Eddard Stark – 284 AC
"Lord Stark," came the call from ahead of his party, the words sharp and clear in the crisp northern air. The sigil of a silver fist on scarlet flapped boldly in the wind, and Eddard recognized the riders as they came to a halt. At their head sat Robett Glover.
"Robett Glover, it is good to see you," Eddard replied, his voice calm but carrying the weight of his position. The cold air seemed to sharpen the sound, making it carry farther than it might have otherwise.
"Likewise, my lord," Robett answered, inclining his head respectfully. "Allow me to escort you to the keep. My brother is expecting you."
Eddard nodded, gesturing for his men to follow. They moved as one, their horses' hooves crunching on the frozen ground. The path to Deepwood Motte wound through the outskirts of the settlement, and Eddard cast his eyes over the smallfolk who paused their work to watch his approach. Many bowed their heads, offering murmured greetings of "M'lord" as he rode past. Their faces told a quiet story—a mix of reverence and sorrow, the marks of lives shaped by the long winters of the North.
He thought to himself that this winter had been kind by Northern standards, brief and milder than most. The gods had shown mercy. Yet that mercy came with a bitter reminder. So many men he had led south in Robert's Rebellion had not returned. Their widows and children were among the crowd now, their gazes heavy with unspoken grief. They looked to him with hope, but also with the quiet, haunting knowledge of loss. Eddard carried their weight in his heart.
The gates of Deepwood Motte creaked open to admit them, and Eddard dismounted in the courtyard, handing the reins of his horse to a waiting stablemaster. Ahead, Lord Galbart Glover stood with his men dressed in similar fine furs, his expression one of respect as he stepped forward.
"Lord Stark, Welcome to Deepwood Motte," Galbart said, bowing deeply. The men around him followed suit, their movements disciplined.
"Lord Galbart," Eddard acknowledged with a small nod, clasping the man's hand firmly. "It is good to see you, my friend."
"And you, my lord. We have much to discuss," Galbart said, his tone serious but warm. "You and your men are welcome here for as long as you wish to stay."
Eddard turned to Calon Wisent, his captain of the guard, whose weathered face was marked with faint lines of approval at the hospitality. "Have the men rested and the horses seen to," Eddard instructed. "We shall spend the night here."
Calon nodded sharply, and the cheer from the men was instant. The prospect of ale, warm food, and camaraderie lit up their faces, and Eddard allowed himself a faint smile. It was good to see his men in high spirits, even for a brief respite.
Inside the keep, the air shifted. The wooden walls exuded the rich, comforting scent of pine and woodsmoke, and the warmth of the hearth was a welcome contrast to the biting chill outside. Galbart led Eddard through the corridors, the floorboards creaking faintly beneath their boots, until they reached the solar.
The room was inviting, its large hearth blazing with a crackling fire. The flames painted the walls in hues of amber and gold, the shadows leaping and shifting with each flicker. A simple table had been set with thick loaves of bread and salt.
"Please, take a seat, Lord Stark," Galbart said, gesturing to a chair near the fire.
Eddard removed his gloves and cloak, laying them across the back of the chair before settling into the seat and breaking some bread. The warmth seeped into his skin, soothing the aches of the long ride. "Thank you, Galbart. The journey was long, but it is good to be here."
"Would you care for some wine or ale, my lord?" Galbart offered.
Eddard shook his head. "Water will suffice. Thank you."
Galbart poured two cups of water, handing one to Eddard before sitting down across from him. The firelight caught the older man's features, highlighting the lines etched by years of duty and leadership. "I received your raven," Galbart began, his tone shifting to one of gravity. "And I understand the urgency of your visit. Brandon's legacy has indeed left us with more than memories."
Eddard took a measured sip of his water, the coolness grounding him. "Yes. My father warned Brandon of this, but my brother was... impulsive. If there is a child of his blood, I must see to it myself."
Galbart nodded solemnly. "Jeyne Snow is a capable woman. She has made a life for herself and her son here in Deepwood Motte. I believe you will find her... compelling."
