The Crypts of Winterfell
The air in the crypts was always cold, but today it felt heavy enough to crush a man. The stone eyes of the Kings of Winter seemed to watch the procession with silent judgment.
Ned walked at the front, carrying the small wooden ossuary box that contained nothing but stones and sand from the Red Mountains. Beside him walked Benjen, his face streaked with tears, looking far too young to be the only other Stark left.
Behind them came the household. Ashara, holding Cregan. The wet nurse, Wylla, holding Jon. And at the back, dressed in the simple grey wool of a servant, her face hidden by a veil of mourning, was the woman who was supposed to be in the box.
Lyanna Stark walked to her own funeral.
Ned stopped before the empty tomb he had ordered prepared. The statue wasn't finished yet—the stonemasons were still carving the likeness of the wolf maid—but the niche was ready.
Ned placed the box into the stone sarcophagus. The sound of wood scraping against stone echoed in the silence.
It was a heavy moment. Ned felt the grief in the Force—Benjen's raw pain, Ashara's empathy, and from Lyanna... a strange, hollow dissonance. She was mourning her own life. The girl who had ridden horses in the Wolfswood was dead, buried in this box. The woman standing in the shadows was someone else entirely.
"Rest now, Lyanna," Ned said, placing his hand on the cold stone lid. "The winter is done."
He turned to Benjen.
"We leave her to the Kings," Ned said.
Benjen nodded, wiping his nose. "I... I want to stay a moment. If that's alright."
"Take your time," Ned said gently.
He signaled the others to leave. As they walked up the spiral stairs toward the light of the surface, Lyanna brushed past him. Her hand grazed his, a fleeting touch of gratitude and sorrow.
Ned watched her go. She would fade into the background now. A ghost in her own home.
One problem solved, Ned thought, his face hardening as he stepped out into the courtyard. Now for the others.
The Lord's Solar
The solar was warm, heated by the piping system Ned had already begun to inspect and optimize. It was a cluttered room, filled with the debris of a lordship that had been neglected during the war.
Ned sat at the heavy weirwood desk. He didn't look at the ledgers. He looked at a blank piece of parchment.
He dipped his quill.
To Lord Commander Qorgyle,
The Night's Watch has shielded the realms of men for eight thousand years. But a shield needs iron to hold it, and men to wield it. The North remembers.
I invite you to Winterfell. We must discuss the wall, the supplies, and the future of the Watch. I have proposals that may interest you.
Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.
He didn't mention the Gift. He didn't mention the tax schemes. He just dangled the bait. Qorgyle was a Dornishman, proud and stubborn, but the Watch was starving. He would come.
"Maester Walys," Ned called out.
The door opened instantly. Maester Walys had been waiting.
The Maester was a small man with a pinched face and eyes that were a shade too watery to be trustworthy. He wore his chain like a badge of office, the links clinking softly as he moved.
Ned had never liked him. In his previous life—the life before the ROB—he knew the theories. Walys Flowers. A Hightower bastard. The man who had whispered in Rickard Stark's ear about "Southron Ambitions." The man who had helped arrange the marriages that tied the wolves to the dragons' game.
"My Lord?" Walys asked, bowing. "You wished to see me?"
"Send this to Castle Black," Ned said, handing him the letter. "By raven. Immediately."
Walys took the letter. He glanced at the seal, his eyes flicking over the text upside down. He was reading it.
"The Wall?" Walys asked, his tone smooth. "A noble concern, my Lord. But surely there are more pressing matters? The harvest? The taxes due to the Crown?"
"The Crown has granted us a tax exemption," Ned said. "For ten years."
Walys blinked. "Ten years? That is... generous. King Robert is truly a friend to the North."
"He is," Ned agreed.
He leaned back in his chair, studying the Maester. He needed to know. He needed to be sure.
"Sit, Walys," Ned said.
The Maester hesitated, then took the chair opposite the desk. "My Lord?"
"I have been thinking," Ned said, steepling his fingers. "About the future. The North is vast, but it is poor. We rely on the South for too much. Grain. Fruit. Glass."
"It is the way of things," Walys shrugged. "Winterfell is not Highgarden."
"No," Ned said. "But it could be warmer."
He let the silence stretch.
"I plan to build," Ned said. "Not just repairs. Expansion. I intend to construct glass gardens. Not the small ones we have now, but acres of them. Large scale. Heated by the hot springs. We could grow our own wheat in winter. We could grow lemons. We could feed the North without buying a single bushel from the Reach."
Ned watched Walys's face. The Maester's expression remained polite, attentive.
"An ambitious plan, Lord Stark," Walys said. "But the cost... Myr glass is expensive. And the engineering... such structures are fragile under snow."
"I have designs," Ned lied. "From the Citadel's own archives, mostly. Improved trusses."
"The Citadel?" Walys asked, a flicker of surprise in his eyes.
"Yes," Ned said. "But before I commit the gold, I wanted your counsel. You know the Citadel. You know the South."
Ned closed his eyes halfway, as if tired.
He didn't drill into the man's mind—that was Sith work, and dangerous. He just... listened. He tuned his perception to the frequency of Walys's thoughts.
He felt the Maester's aura. It wasn't the clean grey of service. It was a muddy, anxious yellow.
Glass gardens? Ned heard the echo of Walys's thought, a whisper in the Force. Independence? No. That cannot happen. The North must need the South. The Hightowers... the Tyrells... they control the food. If Stark grows his own... the leash breaks.
The thoughts swirled, faster and clearer as Ned focused.
