Ned watched his son disappear down the corridor as he walked back towards the Great Hall, where swaths of deer filled the mouths of his lord's and the wine dimmed their minds. When Ned had left, the feast was in full swing. Lord Wyman Manderly had stepped up to lead the toast, shouting for the cooks to bring more of the sweetest deserts and for the band to bring out their best drummers. Maege Mormont had frowned at Wyman's loud outburst while Ser Wylis tried to shush his father. But Ned however, was grateful for his friend. Because as more musicians swarmed the stuffy room, which already stank of too many perfumes, he had been able to quickly excuse himself from the cramped hearth, for the night had grown long and the music had grown tedious.

So now, Ned turned on his heel without another word and strode away from the loud gathering of lords, who he could hear had begun to sing.

The hall was empty, except for the household guard that stood silent at their posts and for the few servants who rushed past him. The loud echo of their footsteps bouncing off the stony walls that held up the banners of some of his vassals. The horseheads of us the Ryswells in gold, brown, grey, and black; the bloody, flayed corpse of House Bolton; the moose of Hornwood and the two crowned, rusted axes of House Dustin, to name a few. Their colors were bright, yet they couldn't overshadow the Stark banner that hung proudly between each one of them.

As Ned approached the thick wooden doors of his solar, to the right as always stood Cley Cerwyn. He wore the long grey cloak and armor of the North's Kingsguard and gave Ned a quick, curious look from the corner of his eye.

"Send word to Lord Arryn's quarters. Tell him…the North will go south."

"As you command, your grace."

"And send word to the stewards. They are to begin making arrangements for Lord Arryn and his party's departure at first light. We will supply everything they need.

"At once, your grace."

As soon as Cley took his leave, Ned slipped into his solar, closing the door firmly behind him, and finally silencing the last echoes of drunken voices.

Pouring himself a glass of wine, Ned stood brooding. He hated that he had to send Jon away so soon, but the old man had left him with no other choice that he could see. Jon ought to thank him, truly. Any other Northern King would not have let his party cross the border without meeting the sharp edges of steel blades.

And yet, the thought of Jon leaving angered Ned as well. Jon was so frail now. And there was so much that was left unsaid between the two of them. Ned had not been able to mutter so much as a thank you before Jon ordered him to be smuggled out of the Vale back before the Rebellion. Even though Jon faced a written order to bring King Aerys his head, the Lord of the Vale did not hesitate to protect Ned like he would his own son.

But it struck him suddenly, then. As Ned remembered the shadow that lurked at Jon's side throughout his stay at Winterfell. The spider's smile hid something treacherous, surely. Another secret, or another string in his web.

But Jon trusts him?

Ned frowned. The man Ned knew would never have allied himself with Varys. He never would have even considered it. But then again, everything was different now, and Ned knew nothing of the king Jon was forced to become. The hard decisions he had to make. The games he had to play. Perhaps Varys was just one of them.

Tiredly, Ned drained his cup. He would never trust Varys, but Jon had earned his trust time and time again. Ned would stomach Varys. At least for the time being.

Jon saved my life, Ned smiled to himself. I owe him ten times as much.

Setting down his cup, Ned pushed the thoughts of the day away. There were bigger things that demanded his attention and there was much to do.

Ned walked over to the long plank-and-trestle table where stacks of old books and scrolls lay sprawled out before him. Some open, others closed, even more stacked neatly in a pile next to his desk on the floor, but all of them from the deepest corners of his father's library. Sitting down in his oak chair, Ned pushed stack after stack of papers and books to the side until his eyes landed on a familiar, old, torn out page of a book. It had been carefully scorched and shrunk, but the Kings before him had clearly taken care to make sure it was properly preserved.

Leaning forward, Ned pinched a thin charcoal pencil between his fingers and traced the ink drawing of a tall, gaunt woman whose long, white hair reached down to her calves. An other, surely. The drawing matched the writings from the Old Kings about the others. Her skin was white as snow while her terribly protruding bones made her look like a frozen corpse. The only sign of life was her eyes that glowed an icy, deep blue, like the winding rivers that flowed through the Riverlands. She sat perched in the lap of what seemed to be a young man, draped in the black cloak of the Nights Watch. The man held a shimmering great sword gripped between his two hands, and on his head, sat a twisted imitation of the crown of the Kings of Winter. A crown of iron and ice.

What does this mean? Ned thought.

The boy saw the others.

Ned leaned back in his chair and frowned. It wasn't…impossible, although he would have thought it so once.

Promise me!

Back when he was a boy and his biggest concern was trying to keep up with Robert in the training yard.

Promise me, Ned!

And keeping the trembling from his voice when he danced with Lady Ashara.

But that was all before

Promise me! Promise me, Ned!

Ned nodded and held Lyanna's hand tightly as hers chilled and fell limp as the last of her strangled words finally quieted. She lay still as a stone, now. Her face, drained of any color and rigid as if trapped in a deep trance. And her eyes. The sight of them turned Ned's blood cold. They were a milky white. The cool grey of her irises were completely gone, as if they were never there to begin with. And bloody tears flowed endlessly down the sides of her cheeks from each corner of her eyes, while her mouth, stayed locked open in a silent scream.

Ned screwed his eyes shut. He hated thinking of that day at the Tower. But if only his brother could have been there. If only he could have seen how this curse that he insisted on toying with tore their sister's life from her…

He wouldn't have brought rumors of the others return back to Ned without more proof. He wouldn't have even dared to involve the children.

