The godswood was still tonight. No sound but the sigh of the wind through the red leaves, and the slow trickle of water from the black pool beneath the heart tree. The weirwood loomed pale against the dark, its face carved long before Eddard Stark was born, its eyes weeping red into the earth. He knelt before it with head bowed, and the words of the old prayers whispered from his lips like secrets.
He had not finished when he heard the crunch of snow behind him, soft and careful. Eddard did not stir. He had already recognized the familiar gait, the sound of long limbs wrapped in wool and fur.
"My lord." The voice was low, respectful.
"Arthur."
"I meant to come earlier. I—" the boy hesitated. "I owe you an apology."
At that, Ned turned. Arthur Manderly lingered at the edge of the pool, the shadows of the godswood clinging to him. Even at fifteen, there was a steadiness in the boy that went beyond his years and set him apart from the other boys. His white-and-blue cloak hung heavy with snow, and at his side rested Nightfall, the sword that had brought so much talk to Winterfell. Its dark steel drank the starlight.
"There's nothing to forgive," Ned said, "Come. Say your prayers, if you still do."
"I do." The boy went to his knees beside him, and the words spilled soft from his lips.
Eddard watched him, as he had many times before. A boy who bent the knee to both faiths and made enemies of none. Men who prayed at different altars often found enemies at each, but Arthur seemed to move untroubled, as though the gods themselves had chosen to share him. Arthur seemed to need solitude tonight, or perhaps the gods needed him alone.
Ned turned back to his own prayers, and for a time the only sound was their voices, carried away by the wind and the sigh of the leaves. When the prayers were done, they sat together on the mossy stones in the clearing. The pool at their feet, dark and still, the weirwood's red eyes watching.
Eddard unsheathed Ice with a soft scrape of steel, the greatsword sat across knees. Arthur followed suit with Nightfall, the midnight-black Valyrian steel catching the light like smoke. For a time, they said nothing. Just the steady sound of stone across steel, one low and heavy, the other finer, lighter.
"You disapprove of Nightfall," Arthur said at last, not looking up.
Eddard's hand slowed upon the stone. "I disapprove of how it came to you. Not that it's yours."
Arthur's mouth quivered into a shadow of a smile. "I know. Yet they would have killed the king, and worse besides. I took their sword and left them their lives. Many would have spared neither."
"You did what you had to." Ned's voice was calm. "And I am grateful, Arthur. Proud as well. But know this, Valyrian steel blades are more than prizes. They are the bones of a house. Their memory. Their honor."
Arthur gave a thin smile. "Then the Harlaws are buried well. That sword would have passed to cowards or reavers who wear stolen iron like pride. Nightfall suits me better than it ever suited them."
There was truth in that, though it sat uneasily with Ned. "Still, it will mark you. You know that."
"Perhaps it will," Arthur said. His gaze went to the heart tree, its pale face weeping red. "The Ironborn know only fear, and that is their curse. Should Theon return to them one day… I fear we'll have to draw these blades again."
Ned frowned, setting down Ice across his lap. "You think he would turn against us?"
"I think blood remembers." Arthur's voice was quiet. "And the Iron Islands are not like us. They raise their sons to love the sea more than any hearth or oath."
Eddard frowned. Theon had grown beneath his roof these nine years, ward and hostage both. He had seen the boy's smiles, quick and careless, but there was always something hollow behind them, as if the grin were a mask that might crack if worn too long. A sharp tongue, a quicker temper, and pride ill-matched to his station. Yet still he was but a boy.
"He is only a boy," Ned said.
Arthur's hand lingered upon Nightfall's hilt. "So was Rhaegar, once."
Ned said nothing to that. The boy's words struck colder than the night air. Rhaegar had been a boy once, it was true. The young prince was solemn, bookish, more harp than sword. Yet boyhood had not kept him from burning the realm with him. Forgotten cries came to him then, faint as the sigh of wind through the leaves, and Ned turned his face away.
