The chamber flickers in the darkened touch of torchlight, a shrouded man sitting upon a chair in the corner of the room. His beard is thick and riddled with streaks of grey hair, his lips lined in a dry amusement, a lute in his hands and thick dark cloaks draped across his shoulders. An old memory of a song lingers in the air, of the fairest flowers blooming in snowy winter fields, of old bards laughing in stone crypts. Ned glides to the foot of the door, his head pounding, his eyes struggling amidst the darkness. A battle rages behind the wooden walls, and he can feel the fire flickering beneath the gaps of the doorway.
"You hear that outside, Stark? Sounds familiar, doesn't it?" The man strings the lute quietly, his humming deep and earthly. I know you. I have seen your face before. But the man pays Ned's sickened self no mind, "You've a long day ahead. War. Every step is a dangerous gamble. Every swing, every shout, every choice." The man stands, his black cloak in his hands, riddled in a red sewn cloths that glimmered in the torchlight, "Dalla will tell you that the short road is often the most dangerous. That the curse you carry is a hilt-less sword, impossible to grasp, cutting both ways. You.. followed the Kingsroad south. Crowned your friend and brother of rebellion. He sat his arse on that throne for two decades, and like most southrons, turned witless and weeping and murdered by his bloody wife."
Ned shakes his head, rubbing at his eyes weakly, coughing and heaving. But the man pays him no mind once more, "And then? You march south once more. Upon the Kingsroad again. An army of wildings at your side. Deserters and traitors and oathbreakers and a crown upon your brow," his cloak turns sharp, transformed into a greatsword, carved in smoke-black ripples born of a dragon's breath. Ned finds the sight sickening, the sword blinding, "I tell you again, as I tell you each morning. Tread lightly upon a dreamers path. It is never slow, never one for peace or golden days of summer morning. Hold too tightly to dreams, and a man's wings shall break. Fly too far, and you will never see the snow again. And there is no winter without snow."
The door snaps open, the fires of a burning red sky clamouring and creeping at the edges of the door, wrapping themselves into the dark like hands. The light blinds Ned as he covers himself quickly, and still the stranger pays it no mind, leaning against the chamber walls, sword and smile at hand, "Black forks. White forks," the man snorts, "Red Fork, Green Fork, Blue Fork. Which one do you choose?"
He places the sword gently into Ned's hands. Its touch is cold, and he nearly buckled beneath its impossible weight. The stranger's shrewd brown eyes flash with steel, and his words are like iron against Ned's ears, "Old memories. Old dreams. How many men choose to relive the same nightmare without a shred of a lesson? Is it fate? Are their choices sealed?" The rage of the battle grows heavier, and the man finally must hear it, for he gives Ned one last smile, before throwing him into the fray.
And the violence is a familiar one. It had stayed with him in his oldest of dreams, etched into the scars that littered his body, carved into the sight of every encrusted ruby. And it reached upon the horizon endlessly. "Forward, men!" Ned bellowed. His lungs sore, strained from endless hours upon the field, screaming commands and roaring against the onslaught of steel. His ankles were buried in mud, the earth beneath him wet like sludge as blood poured from the throats of men's bodies and the scrape of a men's swords. Ned could not feel his hands nor his legs, only his blade. He hacked at men with far too much confidence, stabbing others with mercy as they writhed on the floor begging for their mothers. There was no honour in this. No glory. Only horror, the end never in sight, growing further and further away with each body slain.
The loyalists would have them soon, surely. He had seen ten thousand men drape the dirt, some washing away with the Trident. The bodies kept piling up, blocking the fork with a wall of grey, maggot-filled corpses. And the soldiers came down upon them. And the banners came down upon them, each of them adorned with three snarling dragons. The men who carried them were more beast than human, their faces warped with scales and bleeding red eyes. None but Ned noticed. Not even Robert, who swung his hammer as if he were in a dance, laughing.
"Robert!" He yelled, his voice drowned by the screaming and steel. "Robert, we must retreat!" He cries, but the man does not hear him. He plunders through a dozen men, their bloodied black armour shattering like crushed rubies beneath his hammer, his own armour carved with maggots and rotted flesh. "Robert!" Ned yelled once more, but all Robert does is laugh. Endlessly, even when arrows pierce his throat and axes slice his armour. He laughed and laughed and laughed until it was all Ned could hear, clutching his ears as he fell to his knees.
