Snow clung to the walls of Winterfell as the gates opened to let the party in. It was not heavy yet—just enough to dust the stone and deaden the sound of hooves. The breath of men and horses alike rose in pale clouds. No fanfare greeted them. No horn. No call from the towers.
Benjen Stark stood waiting in the courtyard.
Ned dismounted in silence. He wore no colors, no sigil. Just the black wool and grey fur of a Northern lord in mourning. Behind him, the nursemaid carried Theron in her arms, flanked by two of Ned's men.
Benjen gave a short nod, stepping forward. "Welcome home."
Ned clasped his brother's forearm. "It's held."
"It always will."
No more needed saying. Ned turned briefly, ensuring Theron was taken carefully inside. Benjen gave quiet orders to the men behind, and the courtyard slowly began to stir into motion—horses led away, crates unloaded, guards dispersing without instruction.
They walked toward the main keep side by side.
"It's colder here than I remember," Ned murmured.
Benjen gave a faint smile. "It never changed. You just forgot, you were in the Vale and then came home just to call the banners you haven't been in the North properly for nearly a decade"
Inside, the hall was warm but subdued. Fires crackled in the hearths, but the benches were empty. Servants passed quickly but did not linger. A solemn atmosphere had taken root.
As they reached the stairwell, Benjen slowed. "The solar is prepared."
Ned didn't ask what for. He knew.
They climbed in silence.
---
The solar smelled of pine and smoke. A fire had been built high. The light flickered on the stone walls and the heavy wooden desk. Theron's cradle had already been placed near the hearth. The child was asleep, undisturbed by travel or chill.
Two others were in the room.
Lyanna sat near the window. She wore a plain grey cloak, her dark hair tied back loosely. In her arms was a Jon. He was silent, resting his head against her shoulder, blinking at the firelight.
She looked older than Ned remembered, but qhen he sent her home from starfall, Her eyes still had the same clarity. Her silence wasn't nervousness—it was weight and loss.
Ned stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. The fire popped. No one moved for a moment.
Then Lyanna stood.
"He looks like you," she said softly.
Ned glanced at Jon. "He has our father's brow."
Lyanna's eyes flicked toward the cradle. "You named him?"
"Theron."
She nodded. "Strong name."
They embraced and Just a shared moment that held the weight of all that had happened.
Benjen moved to stand by the desk, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
"I had to act," he said. "After you called the banners, I put eyes on Walys he always rubbed me the wrong way and what we found was an issue"
Ned looked at him fully now. "What did you find?"
"Enough." Benjen's jaw tightened. "Letters to the South. Counsel that pushed Father toward the south, Brandons marriage to the Tullys, your fostering in the vale with Robert. His betrothal to Lyanna. Not for honor—for ambition. He fed our house to the fire, we're not sure I'd there is more but I ill continue to dig."
"And he advised father to go to kingslanding demanding his son released"
Benjen nodded once.
Ned turned toward the fire. His voice was quiet, not gentle. "Is it done?"
"Aye," Benjen said. "Quiet. He was hanged. The body burned. The Maester's quarters have been sealed. The ravens are watched, we will send for a new maester soon, ask for one who is Northern as the last had issues with the climate"
"Was there protest?"
"A few looks. No words. The North remembers."
Ned breathed in the scent of smoke and pine, then let it go.
"You did right."
He crossed to the cradle and looked down. Theron slept, fists curled. The lines of his face were still vague with youth, but already Ned could see the strength there—something cold and rooted.
"He'll be raised with sword and stone," Ned said. "Not courtly rot."
Lyanna spoke again. "You'll train him and jon together?
"No," Ned said. "I want to train the North together."
Silence returned. It settled like snow on still ground.
Benjen poured a measure of watered ale into a carved horn and handed it to Ned. "The North waited. It still waits. But they'll follow you. After what you did at the Trident… and the Red Keep…"
"I didn't do it for them," Ned said.
"No. But they saw it anyway, you have started to fill the cracks our father made, slowly we can try to move forward and strengthen"
He drank. The ale was bitter, but clean.