He's dangerous. He's not Rickard. He thinks too much. I must write to Oldtown. I must warn Lord Leyton. If the North rises, the balance shifts. We spent twenty years binding them to the Faith and the Citadel... this cannot stand.
Ned opened his eyes.
The room felt colder.
Walys was smiling, a thin, patronizing smile. "My Lord, while the idea is noble, I fear it is impractical. The gold would be better spent on... fortifications. Or perhaps a sept? Lady Ashara follows the Seven, does she not? A grand sept would honor her and bind us closer to the rest of the realm."
There it is, Ned thought. The agenda. Build a Sept. Forget the food. Keep us dependent. Keep us pious.
Walys wasn't just a Maester. He was an agent. His loyalty wasn't to Winterfell; it was to the Hightower in Oldtown, and by extension, the Tyrells of Highgarden. He was a grey rat chewing on the foundations of House Stark.
"You make a good point," Ned said, forcing a thoughtful nod.
He pushed a wave of Calm into the Force. A subtle suggestion. Relax. I agree with you. You are smart. I am just a soldier.
"It was just a fancy," Ned said, waving a hand. "A dream from the road. You are right, Walys. The cost would be ruinous. And we need to honor the Seven for my wife's sake."
He felt the tension leave Walys's body. The muddy yellow aura smoothed out.
Good, the Maester thought. He is pliable. I can steer him.
"I only seek to serve, my Lord," Walys said, bowing his head.
"I know you do," Ned said. "You served my father well."
served him to the fire, Ned thought grimly.
"Send the letter to the Wall," Ned ordered. "And then... you are dismissed."
"At once, my Lord."
Walys stood up, clutched the letter, and scuttled out of the room like a roach seeking darkness.
Ned waited until the door clicked shut.
He stood up and walked to the window. The snow was falling harder now, obscuring the courtyard below. The stones of the castle were becoming slick with ice.
"He has to go," Ned whispered to the glass.
He couldn't execute him. Executing a Maester without proof of treason would alienate the Citadel. They would stop sending ravens. They would stop sending healers. The North needed the Citadel... for now.
But he couldn't let Walys live. Not with the secrets Ned was hiding. Not with the plans he had. Walys would spy on Jon. He would spy on the glass gardens. He would poison the ears of the bannermen.
It had to be an accident.
Ned turned from the window.
He waited. He felt the Maester moving through the castle. Walys was ascending the steep, winding steps to the rookery to send the letter to the Wall. He would likely stay there to write his own letters to Oldtown—letters that would betray Ned's ambitions.
Ned sat in his chair, closing his eyes. He didn't need to be there physically. The Force connected all things.
He visualized the narrow stone staircase leading down from the rookery. It was drafty, the stones worn smooth by centuries of feet. A dangerous place for an old man in heavy robes.
Wait.
He felt Walys finish his task. He felt the Maester begin his descent.
Step. Step. Step.
Walys was holding a candle in one hand, clutching the rail with the other. His mind was busy drafting a report to Hightower. He wasn't paying attention to his feet.
Ned reached out with the Force.
He didn't push the man. That would leave bruises.
He pushed the step.
He visualized a slick of ice on the third step down. Or rather, he visualized the friction vanishing.
Walys placed his foot.
Slip.
The Maester's boot lost purchase. His weight shifted forward. His hand grabbed for the rail, but his fingers, old and cold, fumbled.
Trip.
Ned gave a tiny, almost imperceptible tug on the hem of the Maester's robe.
Walys pitched forward.
The scream was short, cut off by a sickening series of thuds.
Thump. Crack. Thump.
The sound of a body tumbling down stone stairs echoed through the quiet tower.
Ned opened his eyes. He exhaled slowly.
He waited.
A minute passed. Then two.
Then, shouting.
"Help! Someone help! The Maester!"
"Maester Walys has fallen!"
The sounds of running feet. The clamor of the household waking up.
Ned stood up. He adjusted his tunic.
He walked out of the solar and made his way to the Maester's Turret. He didn't rush. He walked with the purposeful stride of a Lord investigating a disturbance.
A crowd had gathered at the bottom of the stairs. Servants, guards, a few of the household knights. They parted as Ned approached.
At the foot of the stairs lay Maester Walys. His neck was at a wrong angle. His eyes were open, staring at nothing. The candle had rolled away, guttering out on the stone floor.
"What happened?" Ned demanded, his voice booming in the narrow space.
A young steward looked up, pale and shaking. "My Lord... we heard a fall. He... he must have slipped. The stairs are steep."
Rodrik Cassel knelt by the body, checking for a pulse. He shook his head.
"He's gone, my Lord. Broken neck. Instant."
Ned looked down at the twisted form of the man who had spied on his father and planned to spy on him.
"A tragedy," Ned said, his voice heavy with solemnity. "The stairs are treacherous in the cold. We must have the masons rough the stone tomorrow."
He looked around at the faces of his household. They were shocked, sad, but suspicious of nothing. Old men fell. Stairs were dangerous. It was a fact of life in the North.
Ned ordered gently. "Prepare him for burial. We will send word to the Citadel in the morning."
"Aye, my Lord," Rodrik said.
Two guards lifted the body. The crowd began to disperse, whispering prayers to the Seven and the Old Gods.
Ned watched them go.
No one looked at him with suspicion. No one wondered why the Maester had fallen. It was just an accident. A sad, unfortunate accident.
Ned turned and walked back toward his solar.
The rat in the walls was gone. The secrets were safe.
Now, he could build.