Snow fell softly over the roofs of Winterfell, muffling the sounds of horses, men, and fire. The heart of the North beat in silence, a hush that seemed deeper than the season itself. Within its walls, the shadow of a bastard boy tall for his years, silent as a storm-buried hill was beginning to stretch longer than some dared admit.
Rickard Stark & Herndon Umber
Lord Rickard Stark sat near the hearth in the Great Hall, his long face cast in half-shadow by the firelight. Across from him, Herndon Umber of Last Hearth, massive, bearded, half-drunk drained a horn of dark ale and exhaled loudly.
"That boy of Brandon's," Herndon said, rubbing at his weather-beaten face, "you feed him snowberries and elk meat, or gods-damned mammoth?"
Rickard didn't look up. He stared into the flames. "The gods fed him something. We simply kept him alive."
"Aye, alive and growing into a god's damned giant. Four and already swings a sword like he means to split the Wall in two if he could."
Rickard remained quiet. Herndon, less out of disrespect and more from the closeness of long acquaintance, pressed on.
"I don't mean insult, Rickard. The boy's blood, your son's and my niece's, makes for a strong brew. But the realm's not so forgiving. The wrong lad with the wrong size shadow can make a wrong kind of noise."
Rickard finally looked over, his expression unreadable. "You fear the shadow he casts?"
Herndon scoffed. "I fear what other men do when they see it. Say Brandon weds proper, Tully, a northern lass, whoever. Has sons. One of them stumbles, and folk remember the other Stark lad, the tall one with wolf eyes who never misses a blow."
"He'll never inherit," Rickard said, voice like cold stone. "Nor will I name him heir." The tone clear and its intent visible to Herndon whose lips pursed slightly.
"Doesn't mean he won't lead," Herndon replied with ice for eyes. "I've seen wolves follow strength over blood. You put a sword in that boy's hand and he might lead men just by walking through snow."
Rickard's eyes narrowed slightly. "If he must serve, then serve he shall. But I will not allow a bastard's ambition to endanger the future of my house." His hands clenching around the wooden armrests of his chair, cracks beginning to appear barely visible.
Herndon leaned back, rubbing at his thick beard. "Then you'd best shape him like a blade. And keep him close to your side. Loose blades tend to find throats and normally it's closer to home than pointed away."
Rickard nodded once. "He will serve this house, not threaten it. That I swear." His grip slacked enough to not splinter the wood more.
"Just keep in mind," Herndon said as he poured more ale, "sometimes the sword doesn't choose the battle. The battle chooses the sword."
Rickard allowed himself a moment's silence before replying, "Then let us make him sharp enough for either."
Eddard Stark & Robert Baratheon
The stars over the Eyrie glittered with cruel clarity, casting icy light over the training yard. Eddard Stark leaned against the low wall, catching his breath after sparring with Robert Baratheon, who now sat in the snow, grinning and rubbing a fresh bruise on his shoulder.
"You're quicker than you look, Stark," Robert said. "Still can't beat me, though." A bellow of a laugh came from him as he quipped.
Eddard didn't reply. His gaze drifted to the moonlit sky, and his thoughts elsewhere.
Robert tilted his head. "You're brooding again. Thinking of the North? Or that pretty girl you keep pretending you haven't looked at in the kitchens?"
Ned smirked faintly. "Neither. I was thinking of Wulfric."
"Ah, the famous nephew. Brandon's get." Robert stood and brushed snow from his breeches. "What's the lad like?"
"Quiet. Fierce. As if born already angry at the cold. Or something else no one can seem to figure out… if you thought I brood a lot. You should see him."
Robert laughed. "Sounds like a Northerner to me!"
Ned folded his arms. "He learns faster than he should. Faster than most grown men. But he has no inheritance, no title. He must live in the shadow of my brother's name and bear the weight of being a Stark without the name."
"So? Make him a knight. Or a lord's sworn shield. Boys like that don't need names, they carve their own."
"He could become master-at-arms someday," Ned admitted. "Or Brandon's sworn sword. He'll be loyal. But I wonder what it does to a child, being strong and intelligent but always second."
Robert's grin faded slightly. "If he's as you say, then he'll outlive half the court. Men like that don't need thrones. They just need a war."
Ned gave a slow nod. "Then peace may never come for him."
"Then pray his sword finds the right side when the time comes."
After a few silent moments, Robert leaned against the wall beside him. "Tell me, would you raise him differently if he were yours?"
Ned's brow furrowed. "I don't know. I think of him more than I expected to. He was only a babe when I left the first time. Now he's something else entirely. The kind of boy who makes you wonder if the gods placed a purpose in his bones."
"Purpose or burden," Robert said. "Funny how often they're the same."
The Northern Lords' Moot
The Great Hall of Winterfell was thick with the scent of roasted venison and burning pine. Lords and bannermen from across the North gathered in clusters, drinking heavily, arguing louder, laughing louder still. Snow piled against the high windows, the wind wailing faintly beyond the walls.
Lord Manderly sat heavily at the long table, talking fish trade and river rights with Lord Hornwood. Lord Tallhart sipped from a flagon, eyes drifting toward the Stark high table where Rickard sat, his sons flanking him, and a dark-haired boy near the edge.
"That him?" Tallhart asked.
"Aye," muttered Lord Ryswell. "Brandon's bastard. The one they say trains before first light."
"The one who never talks?" A raised eyebrow arched high on Tallhart's brow.
"Talks enough, says little, Says things when he needs to." Came a curt reply from lord Ryswell.
Tallhart nodded. "I saw him strike the post earlier, strong for his size, fast too. The sword doesn't even wobble or slip. At four I barely knew how to move my feet."
Manderly leaned in, drunk but curious. "You think Rickard will marry him off someday? If whylis and Wendel get to it, I could get him a betrothal in a few years time." His voice, light and full of laughs.
"Would you tie your blood to a snow-born son, Wyman?" Ryswell asked.
"I'd rather tie it to loyalty and a solid choice than a noble name with no spine or brain." Quipped the Merman lord with a smirk.
There was a pause. Then Lord Flint spoke up. "The danger's not his blood. It's how far he'll climb.. or want to climb.. Boys like that don't settle. They rise, or they burn."
Lord Cerwyn added, "Or they're used by others, manipulated, pointed like a blade by some southern hand."
"If he stays in Winterfell's shadow," Tallhart said, "he'll be a shield for the Starks. But cast him out, and he'll forge his own path. One the North may not like."
The words hung there for a moment.
Then Rickard stood visibly irritated, with gritted teeth and clenched hands. Conversations fell quiet. His voice was calm, subdued, but it cut like a sword.
"He is my blood. He is of the North. And he will rise only as far as this house allows. Those who doubt that, speak now."
No one did.
Later that evening, after most lords had drunk themselves to contentment or stumbled to their beds, Brandon stood alone on the parapet, looking out over Winterfell. Below, in the yard, a small figure moved in the moonlight, swinging a wooden sword in slow, careful arcs. Practice, even in the dead of night like a ghost of Stark past.
Brandon watched for a long time. The snow fell quietly. He said nothing aloud. Just watched and watched some more.
But in his mind, a vow took root:
Someday, I might not be able to name you as my heir but.. I'll make you a lord of the North my son. Someplace you can call your own, someplace you won't be judged because of my mistake.