He ran to the riverbed away from the thick of the battle, stumbling over horrid mixtures of water, blood and shit, forgotten and rusted blades cutting at his ankles all the while. Ned pukes into the river, his hands clutching at the moist ground, tears brimming in his eyes. His voice is hoarse and low, and the stench of war clogs his nose. A fell body washes down the stream, a swelled noose wrapped around its throat. A woman's body, he realises. Her blood is barren and grey-green, her flesh coloured like curdled milk with decay, her hair white and thin. Deep scratches carve her face, flesh hanging from the bone, her throat cut and bleeding.
He reaches for her, his hand outstretched. But another finds it, dragging him through the dirt as a mounted rider brings him back to the battlefield. The rider's hand was rough, and unforgiving. His head was gone, replaced by a crowned wolf's, sewn into the neck, still bleeding. It growled, dismounting and grabbing Ned by his chainmail, before tossing him into the thick of the battle. Fight, it commanded in an unholy tongue of animal and man. And Ned did.
But the loyalist and rebels are gone. Robert is gone. There is only him, beneath a dark sky and a pool of blood further than the horizon, and a million things that snarl at him, circling him. They are inhuman. Beasts made of flame and blood, with fire for mouths and bleeding sockets wrack with maggots and swirling flesh for eyes. Their skin is darker than shadow, their armour one with their putrid black bodies. And Ned cuts them down all the same, slashing at them until his sword shatters, and their cold, dead hands drag him beneath the earth, for an endless slumber.
Dreams are never kind. And they never leave you. "Lord Stark!" A man calls, and Ned can only faintly hear it. "Lord Stark!" He hears again, his eyes groggy and struggling against the morning light. The screaming, the snarling, still lingered in the air. But there is no battle here, only soft brown eyes staring down at him. Jory. He takes the young man's hand, rising from the featherbed and returning an awkward smile at Jory's own. The room was cold, and dark, the earliest lights cracking through the windows and beneath the door, the clashing of steel slowly fading, but the smell of boiled blood still staining his senses.
"Sorry, my lord. I did not want to wake you, but we have passed first light." Jory offered Ned his cloak, lined in grey and brown furs. No red. He stared at it for a time, before accepting it eagerly.
Ned waves him off. "Aye, it's alright, man. Thank you. The others are ready?"
"Aye. Last Hearth is but a half day's ride. We should be there by supper."
Ned sighs, "Supper with the Umbers, Jory. I hope your stomach is ready."
"I don't relish my time on the chamber pot." They shared a small laugh, before Ned dismissed them him and adorned his grey doublet and heavy cloak. He stood before the closed door of the bedchamber for a moment, squeezing his temples, unclenching his hands back and forth, before wiping the sweat away. A dreamer's shadow walked with him always. And though they images would soon fade, it left his neck sore and his cheeks gaunt. It had terrified him, the coldness still with him even as he woke. Though, better he forget. Ned's journal was still shackled and left deep in his satchel, where he hoped it would remain.
The northern breeze was a welcome delight upon his skin. Across the balcony, he could see the small Kingsroad village bustle in the light, the morning crowd making their way to bakeries and the inn below. Though his other shadow remained absent. "The direwolf?" He asked Jory, standing beside the door.
Jory shrugged, "Seen it rush into the woods last night, my lord. Gave some travellers a fright. Not seen it since." Ned grunts in response. The damn beast was better in sight. Letting it run amok was a mistake.
They had arrived at nightfall, the small town quiet, with only a few odd torches and the shining full moon to light the way. But in the daylight, he could spot the large inn sitting at the far edge of the town, a carved wooden direwolf covered in black, faded dyes and leaves, hanging from the pointed rooftop over the entry. It was as large as two men at least, the corners burned to achieve the same colour, the wolf snarling similarly to his own banner. Men walked in and out of the inn, some of the boys jumping to slap the wolf before as they did.
"In honour of the direwolf, the folk say." Jory said, catching him staring for some time. Ned looks at him quizzically. "Innkeeper's sister was taken by reavers some years past." Jory says. Ned grumbles, moving along quickly. All these years had passed, the direwolf was still welcomed in village and keep and battle alike. As black as midnight, sapphire eyes as cold as death. Revered but never reviled. The latter was left to Ned, in the silent hours of a quiet godswood.
The stables of the village were small, but practical. Boys carried hay bales for the morning feed, with the men and stablehands carrying buckets of fresh drink from the watering holes. The end of the stables were blackened, the beams burned and walls collapsed, one man hammering away at old foundations. The fencing around the commons were broken too, a small barn in the midst of being rebuilt as Ned approached.
A young man leaned against a shovel, his long mop of hair auburn with bright eyes that reminded him too strongly of home. He wore loose breeches and a dirtied tunic, sweating even in the frost this far north. Ned watched him for a moment, shovelling away at hard gravel, wiping away at his slick brow and cursing under his breath. A dark haired women carried firewood strolled by, the two of them laughing, sharing stolen glances even as she passed the corner.
