The air in Winterfell carried a familiar bite, a clean, sharp cold that spoke of the coming autumn. From his balcony overlooking the main courtyard, Eddard Stark watched the heart of his world at peace. He wrapped his cloak a little tighter, the grey wool a familiar comfort against the chill, and took a sip of lukewarm ale from a pewter tankard. Below, the sounds of the castle were a familiar song: the rhythmic clang of the blacksmith's hammer from the forge, the shouts of men-at-arms, the distant barking of hounds from the kennels. But his attention was focused on the center of the yard, on the controlled chaos of the training ring.
There, two boys circled each other, their blunted practice swords held at the ready. His son, Robb, was a whirlwind of fiery red hair and boisterous energy, every bit the young wolf. He was strong for his five namedays, his attacks eager and powerful. The other boy, Jon, was leaner, quieter, his movements more fluid and precise. They were the same age, had been raised as brothers, but they were as different as ice and fire.
Ser Rodrik Cassel, his thick white side-whiskers bristling with pride, called out instructions. "Watch your footing, Robb! Keep your shield up, Jon! A sword is an extension of your arm, not a club!"
And watching them, silent and still as gargoyles on the far side of the yard, were the three ghosts of a fallen dynasty. They wore the grey and white of House Stark now, their own magnificent armor locked away. Ser Gerold Hightower, his white hair cropped short, his face a mask of stern duty, was now the Captain of the Household Guard. Ser Oswell Whent stood beside him, his expression perpetually sour, an overseer of the daily training. And Ser Arthur Dayne… the Sword of the Morning was now the "Master of Blades," a title of Ned's own invention. He was a quiet, haunted figure, his legendary skill now dedicated to teaching children how to hold a sword. They were his prisoners, his allies, and bearers of his greatest secret.
Seeing them there, so far from the sun and glory they were born to, sent a familiar pang of guilt and memory through him. The training yard faded, replaced by the suffocating heat and grandeur of the throne room in King's Landing, five long years ago...
The court had been a viper's pit of whispers and triumphant smirks. Robert, his face already growing fleshy with the excesses of kingship, sat upon the Iron Throne. He had demanded the three Kingsguard be brought before him in chains. They had knelt, their white cloaks stripped from them, their legendary armor replaced with simple tunics. Three of the greatest warriors the Seven Kingdoms had ever known, brought low.
"Traitors," Robert had snarled, his voice thick with wine and hate. "You stood by while the Mad King burned my father's bannermen. You guarded the dragonspawn while he stole my bride. Their heads will adorn the spikes of the Red Keep!"
The court had roared its approval. A chorus of lords, many of whom had stayed hidden until the Trident was won, now bayed for the blood of fallen legends. Ned had felt a cold dread and disgust. He had ridden hard from Dorne with the lie already forged, the plan set. This was the first, most dangerous test. He had searched Robert's face for a flicker of the boy he had known, for the friend who had valued honor above all else. He found only the bloated face of a king consumed by his victory.
Stepping forward, Ned's voice had cut through the noise. "Your Grace," he had said, his voice quiet but carrying the weight of the North. "My father and brother died for you. The men of the North died for you. I fought for you. I ask for no lands, no titles, no gold. I ask for this, as your brother. As your friend. Give them to me."
A stunned silence fell. Robert had stared at him, his brow furrowed in confusion. "Give them to you? Ned, they are the last of the dragon's teeth! They must be pulled!"
"Their teeth are already broken," Ned had pressed, his gaze unwavering. "Their king is dead. Their prince is dead. Let them live out their days in the cold and the grey, serving the house they helped to wound. Let them be a living testament to your victory and your mercy. That is a fate far more humiliating than a quick death."
It had been a desperate, terrible gamble. He had wagered his friendship, his honor, everything, on this one moment. Robert had stared at him for a long, silent beat, the court holding its breath. Then, something had shifted in the king's eyes. A flicker of the old camaraderie, a shadow of the boy from the Eyrie who had loved him as a brother. He had seen the loyalty, the unwavering support Ned was offering, and he had seen the iron will behind the request.
"Done," Robert had finally boomed, slamming his fist on the arm of the throne. "Take them. Take the traitors to your frozen wasteland. I wash my hands off of them." He had then laughed, a dismissive, cruel sound, but it was a laugh of concession. The court had murmured, shocked, but none dared question the king's decree. Ned had not felt triumphant. He had felt only a profound, weary relief, and a small, fragile glimmer of hope. Perhaps the friend he had lost was not gone forever, but merely buried.
A loud clang of steel pulled him from the memory. He blinked, the smoky throne room dissolving back into the crisp, clean air of the North. Jon's practice sword lay on the ground. Robb stood over him, his chest puffed out, a triumphant grin on his face.
"I yield!" Jon said, laughing as he raised his hands in surrender.
"A good bout, lads!" Ser Rodrik praised, clapping Robb on the shoulder. "Your strength improves, Robb. And your footwork, Jon, was excellent."
Ned saw more. He saw the flicker of disappointment that crossed the faces of the three southerners. Hightower's jaw tightened for a fraction of a second. Whent looked away in disgust. And Arthur... Arthur Dayne simply closed his eyes for a long moment, a mask of profound sorrow settling on his features before vanishing.
Robb, bless his heart, was all pride and brotherly affection. He pulled Jon to his feet. "You almost had me!"