Or maybe he would have. That's just how Benjen was, after all. Only able to see what he wanted to see and hear what he wanted to hear. If Ned had told him about Lyanna…how she died…all he'd see is another chance to chase more of their family's secrets. Damn the consequences for Ned. For his family. Damn if the children were the next ones to have to be buried in the crypts.

And as always, Ned would be the one left alone to pick up all the pieces. Like at the Tower, like during the Rebellion, like in King's Landing…

Ned opened the drawer before him and lightly dragged his fingers over the jewels that lay scattered within it. Over a golden pendant of a woman with the wings of a bat and the legs of an eagle, over an oily spear pendant that was black as sin, but his hand lingered over a Valyrian Steel neck chain that was decorated with a simple, yet heavy, dark red gemstone and in which was surrounded by three sculpted entwined circles. Next to it, an old letter:

For the eldest daughters of your house.

- Rhaenys of House Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms

For Sansa, Ned thought as he touched one of the cool gems to his lips before gently placing it back down.

Ned would not be reckless. He couldn't be. The children would always come first.

But what does Benjen know about that? Ned thought bitterly.

Ned's thoughts began to race faster as his cold, clammy skin began to sweat and trickle down the back of his neck. Hurriedly, Ned took a deep breath and forced himself to stand, leaving the suffocating desk for the window. Pouring himself another cup of wine, Ned calmed the thoughts that tumbled chaotically around in his mind.

Suddenly, a familiar shriek pierced through the fog. Ned cursed as he glanced out the window and saw the black form of that small crow as it flitted around in the night sky, dancing and gliding on the wind like the leaves falling from a tree during autumn. As it drew closer and landed on the solar's window's ledge, tiny droplets of blood dripped from the crow's beak, its claws and the edges of its wings.

Ned frowned. What does Benjen know about you?

Fly. Follow me and fly.

The crow squawked, almost as if laughing at him. Ned's face grew hot and in a sudden explosion of movement, he threw his cup at the wretched thing, only to miss and hit the wall right next to it. But the crow did not move. It didn't even flinch. Instead it only stared quietly at Ned, eyeing him sadly.

He told me to fly.

A loud knock broke through his fog of rage and Ned watched as the crow flew back out into the darkness. His torrent of rage washing away into shame.

Shaking his head, Ned composed himself. Suddenly feeling old and tired. "Enter!"

Jon bursted into his office, his soaked boots dragging under him as he strode into the solar. His dark grey eyes locked firmly onto Ned's own.

"Uncle?" Jon asked as his eyes scanned over Ned's tense form.

"Yes, Jon. Retiring so early?" Ned answered quickly.

The boy opened and closed his mouth, swallowing hard as if trying to find his courage.

"It's hardly early," Jon settled on before shutting the door behind him. "Maester Luwin told me that you mean to leave me behind in Winterfell while you all travel South."

"I do." Ned said simply. "Is that why you came at this hour?"

"I came to request that I travel South with all of you." Jon said through clenched teeth. "I am just as capable as the squires Ser Rodrick trains. I can serve in Robb's personal guard. I can—"

"You cannot go South. You are not a Stark. Traveling past the border isn't safe for you." Ned frowned at the silence that fell between them like a hammer as Jon's face darkened with each word.

"That's…stupid!" Jon said. "You will need all the skilled swords you can get."

Ned raised his eyebrows. "And that would be you?"

Jon gave an angry scowl. "Of course it would!"

Gods, not this again. Ned pressed his fingers to his temples.

"I won't stay here while-"

"You must. And you will." Ned said sharply and Jon's mouth immediately snapped shut. "We will not have this discussion again. You will stay here. You will not cause trouble. And you will not argue."

Jon's frown deepened, but he said nothing. His black eyes, however, somehow glowed even darker as he quickly mumbled words of parting and hastened out of the study, slamming the wooden doors behind him.

Ned sighed and leaned against his desk. For a brief moment, he stood in the sudden silence that Jon left behind and considered calling him back but…

Promise me, Ned.

Ned allowed himself to curse. The boy was rankled but he would understand one day. For now, Ned had promises to keep and duties to honor. But time was perilously short and the crown was getting heavier.

Ned could not do this alone. But he did know who he could trust. The man who was there since the beginning.

Quickly, Ned took out a fresh sheet of parchment and dipped his quill in the ink pot:

To His Grace, Howland of the House Reed,

By the time you receive this letter, a Northern party will be traveling south to the Twins to cast a vote at the Second Great Council to crown a new king of Westeros...

Ned chose each word with care because the last time Ned had seen Howland Reed was when they buried Lyanna. They had knelt side by side at the foot of the great weirwood tree long into the evening as grief overwhelmed the Howland, had overwhelmed them both, even as they prayed for the lives of Jon and Robb. And as odd as it was, Ned would always treasure that moment, because soon after, the newly appointed lord had left Winterfell in a rage. Ned often sent letters and gifts and summons. But Howland would remain silent from his seat down in the neck. And men would often whisper about their strained friendship.

When he was done, Ned signed the letter

Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, King of Winter and King in the North,

blotted the paper, folded it twice and melted the sealing wax over the candle flame. As the wax softened, Ned summoned Vayon Poole, the steward, and he came at once.

"You summoned me, your grace?"

"This letter is to be delivered to Lord Howland at once."