"You need a spare hand, lad?" He asked.
The man stood tall, smiling with a pinch of embarrassment, "Ah, m'lord. I thank ya, but I don't want to be stallin' yer trip any further. Don't be worryin' about all that, we'll do just fine on our own."
The remnants of the old barn was destroyed, charred down like melted black candles. The ground was scorched and the soil cracked, but covered in a fresh layer of wet compost and dirt; the smallest blossoms of wolf winter jasmine surviving.
"A storm?"
"If only, m'lord," called another, a large man, gruff with short black hair and a hulking bulb nose with chipped yellow teeth. He leaned his rake against a lone fence, wiping away at his dirtied brow, "It's the same ol' story. Wildlings. Damned savages. Took a half-dozen sheep a week past. Burned the barn and ran off. Cowards didn't make it far. Never did get the sheep back… but Lord Umber brought their 'eads on spikes. Had 'em by the streams outside til the flies came too many."
"Them black crows don't be doin' their jobs no more. 'Spose that's why ya came out this far, m'lord?" asked the redhead.
The question perturbed Ned deeply. If only, he wished. If only; icy dreams lingered above him in shadow, his brother's fallen corpse a pale blue. "Aye," is all he could say.
The large man squeezed the young man's—his son's—shoulder, "The women will be glad to 'ear of it, then. Don't know how a savage in bearskin can hope to carry cattle up the Wall, but 'spose the less they try the better. May be summer, but it don't mean the land give us any time to rest."
Ned nods solemnly, "She is unyielding."
"That she be," he says proudly.
"I'll leave you to it, then."
The older man places his hand over his heart, "Gods be with ya, Lord Stark." Ned watched them as they continued, just for a moment, the soft breeze rustling the bottoms of his cloak, and the weeds of grass left restless around the stables.
A bay coloured horse cried loudly in the half-made stalls, whinnying at Ned, who only smiled faintly, preparing his saddle sat upon a wooden stool. "L—Lord Stark," squeaked a small voice, tugging at his furred cloak. A young boy, no older than five, surely. His teeth were half missing, the middle two divided by a large gap in a shy smile. He wore a crown of blonde hair, streaked with muddied brown, and big hazel eyes too large for his thin face. In his hands, a half-loaf of stale bread was wrapped gently in a clean cotton cloth. A blonde-haired woman stood against a beam, watching them with mirth.
"Go on then, Tym," she said, her voice pitched high, biting her lips with wet eyes of pride.
"Bread, m'lord. To break ya fast on the road." He placed it gently in Ned's hands, red-faced and shivering.
Ned chuckled, "You bake this for me, little one?"
The boy smiled even wider, lost in a little memory that reminded him deeply of Sansa and her stories, "No… but me Da did! Saved it just for yer, m'lord Stark."
His mother came forward, kneeling down behind him, her head in the crane of neck, kissing at him as he tried his hardest to wrestle away, "He be wantin' to pet ya wolf, but I be tellin' him direwolves ain't no simple pet," she smirks, slapping softly at his cheeks as he scrunched his nose in protest.
Ned squats down to meet him eye level, "Your mother tells no lies, lad. They're dangerous beasts." The boy blinked at him a dozen times, almost disappointed, but far more intrigued.
"But he's your beast?" Fangs bared and bloody, his fur matted in the blood of fallen foes. This was the creature the boy loved, the boy desired. A creature of death and ruin, that chewed away at every soldier's cries in the salted halls of Pyke. That left Balon Greyjoy a pile of flesh and blood, his bones licked clean. And where was I? Vision run-red, a sword larger than most men in hand, the wolfsblood flowing free. The master, left to toil with his horrible shame when the deed is done, his honour shedded.
"Aye, he is my beast." He ruffled the boys dark hair and thanked him for the bread, watching them stroll off, the boy eager to tell his tale to the jealous ears of brothers and sisters, unaware to the dread in Ned's stomach.
He sighed, running his fingers through his dark hair, listening to the cries of his steed. "Calm now," he whispered, "Calm." Ned's hands brushed softly against his steed's dark oak jowls and cheeks, singing quietly, hushing the horse as he grew rowdy at the smell of food. The stable master came rushing in, stammering and abashed. "Let me, my lord," he cried, but Ned only chuckled, "He has never been an easy one. Winterfell's master of horse has never held his tongue about it." But the horse was his lady's wife's gift, and he had grown fond of him, in all his wilfulness.