---
Later, after Lyanna and Jon had retired to her rooms, Ned remained in the solar alone. He had dismissed the nursemaid and stood now by the window, looking out over the snow-covered yard. The wind had picked up, brushing ice across the stone like whispering teeth.
Theron stirred in the cradle, and Ned stepped forward.
He knelt beside the sleeping child and adjusted the fur blanket slightly.
"This is where it begins," he said quietly. "Here. Not at court. Not in Dorne. Here. Among stone and snow."
The child did not stir.
Ned placed one hand lightly on the edge of the cradle.
"The pack is together," he murmured. "That is what matters."
--
Snow had fallen again in the night, blanketing the rooftops and inner courtyards of Winterfell in clean, white silence. It was not a storm—just a steady drift, as though the gods were reminding the keep of who it truly belonged to. The smell of smoke and snow mixed in the crisp air, and for the first time since his return, Eddard Stark stood on the battlements not as a guest or grieving husband, but as the master of the North.
Benjen had already begun transferring duties to him. Quietly. No ceremony. A nod here, a ledger there. The weight had shifted.
Below, the courtyard was beginning to stir. A small unit of guards drilled near the west gate. Rodrik Cassel barked orders as they moved through their formations—sword, shield, stagger and shift. Ned watched, saying nothing, but his eyes took in every flaw.
Too much wasted movement. Slack shoulders. Feet too wide in the turn. A blow would never land properly thrown like that. The footwork was mismatched, and they were mixing shield and sword styles as if training for sport. No cohesion. No discipline. Just rote drills and the illusion of readiness.
He said nothing yet. But his mind was already pulling it apart.
They had no clear unit breakdown. No roles. No formations of purpose. No sharp edge.
Where were the shield-line infantry? Spear and shield, working in rhythm—defenders first, attackers second. Where were the close-quarters fighters, men who could wield axes or hammers and break through armor with weight instead of grace? Where were the trackers—the hunters, the ones who could move silent and strike unseen?
This was not a company. It was a scatter of boys with steel, pretending they knew war.
And that was the problem. Most of them were boys. Local lads from the towns surrounding Winterfell. Few had fought beyond a tavern brawl or a wolf raid. Rodrik did what he could, but one man's bark could not turn a kennel into a pack.
Ned turned from the wall without a word.
—
By midday, he had gone through three ledgers, signed two supply orders, and listened to Benjen explain that the grain stores in the northern granaries had held better than expected.
"The ice was thick early," Benjen said, flipping a page. "It slowed the rot. We'll ration less tightly now, but the outer villages should still store their own as backup."
Ned nodded, scratching a note into the margin. "Good. We'll want to rotate the stewards between keeps—too much comfort breeds laziness."
Benjen glanced at him. "You think they've gone soft?"
"I think they've gone unsupervised."
Benjen gave a short grunt. "Fair."
The solar was warm with firelight and smelled faintly of pine oil. Theron's cradle sat near the hearth, quiet but within reach. The child had been fed and changed, and was now swaddled in thick wool. A nursemaid sat off to the side, respectful and silent.
Lyanna entered quietly, a plate of cured meat and fresh black bread in her hands. She set it beside Ned without a word, then leaned against the window alcove.
"You've taken to ruling easily," she said.
"Thankyou," Ned replied without looking up. "The weight feels lighter with you both helping"
She studied him for a moment. "Will you sleep?"
"When it's earned."
Lyanna gave a soft snort. "Sounds like father."
Ned looked up. "Then I'll need to be better."
She didn't answer. But she didn't argue.
—
In the afternoon, Rodrik Cassel arrived with a satchel of dispatches and a red nose from the cold. He stood stiffly, snow still dusting his shoulders.
"Lord Stark," he greeted.
"Ser Rodrik."
They reviewed sentries, supply routes, patrol rosters. Ned asked questions. Sharp ones. Why certain gates had been left without doubling in the last moon. Why there were gaps between training sessions. Why five of the recruits he saw this morning were using southern-style grips when they were Northern born?
Rodrik answered with experience, but also frustration.
