Lord Eddard Stark
Pyke / Winterfell, 289 AC
Ned was in the midst of helping his men clean up after the Storming of Pyke when one of the castle's maesters approached, a raven from Winterfell perched on his arm.
A flicker of unease passed through him. He prayed it was only a letter from Catelyn—but something in his gut told him otherwise.
That instinct proved true.
As his eyes moved across the parchment, his face shifted from concern to disbelief, then to quiet fury. His wife—and Ser Rodrik—had detailed an attempted kidnapping at Winterfell, foiled only by chance and blood. Ironborn, dead. His daughter, safe. All was well, the letter assured him. But Catelyn had also written of Jon—his nephew.
That gave Ned pause. She had never referred to Jon by name before. It was always "the boy," "Snow," or worse—the bastard. Ned had known from the start that claiming the boy as his own would bring scorn and distance. Still, he had hoped Catelyn might one day see him differently.
Judging by her words, perhaps that day had finally come.
But now, Ned needed answers. And there was only one place to get them.
He stormed through the halls of Pyke, heading straight for the solar where Balon Greyjoy was being held—a prisoner in all but name. Guards of House Stark, Lannister, and Baratheon stood watch in rotating shifts outside the door.
He didn't knock, instead, he kicked the door open.
Balon Greyjoy looked up in alarm, his eyes wide for a moment—fear flashing across his face, perhaps thinking Robert had come to carry out an execution.
"Did you send your reaver scum to kidnap my children?!" Ned bellowed, crossing the room in three long strides. He seized the man by the front of his tunic and hauled him to his feet.
Balon's expression flickered—hatred at first, then fear—but it finally settled into a cruel, mocking grin.
"Ah, so my men reached your shores after all," he sneered. "I wonder—did they take the little girl as a salt wife? She's only six, but I doubt they'd mind taking turns breaking her in."
Ned saw red.
He hurled Balon across the room with a roar and reached for his sword. He might've drawn it too, if not for the booming voice that cut through his rage.
"Ned! What's going on here?"
King Robert Baratheon entered with a scowl, flanked by Lord Tywin Lannister and Jon Arryn. His Kingsguard took up positions at the doorway, hands hovering near hilts.
Ned turned, chest heaving, and pointed at Balon—now crumpled against the wall, trembling. The smell of piss filled the room.
"The squid-sucking bastard sent raiders to Winterfell," Ned spat. "If not for my bastard son, they would've taken my daughter—and done gods know what with her."
He gave Balon one final kick, then stepped back, trembling with restraint.
Robert's face turned crimson. For a heartbeat, Ned thought he might join him in the beating, but Jon Arryn's calming hand on the king's shoulder held him back.
"Damned squids," Robert muttered, glaring at Balon. "Just when I thought you couldn't sink any lower."
"Catelyn? The children?" Jon Arryn asked gently, his concern plain.
"They're safe," Ned replied, his voice rough but steady.
At that, Balon visibly deflated. Whatever edge he thought he had, it was gone.
"Bah, Ned. Calm yourself," Robert said, his tone softening. "The fool's plan failed. Your family is safe. That's what matters."
"Perhaps we should punish him more thoroughly, Your Grace?" Lord Tywin finally interjected, having remained silent until now.
Ned glanced over and saw Robert's face twist into that familiar look—the one that meant he'd just had an idea and nothing short of divine intervention would dissuade him.
"Right you are, Tywin!" Robert declared, clapping his hands together. "Ned, a third of the spoils are yours for your part in the war. Take what you and the Northern lords can carry—and commandeer a few of the squid's ships to haul it back north, just to rub their noses in it."
He laughed heartily at his own jest.
Ned's eyes widened. A third of the spoils? That would amount to nearly 150,000 gold dragons—and that wasn't counting the gems, the jewelry, or the priceless antiques housed in Pyke's vaults. That much coin could feed the North for years… maybe even a decade, in lean times.
"Now hold on, Robert," Jon Arryn said cautiously, casting a sidelong glance at Lord Tywin, whose face had gone utterly still. "Are you certain about this?"
Ned understood the hesitation. The Lannister fleet had borne the brunt of the fighting—suffering heavy losses—and Tywin had likely been expecting the lion's share of the spoils to help replenish his ships.