Jory prepared his own steed, quickly, leading it outside by his hand, "There's a crowd gathered round the gates, my lord. The folk wish to pay their respects." Ned nods, leaving his mount with the stable master, walking slowly to the town square where a group of smallfolk await him eagerly. Young and old, men and women, huddled in circles with gifts and offering. It was an unneeded generosity, but not one Ned could deny.
The townsfolk huddled around a sled, large slabs of bloodied raw meat wrapped in red stained cloth and rope. Ned eyed it intently, greeting the smiling faces of his people. Their hands sent a cold shiver through him, his eyes twitching, a familiar sharp pain simmering beneath the neck of his skin. Their eyes are warm, full of life, so unlike the corpses that struggle to tear flesh from bone, with eyes of flaming hatred and cold death.
The butcher steps forward, proud, strong, his bloodied apron still worn, "We brought you this, m'lord. Wild goat from the hunt. Though you might like the spare cuts for the wolf. A treat, me thinks, for his good work, m'lord." The smallfolk gather their faces in admiration, and Ned's men take the sled and ready it with the horses. But he can only accept in gracious earnest, hiding his grimace and his growing desire to reject the butcher's kindness.
The crowd parts for an old woman, hunched with grey braided hair that teased the ground, smile so wide you could scarcely see her eyes, an ashen red cane and carefully wrapped furs in her hands. Ned takes her shoulders carefully, kneeling to her level. "Please, m'lord. Would you take this to Lord Umber?" She asks, leaning against him slightly, handing him bronze-grey furs, freshly sewn.
"Aye, m'lady what is it?"
"Fur for the babe, m'lord. We heard Lord Umber had a son. Some of the boys went down to the woods to hunt some foxes. Skinned and sewed this right up for him," her voice was hoarse, and her teeth missing. But her rigour was that of a young woman, and her loyalty moreso.
"Towns' havin' a good ol' feast at the Wolfshack Inn. Celebrate the victory and the long summer. Tables always free for yer, if ya wish, Lord Stark," the butcher says.
"Good ale, that inn. Alewives' pretty too." Jory comments from behind. It earns him a few laughs.
Ned turns to him, "And how'd you learn so much about the inn and the women in one night, Jory?" He raises an brow at Jory, who smirks and blushes in embarrassment. "Poor duty not to tell your lord," Ned adds with a smile.
Jory stands straight and looks the perfect soldier. "You were asleep by then, my lord. I'd thought you'd enjoy your rest. Be a shame to disturb you."
"Ah, you thought." He chuckled, shaking his head at Jory amusedly, who only smiled with his head bowed. Ned turns back to the old woman and crowd, "Aye, it is a fine gift. I'll be sure pass it along and give your thanks to Lord Umber. I cannot join your feast today. But one less mouth is an extra for the children. They surely deserve a good spoil."
She bows deeply, holding his hand and kissing it gently, "Oh, thank you, Lord Stark! Be sure to tell m'lord we'll come up to Last Hearth when we can, won't ya?"
"Of course, m'lady." And so they watch as he departs, giving their thanks and their blessing, little boys howling and old women waving, each of them watching for another guest, another beast. But he does not show, following beyond the horizon in forested hills and snowy plains, old stories lingering in each pawed step. For a direwolf was the greatest hunter of the land, friend to many an animal. Fox, shadowcat, crow, each creature careful to never befall the beast's path, but quick to share in its meals. In such tales, it was the direwolf that taught men to hunt, to consume his foe and bathe in his spoils, leaving his body to rot in the morn. And men had learned well; blood slick upon Ned's blade, a beast never left hungry, winter kings of ol' cheering in granite cries.
Within short hours, the glistening streams of the Last River flowed into sight, winding across foothills and plains. Towering trees huddled together to form the Giant's Forest, the gods-given walls sprouted to protect the fortress within. As a boy, Ned had visited Last Hearth only once with his Father and Brandon, reminded constantly to never stray from the paths set, lest a man grow lost in the realm a thousand, thousand sentinels. Old Nan had claimed the land had been soiled and sewn by the giants themselves, who mated with the daring Children of the Forest in their timber homes to stave off invaders.
And what a home it was. Pillars of dark ironwood rising a hundred feet tall, beams of light spilling through heavy canopies, birds and beasts fluttering through dense forests for miles. Elm trees sprawled between the giants' wood, thin leaves spilling snows onto the wet ground, chilling the air. Hills held pockets of small villages, hundreds strong, trips of goat and cattle led by scraggly farmers and laughing children, each giving their greetings as Ned passed through. And in the summer days, the forest clearings grew busy, lumbermen and stonemasons and merchants breaking bread with shepherds and washerwoman and guards alike. Chained giants painted upon banners, flowing from trees and gates, stuck into muddied roads and boulders.
