shoulders, gripping hard and bringing his stare level with his son.
And he sees Jon look away, as if burned by the blade's reflection. "And though you may not have my name, Jon, you have my blood. Ours is the blood of Kings. Aye, you will not inherit this castle, nor its titles. But you have its heart, just as you have mine." He holds his son's shoulder tightly. "If Robb is your lord, then you are his blade. There is not a place in the world that is befitting for either of you alone."
He looks to them both now, steadfast, standing. "Remember your name, Stark, and the storm that it brings. And with the storm, comes snow."
"Winter is coming," Robb whispers, nodding slowly.
"For us all." And he sees Jon contemplate his words silently, glancing between Ned and Robb, before nodding also.
"Get on, now." They return to their sparring, though quieter, and far heavier than the morn. And perhaps it was too much for boys of eight. At eight, Ned had been sent away to the Vale. So perhaps not.
He returned Ice to the armoury, sheathed by a set of worn plates and chainmail. Muddied and stained by blood. From the Trident, from Pyke. He traced his hands across the breastplate, feeling the chill of its iron across his palm. He should have burned it. Melted it down for scrap. But he didn't, for he knew the day would soon arrive where he would wear it once more. Ned sighed, closing his eyes and wallowing in the stillness of the room, before leaving without a glance back.
As he left for his solar, he felt small hands tug at his tunic. Hands that were pale and soft, and followed by a toothy smile and flowing auburn hair. "Father!" Sansa cried, clearly eager. She wore a woollen blue surcoat lined with white and grey, the Stark wolf stitched into the centre. He picked her up and sat her upon his shoulder, nuzzling his head against her own. Even at five, she looked much like her mother. Her soft skin and long, waved hair that smelt so similar to Cat.
"Have you been naughty, sweet one?" He asked cheekily. Sansa feigned offence, blushing and giggling with her father.
"Never!" She squealed as he threw her into the air and caught her.
He traced the outlined of the wolf, smiling. "Did you stitch this yourself, dear?"
Somehow, her smile turned wider at the recognition, "Yes, Father! Septa Mordane has been teaching me! Mother says I will sewing my own dresses before long."
"Is that so?" He perked an eyebrow. His little girl blushed, and he wondered if there any worthy enough to see her smile.
"She is far better than I at that age. A prodigy, Ned, I swear to you." And he hears his wife slowly walk towards them, joy in her tone. Little Arya trots along, a frown on her face and her hands stuck in the tight grip of her mother. She wore a dark dress with furs too large for her small frame.
"Nigh nine years, and I can sneak up on you, husband." They share a quick smile.
"As quiet as a feather in snow," he tittered. He gestured Arya, who sprung into his arms and climbed his chest like a squirrel. Her smile was missing many teeth, and it squinted her eyes so little she could barely see. He brushed her dark, messy hair away from her forehead and pressed his nose against hers.
"The Seven be praised, Bran is abed. Quiet, at last." She sighs leaning against him. Bran had cried rivers through the night, and would seldom be apart from his mother. "This one," she squeezes Arya's cheek, "has found herself in mountains of trouble. Your daughter is a picky child."
He laughs as he puts her down. "My daughter? Must you give your mother such grief, Arya?" She smiled mischievously, sticking her tongue at him and pulling at her dress. "Itchy!" She cries.
"That was very unladylike, young lady." Catelyn chastises, without a single ounce of seriousness, amusement lined in her voice.
"Perhaps you ought to sow your own dress one day, little wolf. Lest Sansa be our only seamstress beyond help." Sansa blushes, holding Arya's hand and leading her to a gap in the railing. He presses his forehead against his wife's own, and lays a kiss upon her lips. A sudden coldness passed through him, and his eyes turned grim.
Her lips press thinly at the sight. "You needn't go, Ned."
He rubs the bag of ashes that hang from his waist absentmindedly, sighing. "If only, Cat. This is a duty I cannot ignore."
"When will you return, Father?" Sansa turns to asks. Arya still focused on the fight in the yard. Sansa's voice is quiet, and filled with a sudden sadness.
He walks to her, kneeling down before his daughters. "As soon as the gods will, my dear, for I would never wish to see my daughters grow without me." And be kisses her forehead, holding her close. Never would I wish to see you leave my arms. They sit in silence for a time, enjoying the warmth of each others skin, watching the spar of brothers below.
