Eddard Stark – 284 AC
The Great Hall of Winterfell stood silent. The stone walls, etched with the weight of centuries, seemed to drink in the light of the roaring hearth. Shadows danced upon banners bearing the direwolf of Stark, their movements as restless as the thoughts of the man seated beneath them. Eddard Stark, newly returned to his ancestral seat, cradled a cup of ale in his hand. The war was over, but its echoes lingered in the halls of his mind.
Robert's Rebellion had cost him dearly: his brother, his father, his sister. Their ghosts walked Winterfell now, as surely as the living breathed its cold, northern air. He stared into the amber depths of his cup but found no solace there.
It had been a moon's turn since his return, yet Winterfell felt strange to him. The cold northern air was familiar, the rhythm of life within its walls unchanged, but Eddard had changed. The boy who had left for the Eyrie to foster with Jon Arryn was long gone. The man who had returned carried the burdens of war and the weight of a new lordship.
The North needed its Warden. He was here now, though he sometimes wondered if it was truly enough.
A sharp knock at the door broke the stillness. Eddard straightened, setting his cup aside. "Enter," he said, his voice steady and quiet.
The door creaked open, revealing Maester Luwin. The older man moved with quiet purpose, his grey robes trailing behind. In his hands was a scroll, its wax seal glinting faintly in the firelight. His face was grave, lined with concern.
"My lord," Luwin said, bowing his head. "A raven from Deepwood Motte."
Eddard gestured for him to approach, taking the scroll from the maester's outstretched hand. In his hand, he bore a message sealed with the sigil of House Glover. Eddard's heart sank. The ravens rarely brought good tidings. His eyes scanned the lines, his expression confused as he read.
"My lord?" Luwin prompted, his voice soft but insistent.
Eddard lowered the parchment, his face like stone. "It seems my brother Brandon may have left more than his memory behind," he said, his tone carefully measured. "Lord Glover writes of a woman, a hunter named Jeyne Snow, who claims to have borne Brandon's son."
Luwin's brows lifted in surprise. "A bastard, my lord?"
"Aye." Eddard set the scroll on the table, a familiar heaviness pressing at his chest. Brandon—fiery, bold Brandon. He missed his brother dearly, the wolves' blood had run strong in him, and he had lived so freely, so certain no consequences could ever touch him. Eddard had once admired that spirit. Now it seemed the shadows of his brother's recklessness had found their way home, carried to Winterfell on raven's wings.
"A child changes things," Eddard murmured, half to himself. His mind raced, weighing the implications. The North was a hard land, and bastards were rarely spared its cruelties. Yet if the child truly was Brandon's, it carried Stark blood in its veins. That could not be ignored.
"I must confirm this myself," Eddard said, rolling the parchment back up. "I'll ride to Deepwood Motte."
"Shall I prepare the ravens to inform the bannermen of your departure?" Luwin asked.
Eddard shook his head. "No. This is a family matter. I'll take a small group and return swiftly. Inform Lord Glover I ride at once."
Luwin nodded and departed, leaving Eddard alone with his thoughts once more. The flickering firelight painted his face in shadows as he sat, unmoving, for a moment longer. Then he rose and made his way toward the family chambers.
The air in Winterfell's corridors felt colder tonight, though whether it was the northern chill or the weight of his burdens, he could not say. His mind turned to Catelyn, and his jaw tightened. Duty had brought him back to Winterfell, to her, but duty had also driven the wedge that now lay between them.
He found her in their chambers, standing by the narrow window, her figure outlined against the snow-blanketed courtyard below. She was as still as the frost-laden branches of the godswood. The brazier burned low, and the faint smell of ash hung in the room, mixing with the lavender oil she favored. Yet there was no warmth here, not tonight.
"Catelyn," he began, but she did not turn. Her arms were clasped around their son and heir Robb. He could see the tension in her shoulders, the rigid line of her back. Her silence was sharper than any blade.
"I've received news from Deepwood Motte," he continued, his voice steady though it felt as if he were walking on a frozen lake, every word a step closer to breaking through the ice. "I must ride there at once. I'll return in a few weeks."
Still, she did not speak. She was staring out at the snow-covered expanse, but Eddard knew her gaze was elsewhere. Likely, it lingered on the boy in the nursery, the boy with brown hair and grey eyes who did not share her blood. Jon Snow. His name was a shadow that hung between them, silent but ever-present.