At the edge of a great clearing, a mountain hill rose high above shallow rivers streaming south. Atop it, Last Hearth stood strong, thick dark walls etched into the stone itself, towers stretched from the foot of the mountain to the flat peaks of Umber keeps, the blood-blotched leaves of an Umber tree peeking through. And in the wide-paved roads of an Umber town, built beneath an Umber's mountain castle, Ned recalls old tales from an old woman's tongue. A giant's domain, gates and doors and stairs built for a giant's girth. And soon after, a giant's dwindling presence, gifted to man before a giant's sleep in mountain tombs. Erected like a fortress, a bastion of an older time, where man and singer and giant shared tales and ale alike. And in the giant's honour were stone blocks, carried tall from the depths of the earth below. And in the giant's lumber, did an Umber man take his name, steadfast and watching upon ancient walls. "An Umber man is a proud man," his lord father had dared to say, "But quicker-witted than a soldier's stories tell, and appetites to match their size."
In the town square, children held the hands of wrinkled elders, centred around a small weirwood sappling, no taller than a boy of five. They carried buckets of green water, murky like the old recipes Howland had jested of, singing a tune that sounded so similar to the Sapling's Smile of his grandmother's songs. A merchant man opened a stall of longbows outside a steaming forge, haggling two men with beards wrapped into their belts. Umber men greeted them loudly, the townsfolk opening windows and pausing the days labour to give thanks and blessing.
At the foot of the mountain hill, great stone steps were etched into the side; each step as tall as Ned and far too daunting for any horse. Old and weathered, the edges of mountain stone blended perfectly into the smooth corners of a giant's path, a two hundred small cuts chiselled aside, rising to the fortress above in a winding staircase built for men. Ned sighed, counting each dozen step ahead, finally realising how an Umber man could drink as much as he could.
At the peak, the land grew flat and wide, but still high enough that a man could gaze upon the canopies of the forest, the cold mist brushing against the snow-tipped stone. Here lie Last Hearth, bastion of the north. The castle was carved of a faded dark stone that rose from the belly of the mountain itself. Its design was rough, built for fortitude and fear, the base of the castle keeps and towering towers one with the mountain itself; as if the castle itself were stone sentinels still and stout. The walls were jagged and slick with the North's moist air, slanted slits shaped like arrows littering the outer baileys, drum towers and inner walls.
The gate itself was iron, rusted and renewed a thousand times over across the ages. From within, Ned could see long chains attached to the portcullis on each side; ten men needed to even dream of raising it. Jory watched with trepidation beside him, Desmond and the other guards heaving in strained attempts to gather their breathes as they dragged their belongings up the peak. As the gate rose, Ned caught the Greatjon standing with his hands on his hips, grinning like a fool with his dark brown beard braided into three points, decorated with small iron rings. He wore a dark oak doublet with padded leather, high collared and checkered; a thick overcoat lined with fur inside and thick at the edges of his collar and shoulders, the rest sewn long past his knees with a deep maroon brocade. His large cap covered his ears, circular and made of fox fur, his belt beneath the coat thick like two chains consuming each other, a snarling face in the middle.
"Ned!" The Greatjon roared, although Ned assumed the man was simply speaking, embracing him in a thick hug that left Ned winded and chuckling. Decorum was often left by the mountain's foot when visiting Last Hearth.
"Gods, Jon! Are you going to kill the man before supper? Let him go before you crush his spine," cried the Greatjon's wife, slapping him hard with a smile. She was a tall woman, a head taller than Ned at least, with a long copper braid that fell to her knees strung over her shoulder. Freckled and comely, Lady Branwyn was a fierce woman, her face etched with an expression that could compel any man to cower and bare his truths naked. Her coat was similar to Jon's, but a brighter red with little golden blotches of giants, foxes, shadowcats, wolves and weirwoods embroidered into the fabric. Thick iron earrings covered her neck, shaped like a crescent moon, her fingers glistening with a ring shaped like a chain, wrapped thrice over her knuckles.
"Aye, aye, forgive me, woman." Greatjon took a small basket of steaming salted bread from her hands, a snoring babe in her other.
"My Lord Stark, I welcome you to Last Hearth."
Ned chortled, "Many thanks, Jon." He took the offering gently, accepting their rite and exchanging the old woman's gift.
Lady Branwen cooed, "I ought to kiss that woman myself. Sewn half the babes garb herself." Four children stood before Jon and his lady wife, adorned in perfectly matching clothing with their father, smiles wide, the youngest two searching behind Ned absently.