Eddard's gaze hardened at the word. "Compelling or not, my duty is to my family and the North. If Brandon has a son, he will need our protection and guidance."
"Very well, my lord," Galbart replied. "I know where the girl and the boy are staying. If you wish, I can escort you there now."
Eddard considered this, his mind working quickly. "That would be ideal, but fewer guards would be best. The less people know, the better."
"Of course, my lord," Galbart agreed. "Two of my men can accompany us, but perhaps we wait until dusk. She will likely be home, and the streets quieter."
Eddard nodded. "That will do. While we wait, tell me—how fare your winter reserves?"
The conversation turned to matters of the land and its people. They spoke of livestock, crops, and morale. The hours passed, and as the sun dipped lower in the sky, its golden light bathed the courtyard in a fleeting warmth.
Eddard rose from his chair, the faint creak of the wooden legs breaking the silence between him and Galbart. Outside, the evening air bit sharper than before. He pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders as they descended the steps of the keep.
"Calon," Eddard called, his voice low but firm. His captain of the guard turned toward him, awaiting instructions. "We'll be heading to one of the townhouses. Just us and two—no need for the men."
Calon nodded without hesitation. "M'lords," he replied simply, falling into step as Galbart beckoned two guards to accompany them.
"They live near the farms," Galbart explained as they began their descent into the outskirts of Deepwood Motte. "In the agricultural district."
Eddard inclined his head but said nothing, his mind already sifting through what lay ahead. The streets of Deepwood Motte were quieter now, the day's labors giving way to the evening's respite. Smallfolk trudged home, their faces weary but not unhappy. Smoke rose from chimneys, the scent of hearthfires mingling with the earthiness of tilled soil and hay. It was a simple, honest life, one Eddard respected deeply.
As they approached their destination, Galbart gestured toward a modest structure of wood and stone. The house stood slightly apart from its neighbors, as if its inhabitant had chosen to keep some measure of distance. A small garden bordered the front, its bare winter soil marked by orderly rows. Hooks bearing butcher tools hung near the door.
"This is the place," Galbart said, his voice quiet.
Eddard studied the house for a moment. The light spilling from its windows cast warm, golden beams onto the frosted ground. It was unassuming but well-kept, much like the North itself. "I will speak with her alone," Eddard said, his tone final.
Galbart nodded, then stepped forward to knock. The sound was deliberate, each rap resonating through the stillness. After a brief pause, the door creaked open.
Jeyne Snow stood in the threshold, framed by the light behind her. Her dark hair fell loose around her shoulders, wild and untamed, its ebony waves softening the sharpness of her high cheekbones. Her black eyes, deep and watchful, flicked between Eddard and Galbart. Soot smudged her pale skin, likely from a recent fire.
"Jeyne Snow," Galbart began, "This is Lord Eddard Stark, Warden of the North."
She was taken back but nodded respectfully, her gaze lingering on Eddard. "My lords," she said softly.
Eddard stepped forward, his grey eyes meeting hers. He searched her face for a moment, as if trying to see what his brother had seen in her. There was a quiet strength in her, a sense of someone who had endured and thrived in equal measure. "Jeyne Snow," he said, his voice low, "I have come to speak with you about your son. May I come in?"
Her hesitation was brief but telling. She stepped aside, motioning for him to enter. The warmth of the house enveloped him as he crossed the threshold closing the door. The scent of woodsmoke mingling with faint traces of pine, the room was small but tidy, its furnishings simple and worn. A fire crackled in a modest hearth, casting flickering shadows across the walls. In the center of the room, a young boy sat on the floor, playing quietly with a wooden toy.
Eddard's breath caught. The child was unmistakably of Stark blood. Thick brown hair framed a face that bore the same strong features he had seen in his brother—high cheekbones, a straight nose, and dark, thoughtful eyes. For a moment, it was as though Brandon himself had been brought back, though in miniature.
"What did you name him?" Eddard asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Jeyne's eyes flicked toward the boy before returning to Eddard. "Cregan, m'lord," she said, her tone cautious.
"Cregan." He raised an eyebrow, the hint of a question in his gaze.