"Bah, it's only fair," Robert waved off the concern. "Matter of fact, toss in another hundred thousand dragons from the royal coffers. Ned and the Northern lords never got properly compensated for helping overthrow those incestuous dragon-fuckers."
He threw his head back and roared with laughter, clearly pleased with himself.
Ned stood silent, stunned. Nearly 300,000 dragons in total.
His mind raced with the possibilities. The North could stockpile grain, build new ships, or even restore some of the abandoned castles—like Queenscrown or Moat Cailin. Maybe even reestablish a true northern navy.
He caught the look on Tywin Lannister's face—and had to suppress a small, bitter smile. Fury burned behind the Lord of Casterly Rock's eyes, his pride stung by the sudden, generous diversion of wealth.
Ned would never forget what the man had done during the rebellion. King's Landing had yet to recover from the sack, even a decade later, if the stories were true. And then there were the Targaryen children—the little prince and princess, their bodies broken… and their mother, Elia, torn nearly in half by the Mountain.
Ned still had nightmares about that.
"Robert! That is ridiculous—we don't have the coin to be throwing around like this, especially after this uprising!" Jon Arryn chastised him, though it was clear the effort was likely in vain. Having helped raise both Robert and Ned, Jon surely knew by now—once Robert had an idea in his head, prying it out was near impossible.
"Bah! Ned deserves it!" Robert barked back. "He lost the most in the rebellion, and what did he get for it? Nothing!"
"Perhaps this is a bit hasty, Your Grace," Tywin interjected coolly, though Ned could almost hear the man grinding his teeth. "We should let cooler heads prevail. Give it until the morrow."
But Robert wouldn't relent. He shook his head with finality. "My decision is final. Your Lannisters are said to shit gold—shouldn't be too hard to build a few new ships with all those mines of yours."
Ned could have sworn he saw steam coming out of Lord Tywin's ears. Across from him, Jon Arryn rubbed a weary hand over his face, clearly at the end of his patience.
"Kingslayer! Selmy! With me," Robert barked, striding from the room. The two Kingsguard followed without hesitation—though Ned could have sworn Jaime Lannister was grinning, despite the slight to his house.
Tywin stormed out next, likely off to plot whatever it was he did when angered. Probably something meticulous, efficient—and cruel.
Ned and Jon followed at a more measured pace.
"I'm sorry, Jon," Ned said quietly. "But you know how Robert is."
Jon simply waved him off. "No, no. It's alright. I've been dealing with him for nearly twenty years. If I haven't changed his ways by now, I never will." He sighed, then added, "Besides, he has a point. The North was long overdue for some reward for its loyal service."
Ned nodded slowly. It was true. The North had stood firm behind Robert during the rebellion. And when the dust settled, all Ned had been left with were dead bannermen—and a dead family.
"I didn't want to ask for anything. Not then. But… you're right."
Jon placed a hand on his shoulder. "I understand. It's only fair you receive your due—no matter how late."
With a final nod, Jon bid him goodnight and turned down the corridor toward his chambers, leaving Ned alone with his thoughts.
A few days later, Ned and his bannermen departed the Iron Islands aboard ten captured ships—each one laden with coin, jewelry, and gems amounting to nearly two hundred thousand dragons. The Northmen were in high spirits, their cheers echoing across the sea as they finally received their due. Robert had promised to send the remaining hundred thousand dragons north once he returned to the capital. Ned could only hope he kept his word.
When they docked at Seagard, Ned released a quiet sigh of relief. It felt good to be on the mainland again. The ten ships awarded to the North would be sailed to White Harbor to reinforce its fleet, though Ned was seriously considering establishing a new western fleet using the coin they'd gained.
Trailing behind their host was a large caravan bearing the spoils of war. Nearly ten thousand Northmen marched in disciplined ranks—enough to make any bandit think twice before dreaming of theft.
The journey through the Neck was slow and difficult, but the crannogmen emerged to guide them safely through the marshes. Howland Reed himself came out to greet Ned and accompany him on the final stretch to Winterfell. But it wasn't Howland who caught Ned's eye.
There, riding behind him, was a figure in a plain helmet—his features hidden, but those unmistakable purple eyes told Ned everything he needed to know.
The Sword of the Morning rides in shadow once more, Ned thought grimly.
They said nothing to each other—for now.
When the host reached the ancient, moss-covered ruins of Moat Cailin, Ned slowed his horse and studied the crumbling towers. A decision settled in his mind.