"They're not knights, my lord. Half of them were smith's sons and fishermen two moons ago. The rest think they are knights and learn slower for it."
Ned let the silence stretch.
"I'll take direct oversight," he said finally. "New formations. Group them by size, discipline, strength. I want a spear line and a shield line. I want axe fighters for close quarters, and I want ten of your best trackers scouting every corner of these woods until they could blindfold themselves in the snow, your role will be differing slightly for a few moons till I make the training regiment. I want you to travel the North, I want all the greybeard's you know and who the other lords know, I want experienced men who have faught in the war of the 9 penny kings and the rebellion. Offer them coin and lodgings for the family. They will come and help train the stark men"
Rodrik nodded, but his eyes flicked briefly to Benjen—then back to Ned.
"We'll begin tomorrow," Ned said.
"Very good, my lord."
He left soon after.
Benjen waited a beat. "You've got plans."
"I have a duty."
"You always did."
—
That evening, Benjen placed a sealed scroll before him.
Ned picked it up.
"The Citadel," Benjen explained. "You'll want to sign."
The letter was clean, written in Benjen's precise hand. It stated simply that Maester Walys had succumbed to illness brought on by the Northern cold—a malady of the lungs that no broth or poultice could mend.
The request was modest: a replacement maester "with a constitution suited to our climate, and familiarity with the customs and histories of the North."
It was signed in Benjen's name. A second line, blank, waited beneath.
Ned dipped the quill.
He signed with steady strokes: Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell.
He paused, then added a final line at the bottom.
"A man of the North for a land of ice."
Benjen read it, then nodded. "That'll do."
—
Night fell hard.
After dinner, Ned took a torch and descended into the crypts alone.
The snow had stopped. Only silence followed him down the stone steps. The air grew colder with each level, until even the torch gave off a blue glow and his breath showed in short, pale bursts.
He walked past the kings and lords of old. Past Theon Stark. Brandon the Builder. Cregan. Torwyn.
Then he reached the newest alcoves.
Rickard's likeness stared ahead with carved solemnity. Brandon's, beside him, wore no smile—just the fierce pride that had never left him, even in death.
Ned stood before them, quiet.
"I buried you in fire and rope," he said softly. "And the South buried you again in lies."
He knelt. Just briefly.
Then he rose and turned away.
—
Upstairs, the hall was mostly quiet. The guards at the door stiffened slightly when he passed—but not from fear. From uncertainty.
That was good. Let them wonder.
He stopped at the nursery before retiring.
Inside, the hearth glowed warmly. Theron lay in his cradle, eyes closed but restless. Beside him, in a smaller cot, Jon lay curled into a ball, fists tucked under his chin.
Lyanna was not there. Likely in her own rooms now. The nursemaid sat nearby, dozing upright.
Ned stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
He moved between the cribs and looked down.
One boy born to fire. One born to loss. Both his to raise. One by blood, one by bond.
He said nothing aloud. Just watched.
Their breathing was soft. In. Out.
He rested his hand lightly on Theron's blanket.
Then on Jon's.
Then he stood and watched the snow begin again, tapping softly against the shutters.
-----
Snow still covered the outer yards, but the wind had settled by morning. Smoke rose steadily from the chimneys of Winterfell, trailing upward in clean grey lines against the cold blue sky. The old keep creaked faintly in its bones, as if waking after a long sleep.
Ned stood beside Rodrik Cassel near the stables, both of them wrapped in thick fur cloaks, the cold sharp on the air. Two dozen riders waited beyond the gate, all mounted, the horses' breath steaming in the chill. Each man wore Stark grey, but no banners flew.
"They'll not need heraldry," Ned said quietly.
Rodrik gave a single nod. "They'll know who sent us."
Ned stepped forward, clasped the old knight's forearm. "Go carefully. Take your time. I don't care if it takes until spring."
"We'll find them," Rodrik said. "The ones who still remember how to break a man properly."
He turned without flourish and mounted up. The command moved out with little noise, boots crunching over packed snow and hooves thudding against the frozen earth. Ned watched until they vanished past the trees.