"Jon! Jon!" Cried Arya, grinning and pointing at her brother in the yard. His sons wrestled, covered in mud, and Arya laughed gleefully. Even Sansa smiled.
"Shall you take the boy with you?" Catelyn asks. He looks to her, but her gaze refuses Ned. He bites his cheeks, frustrated at the shift in topic.
"He is eight." He says plainly.
Still, she does not meet his eyes, playing with Sansa's hair. "I do not mean for him to take the vows. Only to.. see what prospects may exist for him."
He narrowed his eyes. "Do not pretend to care for the boy's prospects, my lady. Feigning so is unbecoming of you."
She does not respond to him. "Sansa, dear. I hear Jeyne has found a batch of lemons in the kitchens."
His daughter perked at the suggestion. "Will Gage cook for us?"
"If you ask nicely, perhaps. Run along, dear. And take your sister with you." Sansa kissed his cheek once more, before holding her surcoat by its reigns and running towards the kitchens, Arya in hand, who protested loudly at being ripped away from her view.
They watched them leave together, before locking eyes, standing still for some time. "Ned—"
"I will not speak of it, Cat. He will stay. That is final."
And yet, still she persisted. Catelyn pulled back, turning away to watch the yard. "Why, Ned? Why? You know that I do not agree. Do you mean to insult me so, husband? To have me raise another woman's child?"
He held her arm softly. "It is not meant as a slight against you, Cat. You need not mother him. You need not even speak to him. But Jon must learn, and to do so he must feel that his place is here, by Robb's side, and not a moment elsewhere."
She pulls back again. "You would teach him as you do, Robb?" Her words are in disbelief, and disgust, and beneath, the faintest hint of a lady's disguised rage.
"Aye, I would teach him, I would train him. They are brothers. And though he will never rule this castle, nor wear its name, he must know its halls, and its hearth. I would teach him to remember his blood. Stark, or Snow, he is a wolf. There is no place for him but here. Not across any sea, or beyond any wall nor watch." He pauses, and she says nothing "There is no other place for him." He whispers. And he remembers Benjen, and his rage within the crypt. And Ned sees Jon in the yard, and knows he would rather die than see a black cloak around his shoulders.
And she must hear Benjen's name also, for she too falls quiet, and rages no more.
"So be it, Ned. The beast, however—"
"He shall stay by my side. I shall not leave him to.. linger." Aye. Hewould never leave it with his children, lest it curse them also.
She sighed a breathe of relief. "Good, good." They said nothing, and allowed the wind to softly brush against their cheeks.
"Cat—" He reaches for her.
She brushes him off. "I would see to Bran."
He retreats. "I shall come, then."
"Do not trouble yourself, husband. I have cared for babes without you, I am capable of doing so again. I shall see you at supper." And the veil of a lady's duty returned. It was biting, and Ned felt his heart clench.
"Of course, my lady." He stands there dumbly, watching her fade into the distant hallways of the Great Keep, before leaving for his solar.
As he reaches it, he stops before the sturdy ironwood door, listening to the clacking of wood and the sound of groans and laughter. He listens, wishing to join them. But a Lord's duty never ends. His servitude to his words, more so. He had known winter before. It had stayed within since his birth, when the snows threatened to bury Winterfell whole. He had felt the cold before. In his brother's icy hands, and his lifeless, stone stare. And now it coursed through his veins like an old curse, like an old joke, one beyond his comprehension.
When he enters, he finds the solar dark, and colder than it should be. He lights a fire quickly, watching as the fires illuminate the room and flicker against its walls. He sighs, rubbing his forehead roughly. Letters were strewn across the table, half unfinished in his own hand, filled with dawdles and scribbles his Father would scold him for.
The rest are written in the finest ink, and the finest parchment, stamped with a crowned stag. Written and read, perhaps a thousand times over. Most in the hand of Jon Arryn, clean and neat, but more intricate in words than he would expect from his foster father. Honeyed words were expected with such a position. Others were messier, unkempt and in the hand of a man who seldom enjoyed his letters. Invitations for tourneys, for weddings and feasts, words not meant to be written by a King. He sees the latest, an invitation for a celebration. A royal birth.