He would rebuild it. Moat Cailin had once stood as the first line of defense in the North. His father had dreamed of restoring it, of passing it on to his sons—dreams dashed by war. But now, with the wealth they had secured, that dream could become reality. Perhaps one day, one of his sons would make this fortress their seat.
Finally, after nearly a month of riding, their army slowly disbanding as they passed through each holdfast, the familiar towers of Winterfell crested over the horizon.
When they had stopped at Cerwyn, Ned had sent a raven ahead, instructing Catelyn to prepare a feast. His bannermen would stop in Winterfell to celebrate their victory—and he meant to honor them properly.
The great ironwood gates creaked open, and Ned rode through with his lords behind him to the roaring cheers of Winterfell's people.
"Who holds the North?!" the Greatjon bellowed from behind.
"STARK!"
"STARK!"
"STARK!"
The cry echoed off the walls, a chorus of loyalty and pride. Ned smiled as he saw Robb and Jon among the crowd, joining in the cheer with grins stretched across their faces.
Catelyn waited near the steps with Sansa beside her. One of the nursemaids held little Arya, while Catelyn cradled a bundle in her arms.
Ned raised an eyebrow as he dismounted and approached. His wife offered a curtsy before holding out the bundle with a soft smile.
"Winterfell is yours once more, Lord Husband," she said. "Meet your newest son—Brandon, named after your brother."
Ned gently took the child, his heart catching at the sight of those wide blue eyes. He let a rare, genuine smile cross his face.
"Father!"
Three sets of limbs crashed into him all at once—Robb, Jon, and Sansa—wrapping him in a fierce embrace. He laughed, passing the babe back to Catelyn before scooping Sansa up into his arms. She squealed, clinging to his neck.
Motioning to a boy of about thirteen who stood nearby, Ned gestured for him to come forward.
"This is Theon Greyjoy. He will be staying with us for a time. I expect you all to treat him with respect."
The children nodded quickly, each offering their new companion a curious glance.
Then Ned turned to the assembled northern lords, their faces weathered and proud from the long campaign.
"My lords, once again I thank you for your loyalty and courage. To celebrate our victory—and the birth of the newest Stark—there shall be three days of feasting!"
A cheer rose from the crowd, echoing through the stone walls and out across the snowy courtyards.
That night, after Catelyn had recounted the rest of what had occurred in his absence, Ned made his way to the family wing. Quiet now, dimly lit by flickering torches.
His wife had mentioned she had moved Jon's chambers to the family wing, where he should have been this whole time.
Opening the door, Ned found his nephew seated on the bed, staring out the window with that familiar far-off gaze in his eyes.
"Jon?"
The boy turned, tilting his head slightly—those mismatched eyes, one violet, one bright green, locking onto Ned's own.
"Father," Jon greeted softly.
"I wanted to ask how you were. Catelyn told me everything," Ned said gently, stepping inside. He sat down on the small bed and patted the space beside him.
Jon came over and sat. "I'm fine, Father. I was only protecting my sister. It was no big deal."
Ned's heart clenched at the nonchalant tone. As if killing a man at nine namedays were no more remarkable than commenting on the weather.
"You know you can talk to me, Jon. If anything's weighing on you... anything at all," Ned said quietly, trying to draw the boy out.
Jon fixed him with that stare again—the one too old for his years. "I told you, Father. I was just protecting Sansa from the krakens."
That made Ned still.
The question that had lingered in the back of his mind since speaking with Catelyn finally broke free.
"How did you know there would be an attack, Jon? That your sister would be in danger?"
"I dreamed it," Jon said, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world. He turned back to the window, unaware of how Ned froze beside him.
"What do you mean, you dreamed it?" Ned pressed, his voice tight.
"I saw a kraken wrapping its tentacles around a red wolf. Just like I told Lady Catelyn."
Ned paled. But he pushed on—he needed answers.
"Do these dreams happen often? Have you had others?"
Jon nodded slowly, turning his gaze back toward him.
"Can you tell me more about them?" Ned asked, keeping his tone as calm as he could.
Jon tilted his head again, thinking. "Well… there was one a few moons before you left. Two krakens—one with one eye, and another with a red tentacle—burning lions."
Ned's blood ran cold, but he gave no reaction beyond a quiet nod, motioning for Jon to go on.