Eddard sighed, the sound weary and low. He crossed the room slowly. When he reached her, he placed a hand gently on her shoulder and looked down at Robb. Her body was tense beneath his touch, unyielding. She had always been proud, a daughter of the Riverlands.
"I will return soon," he said softly. "Until then, Winterfell is in your hands."
She did not answer, and her silence settled between them like fresh-fallen snow—cold, soundless, and suffocating. Eddard lingered a moment longer, searching for words that would not come. Then, he withdrew his hand and left the chamber, his heart heavier than before.
In the courtyard, Eddard found the stablemaster, a grizzled man with a weathered face and hands as scarred as a knight's shield. The man looked up from brushing down one of the horses as Eddard shouted.
"Prepare my horse," Eddard said. "And assemble a small group of riders. We leave for Deepwood Motte as soon as possible."
The stablemaster gave a curt nod. "Aye, my lord." Without hesitation, he turned to his task, barking orders to the stable boys nearby. The sound of hooves on stone and the clatter of saddles soon filled the air.
Eddard lingered on the ramparts only long enough to see the preparations begin. His steps carried him to the nursery, where a faint light glowed from beneath the door as he approached. Inside, the wet nurse sat by the cradle, humming a soft tune. Jon Snow lay within, his tiny chest rising and falling with each breath. He was quiet, for once, his dark eyes half-lidded in drowsy contentment.
"How is he?" Eddard asked, his voice low and gentle, though the sight of the boy always stirred something deeper in him—an ache, a yearning, a guilt he could not put into words.
"He is fighting well, my lord," the wet nurse replied. Her voice was warm, soothing. "A bit sickly, but strong. He will survive."
Eddard moved closer, his shadow falling over the cradle. The boy looked so small, so fragile, but there was strength in him. The blood of the wolf. Eddard had seen it in his cries. Lyanna had made him swear to protect her son, and he would not fail her. Not in this.
He bent down, his hand resting lightly on Jon's cheek. The boy's skin was soft, warm against his calloused fingers. Eddard's throat tightened as he whispered, "Be strong, son. You have the blood of the wolf in you."
For a moment, he stayed there, watching the boy breathe, his thoughts a tangle of memories and promises. Then, with a final glance, he straightened and left the nursery nodding to the wet nurse. The door closed softly behind him, and Eddard Stark walked back into the cold corridors of Winterfell, his resolve as firm as the stone beneath his feet.
Leaving the nursery behind, Eddard Stark let his thoughts settle on his younger brother, Benjen. He needed someone he could trust while he was away, and Benjen had long been the steady hand when Winterfell's lord was called elsewhere. Eddard found him in the training yard, his dark hair damp with sweat as he sparred with a group of young swordsmen. The clang of steel on steel echoed off the stone walls, sharp and bright in the cold northern air.
Benjen moved lightly on his feet, his movements quick but unrefined, his grin widening as he disarmed one of the younger men. When he saw Eddard, his smile turned warmer, his boyish charm still evident despite the years. He called for a pause and handed off his practice sword.
"Your training is improving, Benjen," Eddard said as he approached, his tone light but tinged with brotherly teasing. "But don't think I didn't notice that footwork. You're quick, but reckless. Finish up and walk with me to the godswood. We have matters to discuss."
Benjen chuckled and nodded, before fetching his cloak. He waved off the sparring partners, leaving the yard behind. Together, the Stark brothers moved through the castle corridors, their boots echoing against the stone floors.
The godswood loomed ahead, its ancient trees casting long shadows over the snowy ground. the biting air greeted them like an old adversary. It nipped at their faces and fingers, but the Starks of Winterfell had long since made peace with the cold.
"I'm riding to Deepwood Motte," Eddard said finally, his voice low but certain. "I need you to oversee Winterfell until I return."
Benjen gave him a curious look, pulling his cloak tighter against the wind as they walked. "Is everything all right?"
Eddard hesitated, his mind drifting back to the letter. "It's a matter concerning our brother Brandon. Lord Glover writes that he may have fathered a child."
Benjen went silent, then let out a short laugh, though it held no real mirth. "Can't say I'm surprised. Father always warned him about this sort of thing."
"Nor am I surprised," Eddard admitted, his voice quieter now. They walked in silence for a time, their boots crunching softly in the snow. The godswood had a way of stilling even the most restless thoughts.
When they reached the weirwood, Eddard stopped, letting his gaze rest on the solemn face carved into the trunk. The tree seemed older than the castle itself, older than the North. Its roots ran deep, and its branches reached high, a living reminder of their first men history.