"We must send a gift," his wife would say, "for the blessing of Prince Tommen." But none would be sent. And as he sees Robert's letters haphazardly thrown against the desk, he is entrapped with a great guilt for the man he once saw as brother. In the waters of the godswood, he sees the stag, old and fat and drunk, consumed by maggots. And he remembers his rage towards his King, his treasons and his trespasses, and wishes that it were different. But he hear the clashing of steel, and smell of spilling blood, and he feels the executioner's blade against his neck. And he knows that there can be no more love between the once-were-brothers, no matter the cost to his heart.
And so, even when the maester enters his solar, and studies him with confusion, he burns the letters, to ease his guilty conscience. What was another sacrifice? He had given so many. It remained a familiar feeling, one he knew would come again.
He looks up at Luwin now, who had watched the display silently. "I take it, you have had time, to mull over the words I shared?" Ned stares back at the fire for a moment, watching the parchment blacken and burn into ashes, before meeting the maester's distressed gaze.
He had caught the man off guard the night before, that much was clear. It was unlike Luwin, to be so befuddled. And it would be amusing, Ned finds, if his words did not darken his mood so. "I have, my lord. I have. It is… what you claim, it is—"
"Difficult. Aye, I understand. I have spent many an hour battling the idea myself. Whether it befit reason, or no, it must be dealt with. Wilding, or not," and he dare not utter their name, as to do would be to invoke their existence, "It must dealt with." He sits down now, tapping his fingers against the desk.
The maester sits across from him, visibly tired from Ned's revelation. "I imagine war will be nigh impossible to avoid." The old man's eyes are tired, and puffy, and dark circles can be seen even in the dim light. "I see sense in your words. It is simply… the possibility of…"
It is the fear Ned understands. He had heard it before, in Mormont's drunken tale, in Maester's Aemon silent reflections. In his own mangled dreams. "The thought brings me no comfort. And there is a strange guilt in admitting a savage neighbour is a more befitting, more welcoming threat than… an ancient one." He rubs his head, swallowing the growing headache he had ignored. "I have brought you into my trust, Maester, because I believe you are deserving of such. If you wish to broach this… subject further, write to Maester Aemon at Castle Black. He will share with you our suspicions, with greater tact and craft than any words I can surmise."
"Of course. I am grateful for your faith, Lord Stark, even if such trust is accompanied by darker things."
"Loyalty is scarcely rewarded with luxury, I have found." And his gaze darkens, and he can see Luwin shift in his seat. "But make no mistake, there are few of your Order of which I can say the same. You cannot write of any discovery, nor suspicion, to the Citadel. My confidence remains a closed circle. If I find you have breached this, I will have you banished from the North."
The man pauses, sending a few short glances towards Ned as he plays with the heavy chain links hanging from his neck. As if measuring their worth. "I cannot say it is a condition I take on easily. But it is one I understand, and shall abide by."
"Good, good." Ned nods absentmindedly, and together they sit in silence.
Maester Luwin reveals a scroll from his sleeve, opening it beside a lit candle. "On the matter of fosterage you requested, my lord. I have consulted the records. Lord Karstark's youngest sons, Eddard and Torrhen, are of similar age with Robb. Lord Umber's second son, Cregan, also. Lord Reed's son, Jojen, is of age with Sansa. Lord Jorah is without issue. His recent marriage to the Lady Jonelle Cerwyn shall hopefully be fruitful. Lord Bolton's son, Domeric, is of age, and the sole heir to the Dreadfort. A good choice, though, the boy currently pages for the Lady Dustin." He shoots Ned a raised eyebrow. Ned frowns. He does not wish to entrench upon Lady Dustin further. The woman's disdain for him was clear. A widow's grief, he had once hoped. Domeric Bolton was a good choice. Relations with the Boltons were contentious, and regardless of any oath, Ned knew Roose was a cunning man, and clever.
"I take it none of the children will foster elsewhere?" Ned felt regret at his own fostering, but never enough to soil his memories. The Vale had taught him much. And yet the sting of separation from his siblings hurt, festering only after their death.
"No. No, none. They will stay with me." He says, quietly. "What of daughters?"
Luwin nods, tracing his fingers down the scroll. "Lady Maege has given birthed her fifth daughter. The oldest two of which I believe you have met, my lord."
"Aye, Dacey and Alysane. Fierce ones. Perhaps too fierce for Sansa."