Jeyne's cheeks flushed faintly. "Forgive me, m'lord," she began, her words spilling out in a rush. "I… I wanted to name him after my adopted father. I later found out from one of the older women here told me of a Stark from long ago—a Cregan Stark. It wasn't my intention to name him after an ancestor."
Eddard's expression softened, a faint smile touching his lips. "The name serves him well," he said. He paused, glancing at the boy again. "May I?"
Jeyne hesitated, her maternal instincts warring with her deference to Eddard's rank. Finally, she nodded. Eddard knelt and lifted the boy into his arms, his movements slow and deliberate. "Hello, Cregan," he said, his voice gentler than before. "How are you?"
The boy giggled at first, his small hands reaching for Eddard's cloak. But the laughter was short-lived. His face crumpled, and he reached for his mother, his cries filling the small space. Eddard, awkward and unsure, returned the child to Jeyne, who soothed him with quiet murmurs.
"Jeyne," Eddard said after a moment, his tone measured, "may I ask you a few questions about my brother?"
She looked up, her dark eyes meeting his. There was wariness there, but also resolve. She nodded. "Yes, m'lord. Of course."
Eddard gestured to the table by the hearth. "May I?" he asked, motioning to one of the chairs.
"Please," Jeyne said, her voice steady despite the faint tension in her frame.
As Eddard sat, he let his gaze wander over the small home. It was humble but clearly cared for. The fire's warmth was matched by the quiet pride evident in every corner, from the neatly arranged tools to the worn but clean blankets draped over a small bed. It was a place of survival, but also one of love.
"How did you and Brandon meet?" Eddard asked, his voice low and even, as though he feared the question might shatter the fragile stillness around them.
Jeyne took a deep breath, her gaze dropping to Cregan, who stirred softly in her arms. When she looked back at Eddard, her expression was composed, though her voice carried the weight of memory. "It was during one of his visits to Deepwood Motte," she began. "He often came here to hunt in the Wolfswood. I was a hunter myself, known for my skill with a bow. Lord Robett tasked me and other hunters with accompanying Brandon's party on one of his hunts."
She paused, her lips curving into a faint, bittersweet smile. "Brandon was… charming, persistent. At first, I kept my distance. I knew his reputation when I first met him. But he had a way of getting under your skin, of making you see him as something more. We spent weeks hunting together, and over time…" Her voice softened, trailing off. "I found myself drawn to him. One night, after a successful hunt, we… well, we ended up together."
Eddard nodded, his expression steady. "He had that effect on many," he said quietly, though his words carried no judgment. Catching the odd look Jeyne gave him, he added, "Apologies. I meant… he had a way of leaving an impression."
Jeyne smiled, her gaze returning to Cregan as she gently rocked him. The boy, still nestled against her shoulder, let out a soft sigh as she patted his back rhythmically.
"Brandon carried a scar," Eddard said after a moment, his tone thoughtful. "One only a few people knew of. Do you recall where it was?"
Jeyne didn't look up, her voice calm but certain. "A blunt slash wound on his right side, running from his ribcage to his hip. He told me he got it from a wildling's axe during a skirmish."
Eddard's brows rose in mild surprise before a low chuckle escaped him, which soon grew into a soft, genuine hearty laugh. The sound startled Jeyne, who tilted her head to regard him curiously.
"He told you that, did he?" Eddard said, shaking his head. "The truth is far less impressive. When he was young he got that scar slipping on black ice at Winterfell. Fell over the side of a wall and landed on a hitching post. The ice was sharp on the post, enough to cut deep."
Jeyne blinked, then let out a laugh of her own as she shook her head. "That does sound like him."
"Our father warned him not to run on the ice," Eddard added, a faint smile lingering. "But Brandon did what he liked, as always. It's fitting he'd spin it into something grand. I'll have to share that with my other brother Benjen."
The warmth of the moment lingered, filling the small room with a quiet ease. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, its flickering light casting long shadows. But the silence brought with it the weight of unspoken truths, and Eddard's mind drifted back to the reason for his visit.