Arthur had been his ward merely a few moons ago, quiet and clever, with a hunger for knowledge as sharp as his blade. Eight years he had spent beneath the grey stones of Winterfell, growing with his children, their brother in all but name. He sparred with Robb, studied with Jon, chased after Rickon when the boy would wander. Sansa had sewn him favors once, small and clumsy, but earnest. Arya had thrown snowballs at his head, the boy laughed as she missed. Bran adored him as if the boy were a hero from the tales. And mayhaps Arthur too will have his own tale one day.
It did Ned's heart good to see the boy's shoulders square beneath the weight of steel, his voice steadier, his eyes sharpened with purpose. Yet it troubled him too. Boys were made into men too swiftly in such times.
His thoughts went to William, Arthur's father, his cousin, and his closest friend. They had grown together, William and Robert and he, as brothers, in the Eyrie beneath Jon Arryn's stern care. They had been boys then, clumsy and eager, dreaming of glory in tourneys, not wars. Jon had taught them duty, and the world had taught them sorrow.
William had saved his life more times than Ned could count, and the last time had been the costliest of all. At the Tower of Joy, William had stood against Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. They had won, though victory meant little when blood ran so freely.
William had been dying as Dawn fell from Dayne's hand, and with his last breath, he had made Ned promise to guard the child Helena carried, to see to him as though he were Ned's own.
Ned had tried. Gods knew, he had tried. He gave the boy a place among his own children, fed him, clothed him, and taught him the ways of the North. He called him son. Yet Ned knew he still fell short.
Sorrow filled him as he looked upon Arthur now, his foster son grown tall and grave. The boy had never known William's laughter, nor Helena's smile. Never knew how they had loved each other so fiercely. Both gone, snatched by the same war that had stolen Brandon, his father, and Lyanna… in the end. They had lost so much. Robert had not forgotten. Nor had Arthur, it seems.
The old gods watched them with weeping eyes, red sap running down the pale face of the heart tree. Arthur's gaze was fixed upon the leaves, as still and solemn as the carved visage. Snow drifted between them, silent as memory.
"How fares your grandsire?" Ned asked at last. "Lord Wyman."
Arthur let go of the hilt and seemed to ease. "He grows larger and happier. White Harbor prospers. Trade flows like wine. The harbor's been dredged again. Now we can dock ships twice the size of Dragonstone's."
"All thanks to you," Ned said, not unkindly.
Arthur turned his face aside. "He rules, not I."
"You built the Academy," Ned said, his tone even. "Raised your fleets. Reopened the mines. And found new trade routes. You also sent me—" reaching inside his cloak Ned pulled the sealed scroll from Maester Luwin's last report, "—two million one hundred and sixty thousand bushels of grain last year, from Manderly lands alone. And sixty thousand gold dragons from the harbor."
Arthur winced. "It is your due, my lord. As our liege."
"And I am grateful for it." Ned's tone was firm.
Arthur bowed his head at that and returned to sharpening, the quiet rhythm of stone on steel returning to the night air.
The moon had dipped low by the time Ice was sheathed again and the whetstones tucked away. The night had grown colder, the air sharp with the taste of early frost. A thin veil of mist crept from the black pool and clung to the roots of the weirwood. Ned remained seated upon the stone bench beneath the weirwood's watchful face, arms folded across his cloak, while Arthur stood, eyes half-closed as if listening to the silence of the godswood.
"Maester Luwin tells me it will be a lean harvest," Ned said, breaking the stillness again. "Too little rain in Autumn. We'll not fill the granaries before the first snows."
Arthur turned his gaze to him. "Aye, but not all is lost. With the right herbs and crops, we'll still be growing through the first snows at least."
Ned's brow furrowed. "You think anything will grow when the wind howls from the Shivering Sea?"
"I think men can do everything," the boy said, "if they learn how. All it takes is diligence and time."