"Then there was one I had a sennight ago. A manticore and a pack of hounds attacking two baby dragons."
He paused, eyes narrowing as they met Ned's ghostly face. "And last night, before you came back, I dreamed of a dragon and a wolf… standing in a grove of weirwoods. A lot of weirwoods."
By now, Ned was white as snow.
"Father? Are you alright?" Jon asked, brow furrowed.
Ned blinked, forcing himself to breathe. He reached out and patted Jon's shoulder. "I'm fine, my son. Get some rest—you have a big day tomorrow."
Jon nodded and hugged him, then crawled under the covers, wrapping his arms around the old stuffed wolf toy Ned had given both him and Robb years ago.
Ned quickly made his way to his solar, sending for both Howland and Arthur. He needed to speak with them immediately.
They arrived within minutes, and Ned wasted no time relaying what Jon had told him. To his surprise, neither man seemed shocked.
"Well," Arthur began, "Prince Rhaegar spoke of similar dreams during my time guarding him. He would wake up screaming some nights, rambling about nonsense—the Song of Ice and Fire, the dragon having three heads… things like that."
Arthur's expression was grim at the thought of his prince's son suffering the same torment.
Ned turned to Howland, raising a brow when the man appeared equally unbothered.
"I suspected as much when I held the boy for the first time. His magic felt strong. And those eyes… they were the biggest sign."
"Magic?"
"Eyes?" Ned and Arthur echoed.
Howland nodded. "Those born of the blood of the First Men, with green eyes like his, often carry the gift of Greensight—the ability to see visions of the past, the present, and what's yet to come. They can also peer into the weirwoods."
"The Greensight? I thought that was just one of Old Nan's stories," Ned said, frowning, as if doubting Howland's sanity.
Howland only smiled knowingly. "It's real. I have the gift, though only partially. It's why I spent time on the Isle of Faces before that damned tourney at Harrenhal."
He took a sip from his ale before continuing. "My son has it too—stronger than me. That's one reason Arthur and I traveled with you back north."
Ned's eyes widened at the revelation, glancing to Arthur, whose expression had turned thoughtful.
"Many with Valyrian blood have had similar abilities," Arthur added. "Daenys the Dreamer is the most famous, but others—Prince Rhaegel, Princess Helaena, even Daemon II Blackfyre—were said to have Dragon Dreams."
Howland nodded in agreement. "The most powerful among them was Bloodraven. His First Men heritage, combined with Valyrian blood, made him especially gifted."
Ned looked grim, absorbing the weight of it all. These two men were telling him that his nephew—his son in all but name—was carrying the burden of such visions.
"Is there a way to train him?" Ned asked, voice low. "I don't want his life haunted by nightmares and riddles. Three of the four you mentioned died tragically."
"I could take the boy to Greywater Watch," Howland offered. "He could learn to hone his gift there, away from the weight of expectations."
But Ned shook his head firmly. "Not yet. He's only nine. He's still a child—and he needs family. Maybe when he's older… but not now."
His thoughts drifted to Moat Cailin, to the idea of rebuilding it—not just as a strategic stronghold, but as a legacy.
"Perhaps… I give the boy Moat Cailin," he said aloud. "I plan to restore it anyway. If Jon were its lord, he'd be close to you, Howland, and could learn more under your guidance. It would give him purpose… a future. Better than the Wall, or being some bannerman in Robb's shadow."
Howland looked slightly disappointed at not being able to take Jon himself, but he nodded in agreement.
Arthur, however, wasn't convinced.
"Then let me stay with the boy," he said, stepping forward. "I'll guard him. Tell your wife I'm a knight who joined your service during the rebellion. No one up here knows my face."
There was something close to desperation in his voice—loyalty, too.
Ned turned to Howland, who gave a subtle nod of support.
"Fine," Ned relented. "But you are not to reveal his true identity. As far as anyone knows, you are Ser Alaric Sand—a bastard hedge knight sworn into my service. Understood?"
Arthur nodded solemnly. "Understood."
He left shortly after, and Ned and Howland remained in the solar a while longer, speaking quietly about what came next.
Just before Howland took his leave, a raven landed silently on the window sill. Its feathers were black as night—save for one curious detail.
It had three eyes.
The bird stared straight at the crannogman.
Ned didn't notice the subtle nod Howland gave the creature—or the one it returned.