"You've met my boy, Smalljon," Greatjon said, his hands soft on the shoulders of a large boy; towering over Ned with a scraggly copper beard and long copper hair, braided thickly at the ends. "This rascal, Cregan," a lean boy as tall as Ned's chest, dark-haired and bulging-faced, "My daughters, Serena and Sybelle," two freckled-faced girls the spitting image of their mother, almost twins, if not for the younger girls sprouting height," And the babe, Haron," dark-haired and fat-faced, content in his mother's arms.
The youngest girl tugged at his cloak, whispering loudly, "My ma says you've a wolf!" Brows raised in swirls of trepidation and excitement, the other children watching intently.
Ned restrained his frowns, "You missed him, sweet one. I've not brought him with up the mountain." You should be glad of it, he grumbled silently.
"I might take you for a liar today, Lord Stark," remarked Lady Branwyn, smirking, gesturing behind them.
And so came the beast, lumbering and darker then a new moon, eyes as sapphire as the clear sky, its fur tipped with snow upon his crown. It had found its way, somehow, without a man nor animal to lead its path, climbing upon the steps of the mountain and through the cobbled streets without a stranger's shriek nor scream to reveal it. A fierce thing, taller than Ned, though only a head-and-a-half shorter than the Greatjon. The Umber man had been the first to fight alongside the beast, greatsword swinging with fangs blood-soaked in the halls of Pyke. It sauntered past the party with indifference, licking at the young girl who squealed in delight, before collapsing into the grove behind them upon the roots of the Umber's Heart Tree.
And it was a mighty sight, the weirwood. Larger than any Ned had ever seen. As tall as Winterfell's walls, four thick branches sprawling into the drizzling sky, thick enough for three men to lay side-by-side. Bark as tough as mountain stone, as pale as snow on winter stormed fields. And the face snarled, etched in a grim expression, a great maw of a mouth open beneath it, large enough for the largest of Umber women to give homage to life. For an Umber woman's birthing bed was not found in soft feather beds, or even upon the edge of a stormy cliff. Rather, in the shadow of a weirwood's embrace, blood and bone and birth, left to the God's judgement. And in drunken tales of a soldier's plight, some would even dare to say Umbers' coupled within the Heart Tree. Though, none dare ask, lest the Greatjon give a demonstration.
Lady Branwyn watched the wolf with interest, taking her daughter's hand silently, "Join us in the mead hall, my lord. It has been a far too long since we've held a true Umber feast."
Ned kept his gaze away from the black furs of his companion, "Lead the way, my lady."
And an Umber feast it was, for no man's hearing was safe on that night. The mead hall sat in the centre of Last Heart's fortress, large enough to feast five-hundred men, and shelter twice that. And if Old Nan was to be believed, a hall of thousand men was a hall built for a hundred giants. Crafted with beams of dark ironwood and painted in the crushed dyes of weirwood leaves, the hall could weather any storm, hale and hearty and perhaps too lively for Ned's taste.
Its high ceiling was lit in a oil lamps and faint torchlight, barracked balconies with a dozen ladders above for men to sleep in the quiet night. Thick wooden columns, thicker than even an Umber man, were rooted into the warm ceilings and stone gravelled floors below, creating arches a dozen times from one end to the other. They were decorated in crude ironworks and carved runes, each one hanging braziers of fire beneath them; decorated in spirals of antlers that looked golden from the flame. A hundred trestle tables littered the hall, half of them full, the others covered in barrels of Umber ale that could feed a hundred fabled elephants, the Greatjon carrying one on his shoulder with delight.
But the festivities had barely begun, or so he was told. He carried his own horn, black and glossy and decorated with ancient runes, filled with a strong mead they called Giant's Juice. He raised it high, clearing his throat.
"Quiet! Shut it for Lord Stark," the Lady Branwyn roared, louder then a commander on a battlefield.
"Thank you, my lady. It is good to see old friends and allies in times of peace. And Last Hearth has only grown larger. I see the Greatjon's waist even greater, too," Jon's wife's laugh is even louder than his own, "My father would say there is little to be gained in the bottom of a man's cups, but an Umber man may prove him wrong. The Greatjon is steadfast and strong, loud and perhaps hard-of-hearing, but in the grim road ahead, I am glad to call him a brother-at-arms. And I would never dare to withhold those bonds from my family," he cleared his throat, holding his horn above a large circular fireplace that blazed bright, "Lord Jon Umber."
"My lord."
"I would foster your son, Cregan, in the hearth and heart of Winterfell. Let him spill blood and break bones and learn friendship, in perpetuity. Do you accept this offer?"
The Greatjon feel to a knee, arms wide, his eyes wet, "Lord Stark… I would be honoured."
"Honour?" Lady Branwyn gave a belly laugh, "Jon, can't you see? Lord Stark seeks to save our son from your fine teachings."