Benjen stood nearby, arms folded against his chest. "Think they'll come?"
"The greybeards?" Ned asked. "They'll come, they are northmen who want to look after their family. We are offering that. They will come, I will test them and see who stays"
Benjen didn't respond. He didn't need to.
---
Most of the day passed inside.
Ned moved through the keep without pageantry, inspecting the old halls with fresh eyes. He ran his fingers along the edge of a cracked lintel in the eastern stairwell. Noted the warped floorboards near the outer kitchen entrance. A broken chain on one of the gate pulleys. A snapped spar on the secondary courtyard fence.
None of it ruin. But all of it neglect.
He passed a pair of guards near the grainery, chatting idly. Their posture was loose. Swords sheathed. One leaned against the wall as if it were summer.
Ned said nothing.
But the next day, they'd be reassigned to perimeter duty. And the day after that, to hauling lumber.
Back in the solar, Benjen was sorting parchment into neat stacks near the hearth. The ledgers were all his still, though slowly being handed over.
Ned stood at the window, reading from a leather-bound tome opened across a wide desk. The candle beside it flickered softly as wind pressed against the shutters.
Benjen glanced over. "What is that one?"
"Military campaigns of the Century of Blood," Ned answered. "Braavos, Volantis, Qohor… and how they broke or built themselves."
"You planning to go east?"
"Eventually," Ned said, turning another page. "There are men there worth bringing home. Fighters who understand rhythm. Obedience. Sacrifice."
Benjen frowned. "Slaves?"
"No. I would make them free men," Ned said. "But they are alresdy trained. The Unsullied stood in lockstep against the Dothraki. Three hundred held the gates of Qohor when ten thousand rode against them. That's what spear work is supposed to look like."
He tapped the margin of the page.
"They call it the Ghiscari lockstep. Spears forward, shields tight. No break in the line. No room for pride—only place and duty."
"And you'd bring them here?"
Ned didn't answer immediately. "Some. The rest we build ourselves. Let them train our shield line. Make our own Unsullied, without chains."
Benjen crossed his arms. "And what of the riders?"
Ned nodded slightly. "I've read about the Dothraki too. Undisciplined, yes. But fast. Born in the saddle. A few could teach our cavalry what proper flanking looks like, attempt to get some horse archers into our ranks. We should keep our routes as northmen but adapt and advance too"
Benjen said nothing.
Ned's tone stayed even. "We won't survive the next war with loose drills and half-discipline and northern agression We need precision. Depth. Ice and stone."
He closed the book.
"The next time the north is threatened it will be ready."
—
That evening, Lyanna joined them in the solar.
She entered without knocking, as she always had, and settled onto the cushioned bench near the fire without a word.
Benjen offered her the cider jug, and she took it without looking at either of them.
For a while, they sat in companionable silence. The flames crackled. The snow resumed outside, light as ash.
"He'd have hated this quiet," Lyanna said at last.
Ned didn't need to ask who. "He never sat still."
"He couldn't," Benjen said with a faint grin. "Brandon used to say chairs made his sword arm go soft."
"He said a lot of things," Lyanna muttered.
There was a pause, and then they all laughed—quietly, but real.
"He was a fool," Ned said softly. "But he was ours."
"Aye," Benjen agreed. "And he never thought it would end, so full of life and vigour."
None of them spoke after that for some time. The fire was enough.
Eventually, Lyanna stood and pressed a hand briefly to Ned's shoulder. "You're doing well,im proud of you" she said.
He didn't answer. But he reached up and touched her wrist before she left.
—
Later, alone in the solar, Ned sat at the desk with the candle guttering low. The pages in front of him were blank. The weight of parchment was oddly reassuring. Like armor for the mind.
He took up a quill and began writing.
Journal of Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell.
The North is not broken, only buried. I will unearth it stone by stone.
Our walls will stand thicker. Our sons will be harder. Our roots deeper.
This is not vengeance. This is repair.
He stopped, flexed his fingers, then dipped the quill again.
Let the South rebuild in marble and gold. I will rebuild in granite and men.