"Almost," Jon agreed, his smile bright and easy. But Ned saw the lie in it. The smile did not reach his Stark grey eyes. From his vantage point, Ned had seen the final exchange clearly. Jon had created his own opening, a subtle shift of weight that was almost perfect, but he had over-extended the lunge by a fraction of an inch, leaving himself vulnerable to Robb's disarm. It was a mistake a boy of his skill, a boy trained by Arthur Dayne since he could walk, would never make. He had lost on purpose. He did it often, Ned knew. Jon was always careful to be second best, to never truly outshine the heir. It was a heartbreakingly clever act of self-preservation.
The sight of that false smile, of his nephew making himself small to keep the peace, sent a different memory, a colder one, rising in its place. It was the memory of his wife, and the cold, bitter war that had been fought within Winterfell's own walls.
His marriage to Catelyn Tully had been a battlefield necessity. He had honored his brother's betrothal, and she had done her duty. Robb was the proof of that duty, a son born of a cold bed and a shared, unspoken grief. Ned had tried to find love there. He had wanted to. But then he had come home, not just with the bones of his sister, but with a living, breathing babe in his arms.
He remembered her face, pale with fury and disbelief, when he had told her the boy was his. Her pride, her southern sense of honor, had been shattered. "You will send him away," she had demanded.
"He will be raised here," Ned had commanded, his voice a cold wall of iron she could not breach. "He is my blood."
The first battle had been lost and won. But the war had continued. It was a war of attrition, fought with silence and sharp words. He remembered the day she had come to him, her face a mask of cold piety.
"If this… this Snow must stay under my roof," she had said, her voice tight with venom, "then I will have my gods here as well. I will not have my son raised amongst savages and tree-worshippers. A sept is a small price for my silence." She had then added, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "And a septa will be needed to teach Robb his duties. To teach him of the Faith, and of the… ambition that festers in a bastard's heart. He must be taught to be wary."
The words had been a toll he had to pay, a bitter sacrifice of his own heritage laid on the altar of his promise to Lyanna. He had agreed. He had looked at Jon, a small, quiet boy who flinched whenever Catelyn entered a room, and he had agreed. It was the only way to keep him safe.
He remembered the worst of it. He had come across Jon once, a boy of four, huddled behind the forge where the air was warm, weeping silently into his knees. When he had finally coaxed the words from him, they had been Catelyn's. "She said... she said you told her my mother was nothing but a northern whore," Jon had whispered, his small body trembling. "She said my mother died birthing me, and it was a mercy she never had to see the face of her monstrous shame. She said... that a bastard is a stain on a noble house's honor."
The words were a grotesque parody of the truth, a blind woman's curse that had somehow found its mark. Catelyn, in her ignorance, had taken Ned's own vague story—a northern woman who was indeed dead—and twisted it into the foulest of insults. She was unknowingly desecrating his sister's memory, using a twisted version of Lyanna's fate as a weapon against Lyanna's own son. The rage that had filled him then had been a pure, white-hot thing, a fury that had frightened even him. The argument that followed had been a storm that had nearly broken them.
That fragile peace had shattered the night of the argument over Jon's mother. In the cold silence that followed, after the shouting was done, she had come to him, not with anger, but with tears. "Who was she, Ned?" she had begged, her voice broken. "I have a right to know. I am your wife. Who was this woman that you would dishonor me for her memory?"
He had looked at her then, at the woman who was the mother of his heir, and felt a profound, weary sorrow. He could not give her the truth, but he could not bear the weight of her pain alone. So he had given her a piece of it, a half-truth that was its own kind of lie. "A northern woman," he had said, his voice flat. "She is dead."
"A fine victory, my lord. Our son has your strength."
The voice, cool and proud, pulled him from the depths of the past. He turned. Catelyn stood beside him, holding a small, red-haired girl in her arms. Sansa, a child of two namedays, looked down at the courtyard with wide, curious blue eyes. Catelyn's gaze, however, was fixed entirely on Robb, who was now being lifted onto the shoulders of the household guards in celebration.
"He has his mother's spirit," Ned agreed, his voice neutral.
"He is the heir to Winterfell," Catelyn said, the pride in her voice as sharp as steel. "He should be the strongest." She glanced at Jon, the Shadow Wolf, who was quietly putting away his sword, unnoticed by the celebrating victors. Her expression was a carefully controlled mask of indifference, but Ned could feel the coldness radiating from her. "The other boy has a certain quickness. A useful trait in a servant or a guard."
Ned did not reply. The coldness in his wife's voice was a more bitter chill than any northern wind. He turned his gaze from her, back to the courtyard below, to the quiet boy with the sad, secret eyes, seeking a small measure of peace.
"My lord!"
The voice was breathless, urgent. Both he and Catelyn turned. Maester Luwin stood in the doorway to the balcony, his grey robes flapping, his chain of office bouncing on his chest. He looked flustered, a rare sight for the composed scholar.
"Forgive me, my lord, my lady," he panted, holding up a small, tightly sealed scroll. "A raven. From King's Landing. It bears the seal of the Hand of the King."
King's Landing. The name was a stone in Ned's gut. Nothing good ever came from the south. He saw the flicker of interest in Catelyn's eyes—news of her sister, perhaps. But Ned felt only a familiar, weary dread.
He gave the maester a single, sharp nod. "I will read it in my solar."
Without another word to his wife, he turned and strode from the balcony, the maester hurrying to keep pace. faded behind him, the brief moment of peace shattered, replaced by the shadow of the south once more.
Author's Note:
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