"Are you sayin' I cannot father my boy, woman?"
"Oh ho! We'll see about your fine teachings," she took an entire minute to down the drink of her horn, ale frothing on her chin, "Aye, Lord Stark has it true. Mors, bring out the —. Time for you to honour this honour, Jon." The men roared with laughter, unveiling a great white horn, petrified and carved and ancient, shaped like a serpent and as large as a man. Mors Umber stood upon the edge of a table with a barrel of ale in tow, the bung hole fastened tight to the horn and the other end around Jon's lips.
"You ready?" She snorted, tapping the side of the horn.
Jon mimicked the snarl of his banners, "Don't be questioning my mettle, woman! Get on with it." The ale came like a raging river, slithering around his braids, down his chin and onto his doublet. The Smalljon smacked his father's back, the men cackling and clapping with cheers of Umber! Umber! Umber! The Lady Branwyn sat beside him close, whispering foul things into his ear that turned Jon's face blood red. Jory watched with mouth agape, Ned seeing the overfilled barrel turn empty, counting each time he would have drowned attempting the same ritual.
The Greatjon roared, slapping all those around him in a victory cry, "Bring out the boar!" He lapped the feast hall, thanking Ned again before crushing his wife in a hug.
And so the feast grew louder, roasted boar crackling in black charcoals. The women set aside bones into a steaming hot cauldron, young men beating away at drums and deep flutes. Rectangular shields and arms across the hall caught the fire light in each beveled edge, each one sporting the personal arms of every Umber man, alive or dead. On one table, the Smalljon danced with a duo of young men, a minstrel singing a hearty song that the crowd sung along inharmoniously. The Greatjon's uncles, Mors and Hother, stood upon another, playing the Umber's fist, slapping one another with the force to slay a thousand men, daring the other to shed a tear or wail a groan first. Ned sipped on warm stew, watching amusedly as the Lady Branwyn smacked the Greatjon clean across his face for spilling ale upon her furs.
Jory stumbled to Ned's side, "Ah… sorry, my lord. I, uhh—"
Ned laughed, finding the younger man a seat, "Found yourself in an unfair game, Jory. 'Tis a silly thing challenging an Umber to a drinking contest."
Jory lay his head in his hands, groaning, "Seemed less silly an hour ago, my lord."
"Which champion had you beat then?"
"Oh, the big one. Y'know him… the one with the, uh… axe? In his head? Boremund, was it?"
"Harmund. The Greatjon's brother."
"Aye. That be him. Harmund," Jory nods with distant eyes, slapping his forehead, "With the… axe… in his head. How did it get there?"
"I've not the guts to ask him, Jory," Ned says, downing his bowl of stew.
"Can't say I've the courage either, my lord," Jory muttered, drifting asleep in only seconds. Ned laughed gently, throwing his cloak over Jory.
The feast soon turned into a somber quiet, the Greatjon singing a slow tune, his brothers and uncles and son sat cross-legged on the floors singing along. Ned sipped an ale slowly, his cheeks bitten, watching the flickering of the fire, back and forth, his brother's body hiding somewhere in between, the Wall weeping above.
"Will my son enjoy Winterfell, then?" The Lady Branwyn asked, coming from behind, sitting comfortably across from him, horn of ale larger than her head in hand.
He toasts her, "Aye. My sons will make sure of it."
"Well-mannered, your boys?"
Ned snorted quietly. A prank was their favourite pastime. Dumping snow onto guards and flour onto maids, "When they wish to be, aye."
"Good. Cregan's a good lad. Thick-headed like his father at times. Childish. Ill-tempered," she smiles, deeply; those little smiles you reserve only for your fondest memories, "But a good lad. He's grown too fond of his mother's coddling, and I can think of no better place to grow into a man."
"He will have a tale or two to tell on his visits. That much I can promise."
She eyed him curiously, wiping at her chin, "You are a quiet one, my lord," she only smirked at Ned's confusion, "The way Jon spoke of you, I'd have sworn a man stole your skin and wore it, for the lord I remember was honest with his courtesies and gracious with his patience. But Jon, ah. There's a man between this marriage and his name is Lord Eddard Stark. With his great beast of a direwolf, flown from the pages of the Kings of Winter themselves, wielding his Valyrian blade stronger than any Umber. Some of the town even name you Ironbane, though, I'd imagine you mislike that title." She slapped the table amusedly, standing with her ale in hand, spinning it idly, "No, you're still as quiet as I remember you. Your brother was the talker. A real charmer that Benjen Stark. I suppose the ladies of the North sobbed for a day-and-a-half when he took the vows." She rose, standing over him, her shadow enveloping him, "Now, I've children to put to sleep. No doubt they've their ears to the walls trying to hear a secret to tattle to the father to. But may I ask you one thing, Lord Stark?"