The maester gives a small chuckle. "A likely case for their sisters. Lord Manderly has two daughters, the youngest with age with Sansa. Lord Karstark's daughter, Alys, also. I believe Lord Reed's daughter is of age with Robb. Lord Umber's daughter is of age with Arya." Maester Luwin frowns for a moment, reading the names again. "Forgive any offence, my lord, but is it wise? Inviting the daughters of the North will naturally incline.. or imply, betrothals. Robb is perhaps the most eligible in the realm, beside of the Crown Prince. For the lords, ambitions often clouds sense."
"Believe me, maester, I understand. My father was an ambitious man, who too toyed with marriage." Love cannot change a man's nature, Lyanna whispers in his ear. He can feel her standing beside him, wrought with fury, for her brother who said nothing. He sits down with a great sigh, melting into the hard wood. "When the time comes, the matter of the wildling problem will not be favourable. I see no amicable solution between the lords without grumbling, perhaps even revolt." He remembers his dreams, and the flayed man; a skinned wolf adorned his neck. "Let them think of betrothals. It may even do Robb some good, to marry for love, and not circumstance."
"Of course." Maester Luwin's eyes were shrewd, but understanding. "Yet, some will see it as hostage, not an offering."
He grimaced. "I would rather refrain from calling it such."
"I am unsure if it is the word, you find fault with, or the act, my lord."
Ned released a bitter snort. "Both, perhaps." He strokes his hair. "Regardless, it would do well for the boys to have peers beyond Winterfell. The same for the girls." All three, he thinks. The third was lonely, the fault his own.
"Brandon and Arya are but babes. It would do well to alleviate some burden from the Lady Catelyn." Maester Luwin adds.
"Aye." He hums in agreement. "Write to lords' Karstark, Mormont and Manderly. I shall inform Lord Umber myself within the fortnight. Extend the offer to Lord Bolton, regardless. If we must wait for the girls to grow a few years longer, we will."
"What of Lord Reed?"
He huffs. "Lord Howland's moving castle. Letters are of no use. A messenger, then. Though, I have doubts as to whether he shall receive it. I have heard little word from Howland these past years." Howland was a man of vision. His silence perturbed Ned more than he cared to admit. Ned looks to the window, searching for the sounds of the courtyard, but hearing only the breeze. "Tell me of the girl," he asks, his back turned to the maester.
Luwin's voice is strained. "There is.. little progress. The most basic gesture of kindness is seen as an affront. Given her age, and the... nature of the event that led her here, it is expected." Ned grumbled in agreement, a great pool of regret dwelling in his stomach. Balon Greyjoy, a fool, a traitor, but a man nonetheless, and undeserving of the fate he received. He remembers the Greyjoy boys' horror, and the girl's rage, and the taste of blood upon his tongue; rotten, and black.
And what was left was shame, and a putrid regret. He rubbed his temples hard. Ned did not want the girl to grow resentful, and yet, he cannot help his sympathy. What would he have done, if he were to live under the hand of Aerys, under the fingers of his father's murderer? Murder, that is the only word to call it. There was no justice in Balon's death. No honour. And yet the realm praised him for it. Like Theon Stark, come again.
"Though, she often lingers in the stables. She wishes to ride, it seems, but lacks the ability, nor the courage to learn."
"Or to ask." He had taken her home, her father, her family. What else would he take? He honoured his King's command, even if it pained him to look the girl in the eye.
"More likely she fears reproach, or punishment. After her last attempt..." And the maester says no more, his expression muted. But Ned can see the disappointment, and the fear. It remained in the hearts of all who heard of Pyke. Asha's last escape had been cruel, another foolish mistake Ned would lay at his feet. The wolf had hunted her as she ran, and when the men had finally found her, the girl had nearly bit her tongue off and scratched her skin to the bone in fear.
"Speak to Hullen. He will train her, it she wishes to learn. But not alone. Supervised, and only with the boys." Aye, he would allow her this. Ser Rodrick and Jory could manage a girl of five-and-ten.
"Of course, my lord. Would that be all?"
"Aye. You have my thanks, maester." The man bows humbly, before leaving, throwing only a slightest glance back towards Ned, who's fingers danced with the desk and the letters strewn across them.
Soon enough, the flames of the fireplace trickle to ash, and the candlelight withers with the breeze. Ned sits in darkness, with only a silent prayer. That he does not dream tonight.