Time, Ned thought. The North had little of it. "You've done much that no man thought possible before, that much I'll grant you. But I'll not let hope blind me. The North is older than your stones and crueler than your fires. Crueler, and more stubborn."
Arthur's mouth curved faintly. "Then it is well you've raised your people to be just as stubborn, my lord."
That won a ghost of a smile from Ned, no more. "Tell me, then how long do you think we can endure, if winter lasts ten years?"
Arthur's face darkened, thoughtful. "With our granaries full and trade lines open to the south, six years, mayhap seven, before hunger takes root. Yet if White Harbor remains open, ships can still move. Timber, furs, stones, and ivory all will fetch gold. And with gold, food may yet be bought."
Eddard nodded slowly. "And that may save our lives."
Arthur added, "That's what gold's for."
Ned clasped his hands over his knee, the leather of his gloves creaking in the stillness. "It has not gone unnoticed," he said. "Houses once content with salt fish and meager stone now find gold in their coffers. I know from whence it comes. You've given our folk trade where they had none, and coins when they had only hunger."
Arthur looked away. "It is only for the trust you granted us, my lord. Nothing more."
"More," Ned said, his voice firm. "It is more, and I do not forget it."
The snow began to fall again, soft as ash from a long-dead fire, settling on Arthur's dark cloak until the boy seemed carved of stone and frost. For a time, neither spoke. Then Arthur stirred, his voice low. "Will you accept it?"
Ned raised his eyes. "Accept what?"
Arthur's lips curled into a quiet, knowing smile. "The position of Hand."
Ned blinked, though he kept his face still. "How do you know of that?"
Arthur gave a soft chuckle. "Because everyone knows. King Robert did not ride to Winterfell with half the court and all his banners just to drink your mead and hunt your boars."
Ned's expression hardened. "I have not answered him yet."
Arthur tilted his head. "Will you?"
"I do not know," Ned admitted, and the words tasted of iron on his tongue. "You know what court is, Arthur. A viper's nest. Poison cloaked in silks. What would your counsel be?"
For a heartbeat, Arthur was silent. His eyes gleamed faintly in the moonlight, and in them, Ned glimpsed William, steel beneath courtesy, blunt honesty wrapped in calm.
"I'd tell you not to," Arthur said at last. "You do not have the stomach for lying, my lord. And that chair demands lies. Smiles that hide knives, truths said backward. You are too much of a Stark for such games."
A low laugh escaped Ned despite himself. "Then perhaps Robert should name the Kingslayer in my place. No one smiles finer than Jaime Lannister."
Arthur laughed with him, the sound sharp in the stillness. "Gods forbid. If the lion ruled the court entire, the Lannisters would burn my harbor to cinders within the year."
Their laughter faded, leaving only the whisper of the snow through the leaves. Then Arthur's tone grew grave again. "But you will have no choice. Kings rarely take refusals, Robert least of all. He has never been good at hearing the word no."
Ned sighed, weary with memory. "No. He never was."
Arthur slid Nightfall home in its sheath, the black steel vanishing into leather with a hiss. "Then I'll wish you good fortune, my lord. You'll need it more than most."
Ned rose as well, his cloak rustling across the frost-damp stones. "And I thank you for your counsel. You grow more like your father with each passing year."
Arthur bowed his head. "That is the highest praise I have ever been given."
He turned and was gone, his cloak of blue and silver fading into shadow, until only the pale drift of snow marked his passing.
Ned lingered beneath the heart tree, his breath a pale mist in the dark. Above, the clouds had swallowed the moon, leaving only the cold shimmer of starlight. The weirwood's face watched him still, its eyes bleeding silently, red sap stark against the bone-white bark. He thought of William, and of Lyanna, pale and dying in her bed of blood, and winter roses. The promise he made to her. He thought of all the ghosts that clung to him still.
At last, he rose and turned from the tree, the gods' red eyes following him as he made his way back through the silent wood. Fire waited in his chambers, and Catelyn's warmth beside it, yet he knew no comfort would follow him south, for winter was coming.