"Did he know?" Eddard asked, his gaze resting on the boy now asleep in Jeyne's arms. "About Cregan?"
Jeyne shook her head, her expression clouding with sorrow. "No, m'lord. I found out I was with child just after he left for the South. I never had the chance to tell him."
Eddard sighed, the weight of his brother's legacy pressing heavily on him. "I am sorry, Jeyne. Brandon would have wanted to know. He would have cared for him…for you both."
A tear slipped down Jeyne's cheek, though her voice remained steady. "I know... He was wild, fierce, but he had a good heart. He was… good."
Eddard reached out, his hand resting lightly on the table between them. Jeyne hesitated, then placed her free hand atop his, her grip firm despite her trembling fingers. "You've done well," Eddard said softly. "Raising Cregan here. He's strong and healthy, and it's clear he's loved."
"Thank you, m'lord," Jeyne whispered, her voice thick with emotion.
A moment of quiet passed, broken only by the gentle sound of Cregan's breathing. Then Jeyne spoke again, her words hurried and raw. "I'm assuming you've come to take him, m'lord. Haven't you?"
Eddard froze, startled by the despair in her voice. "I…"
"I don't want to lose him, m'lord!," she said, her tears falling freely now. "I know you could give him more than I ever could—more food, more safety, more opportunity. But he's my son. I need him."
"Jeyne," Eddard said gently, raising a hand in a calming gesture. "It's alright. I came here to see the boy, to see the life you've made for him. From what I've seen, you've given him everything he could need. I have no intention of taking him from you."
Her breath hitched, her relief almost palpable. "What? Truly, m'lord?"
Eddard smiled faintly, rising from his chair. "He has a home here. Someone who loves him. That's more than many can say. Brandon would have wanted this—to know his son was safe and cared for."
"Thank you," Jeyne said, wiping her tears with her sleeve. "Thank you, Lord Stark."
Eddard nodded, his gaze steady. "If you ever need help—funds, supplies—speak with Lord Glover. He will ensure you have what you need."
"M'lord, that's more than generous," she said, bowing slightly as she adjusted Cregan in her arms.
"It's what my brother would have wanted," Eddard said simply. He hesitated, then added, "How many know of Cregan's parentage?"
"Only a few," Jeyne replied. "Lord Robett, Lord Galbart, and some of the older women who helped me when he was born. They've all kept the secret."
"Good," Eddard said, his tone firm. "Let's keep it that way. For his safety and yours. But know this he has a family in Winterfell. He always will."
Jeyne nodded, her gratitude shining through her tears. "I'll tell him, m'lord. About the Starks. About the North. He will know one day."
With a final nod, Eddard stood, his gaze lingering on Jeyne and the boy cradled in her arms. "Farewell, Jeyne," he said, his voice quiet but firm. His grey eyes softened as they settled on Cregan, who had begun to stir slightly in his mother's embrace. "And farewell, Cregan," he added, a faint smile breaking through the solemn lines of his face.
Jeyne clutched the boy closer, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. She opened her mouth, her voice faltering before she managed, "Thank you again, m'lord… and farewell, Lord Stark."
Eddard inclined his head, the weight of her gratitude pressing heavier than he expected. He turned and made his way to the door, the worn wooden boards creaking faintly beneath his boots. He paused for the briefest moment as though committing the scene to memory—the modest warmth of the home, the strength in Jeyne's voice, and the innocence of the child who bore his brother's blood.
As he stepped out into the cold night air. Galbart, Calon, and the guards waited nearby, their breaths visible in the frigid air. "We're done here," Eddard said quietly. "Let's return to the keep."
"Is everything alright, Lord Stark?" Galbart asked.
"It is," Eddard replied. "But I'll speak more on it come morning. Tonight, I think I'll spend some time by your godswood."
"Of course, my lord," Galbart said with a respectful nod.
Eddard walked back toward the keep, his heart heavy yet resolved. Lyanna's legacy would live on through Jon, Brandon's through Cregan and finally Robb through His. They might not bear the Stark name like Robb, but they had our blood.
Thats basically the prologue done. Hope you enjoyed it.