"I still remember the days when we played here," Eddard said, his voice tinged with nostalgia. "You, Brandon, Lyanna, and I. Brandon always climbed the highest, and Lyanna would chase him, swearing she'd knock him down if she could."
Benjen smiled faintly, his breath a mist in the cold air. "Simpler times."
Eddard stepped closer to the tree, resting a gloved hand on its rough bark. The godswood was a place of solace, but today it brought only questions. The silence stretched, and his thoughts returned to the letter. To Brandon's child.
"If Brandon did have a child, what will you do?" Benjen asked, breaking the stillness.
Eddard sighed, his breath clouding before him. "I'll assess the truth of it. If the child is Brandon's, I'll do what's best for him. If need be, I'll bring him home."
Benjen stepped forward, kneeling before the weirwood as if to seek its counsel. His head bowed, his voice quiet. "Your wife won't like the idea of you leaving, let alone returning with another child especially another boy."
"Nor do I," Eddard admitted. His hand fell from the tree, and he placed it on Benjen's shoulder instead. The younger man rose, his eyes meeting Eddard's. The godswood seemed to hold its breath around them.
"I never wanted this life," Eddard confessed. The words tasted bitter, but they were true. "The Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North should have been Brandon."
"And now he's left us with responsibilities neither of us wanted," Benjen replied, his tone resigned but understanding.
Eddard managed a small, sad smile. "You've grown into a fine man, Benjen. More than capable of watching over Winterfell in my absence."
Benjen chuckled softly. "I've been doing it for over a year while you were off fighting in the south. I think I can manage a few more days."
Eddard couldn't help but chuckle as well. He reached out to ruffle Benjen's hair, earning a good-natured swat in return. They stood there a moment longer, the bond between them stronger than words could express.
"You've always done what's right, Ned," Benjen said finally while giving a look of understanding. "Even when it's hard."
Eddard nodded, his face solemn once more. "We do what we must for our house. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, for winter is coming."
Benjen smiled faintly. "Winter is coming. Be safe, brother."
Eddard clapped his shoulder one last time, then turned back toward the castle. The godswood watched them go, silent and eternal. Winterfell loomed ahead, its towers and walls etched in frost, the stones bearing the weight of centuries. Duty called him away, as it so often did, but it never became easier to leave.
In his chambers, he prepared for the journey with practiced efficiency. He donned his warmest cloak, lined with wolf fur, the heavy fabric settling on his shoulders like the weight of the North itself. His sword, Ice, waited on its mount. The greatsword gleamed in the firelight, its blade wider than a man's hand. It was more than a blade; it was the legacy of House Stark, a reminder of his father and the responsibilities that had passed to him.
Eddard lifted Ice with both hands and strapped it to his back right shoulder. The sword's familiar weight was both a comfort and a burden. He glanced around the room one last time, his gaze lingering on the simple, sturdy furnishings, the warmth of the brazier, the furs draped across the bed. This was once his father's room. Now it was his home, and yet it always felt as though he had not earned it yet.
Descending into the courtyard, Eddard found the castle bustling with activity. Stable boys darted about, saddling horses, while the men-at-arms tightened straps and checked weapons. The sight of Winterfell's people, steadfast and loyal, brought a flicker of warmth to his heart.
Calon Wisent, the captain of the guard, approached with his usual no-nonsense demeanor. The man was as weathered as the stones of the castle, his hair streaked with grey, his face lined from years of service. He bowed his head slightly as Eddard came near.
"Everything is prepared, my lord," Calon said, his voice rough but steady.
"Good," Eddard replied. His gaze swept over the assembled riders, their faces resolute. "We ride hard and fast. I want to reach Deepwood Motte as soon as possible."
Calon nodded and turned to relay the orders. A young stable boy stepped forward, leading Eddard's horse. The animal's breath steamed in the cold air, and its coat shone in the pale morning light. Eddard mounted with ease, the motion fluid and practiced. He took a moment to survey the courtyard, his grey eyes lingering on the familiar sights: the towering walls, the fluttering banners, the snow-laden rooftops. These were the sights of his youth, of his life. They steadied him.
The gates groaned as they swung open, the sound echoing through the castle yard. Beyond lay the vast expanse of the North, a wilderness of snow and shadow. The wind swept in, sharp and biting, carrying with it the promise of winter. Eddard tightened his grip on the reins, his resolve firm. He would face whatever lay ahead, as he always had. For his family, for his house, for the North.
Winter is coming, and the Starks would endure.
This is my first story, so I hope you enjoyed my first chapter.