He nodded, and she sighed, her jaw gritted, inhaling slowly, tossing her horn to the side.
"Do you swear to keep my husband safe?"
"My lady?" Ned asked.
Her voice fell quiet, so different from the roar of her mirth, "Jon tells me all the lords gather at Castle Black. All of them. Umbers to Boltons to Manderly's, even those horse lovers and bog dwellers. No small thing, that," she punches the table softly, slowly, weighing her words, "And women often hear rumours their husbands turn their cheeks from. Of brothers in black, with blacker warnings than a child's night terror," she took Ned's hug straight from his hand, "I know what my husband is," her finger circled the top of the mug gently, eyes trapped upon the ale swirling like a maelstrom.
"Lady Branwyn—"
"He's an Umber," she says with a smile, faint and flickering, "Little else to say, is there? Their tempers are quick to outwit their cunning." She takes a deep swig of the ale, finishing it in one go, "But he's my Umber. I won't have him die in some savage's realm, skinned for furs and name rotted in a wildling's boast. I won't have him…" She shakes her head, trailing off. And such a fear could not be uttered. Such a fear was one Ned understood. Too well.
The air is grim when Ned nods, "Aye. I understand."
"Good. Good," Lady Branwyn moved back with a deep exhale, "I'll leave out a good shank for your direwolf, Lord Stark. No doubt he's feeling lonesome."
And the night was a lonesome thing. The men retreated to the barracks above or to the keeps of the castle, servants helping those slumped asleep into safe positions and cleaning the hall. And those that remained sipped on whatever mead and ale and stew and meat left, a crushing fear, a crushing loneliness looming overhead.
Ned could feel it, that honest truth. That familiar ache, carved in the smiles of every man who jeered and drunk and sang. The game of veils you play as battles march across the horizon. And the game is an ageless thing, three letters. War. Such a simple word, easy to write in parchment, to ink and letters. "To war," men would say, as if it were such a simple thing. War, quick to roll off the tongue. And on the eve of war, men would drown in barrels of wine, laugh and sing and growl, some even cry, though never quick to share such tears with the others sat in masks of pretend. But no amount of drink could shield you from the moment. That single second that lasts an age, standing in brothels and homes and stoney septs, steel in hand, breath slow. The fleeting glance you make at glimmering rivers that fork in every direction, beautiful and at peace; nature's domain blissfully unaware of the blood soon to be spilled.
And his father had never truly prepared him for that. Not Jon Arryn, wiser than any man he'd ever known. Nor his father of blood, his eyes lingering on Ned as Winterfell vanished beyond snowy hills. Could any father? Would the day come when it is my duty to teach Robb, and gods forbid, to teach Jon? Perhaps such was the father's experience; to fail to prepare your sons with the lessons you wished you had learned. This must be the God's duty, the world's duty. The long wait before battle, where a man sheds his life. And if his corpse is blessed enough to return, he wears his skin once more. But changed, the body beneath the skin, the man beneath the skin, never whole, never right. And Ned recalls the old stories. Of dead men rising in the snow, the same stories he chased now. Were they true? Did corpses of men long dead truly rise? Or were they but soldiers, as dead as any other man roaring in red-run rivers?
In the morrow he would tell this tale to the Greatjon. And it is the same tale. "To war," he would say, heavy-hearted. And Jon would make his cries and clamour for a Northman's rage, one owed to any wildlings fur. He would lay his case, and make his peace beneath a weirwood's gaze, preparing the mask all men wear, asking the question all men dare. Was it all the same? His men would follow behind him, a city stinking and sacked ahead, a wailing Wall, cold and cloud-touched. Fighting against a string of skeletons, rows upon rows. Whether it was soldiers armoured in a dragon's scales, or a savage's skin, or a demon's icy plates. A month later, a year later, a decade, a century, men would rise again for the same gory task. Was it all for nothing?
Nothing. No, never nothing, his brother's ashen stares latched on his pouch, hidden in fine leather wrappings. Ned can feel Benjen's cold gaze. He remembers his cryptic warnings, lost in a burning scream, in a chilling death. "I saw them," he cried, "I saw them," he wailed. His skin as cold as ice, burning by the touch of blood. His cries as chilling as death, his body burning in a vigil's fire. And in these fleeting memories, buried by a thin mask of fear, Ned prays that such tales were only stories. That the only dead men he would ever see walking was the soldier, the father, the lord husband in the mirror. Grey-eyed and grizzled. Never blue-eyed and black hearted.