Winter Town basked under a pale sun. The light was soft, muted by high clouds, and though it lacked brilliance, the air carried a strange, almost gentle warmth.
Winterfell, built upon hot springs, was far warmer than any other stronghold in the North during the long winters. The warmth seeped into the earth itself, rising in faint mist along stone walls and alleyways, and even Winter Town benefited from that gift.
Because of this, four-fifths of the cottages in Winter Town stood empty through spring and summer. But once autumn arrived and the first frost kissed the fields, families from across the North gathered here in droves. By deep winter, the little town would swell with people, its narrow streets filled with smoke, voices, and the stubborn laughter of Northmen determined to endure another long night.
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The Stark Children in the Town
Down one such street rode Sansa Stark, her black velvet gown falling gracefully over the sides of a small white pony. The pale fabric of her cloak shimmered faintly in the weak sunlight. Beside her strode massive Hodor, carrying young Bran Stark upon his back.
Behind them trailed a dozen Stark men-at-arms, armored in steel and cloaked in the grey pelts of direwolves, their very presence enough to part the crowd.
The townsfolk halted their errands as the young lord and lady of Winterfell passed. They bowed their heads or lifted their hands in greeting. Their words were simple, their tone earnest, utterly unlike the gilded courtesies of King's Landing.
Sansa, who had grown used to the poisoned smiles and false flattery of the southern court, found herself momentarily startled by such sincerity. Yet she responded in kind, nodding to each man, woman, and child, her posture regal, her face serene.
It had been but a month since she returned to Winterfell, yet in that short time she had learned more than she wished.
Her mother remained trapped in Riverrun, forbidden to return even after her grandfather's passing, for she was needed to soothe the restless lords of the Riverlands.
Arya was still missing. The most recent whispers claimed she had been seen in Saltpans and had perhaps sailed for Braavos, but though Robb had sent scouts and searchers, no word had come.
Robb himself was gone once more, leading men to war.
And Sansa—Sansa was promised.
---
A Betrothal of Duty
Her return north was the fruit of failed schemes. Tywin Lannister, once so mighty, had faltered at the Twin Rivers. Beset on two sides, with his strongest lieutenants slain or captured, the Lion of Casterly Rock had turned at last to diplomacy. Tyrion, sharp-tongued and cunning, had been the one to press for peace.
And through this uneasy truce had come her betrothal—to Eddard Karstark.
She remembered him faintly from childhood: a cheerful young man, four or five years her elder, quick to laugh. Yet the man who now approached her in Winter Town seemed carved from a sterner stone.
A troop of horsemen thundered into view, raising dust in the pale light. At their head, a silver banner snapped in the wind, emblazoned with the sigil of Karhold: a black castle beneath a golden sun.
Sansa's breath caught. Eddard Karstark rode before them, tall and broad, the very image of a knight from some song. His face was set and resolute, his shoulders square beneath his cloak.
Yet when his eyes—cold, grey-blue—fell upon her, Sansa knew at once that this was no song, no tale of gallant knights and blushing maidens.
He did not look upon her with affection, nor with admiration. There was no spark of joy in his gaze. Instead, he studied her with the calm detachment of a judge weighing guilt or innocence.
And in that moment, Sansa understood: this marriage was no romance. It was a contract of family and duty.
Still, her fair face wore a smile, and her eyes, clear as summer sky, held gentleness as she said softly, "Lord Karstark, you must be weary from your ride."
Politeness, after all, was a lady's armor.
Eddard inclined his head. "It is nothing. I fear I have kept Lady Sansa waiting. Winter brings no end of troubles."
---
A Shadow Beyond the Wall
His words carried weight. By rights, he should have arrived yesterday, yet strange lights in the forest had delayed him. That very night, he had commanded Styr and Tormund to lead the Free Folk south of the Wall.
Once a horde of nearly a hundred thousand, the wildlings were now reduced to sixty thousand, the rest lost in riot, battle, or to the merciless cold. Women, children, and the aged had gone first, herded through the Wall to safety. Only a fifth remained warriors.
Eddard had seen the cost with his own eyes.
The night of the riot still haunted him: fires in the dark, the shrieks of dying men, and the wights—thousands of them—emerging from the forest with their eyes lit blue as frost.
He had seen one of the Others that night, pale as moonlight, riding a mammoth. Its gaze had met his across the snow, cold and unblinking. In the end, it had turned away, retreating into the blackness. But the memory lingered.
"The cold winds are rising, and winter is coming," Sansa said then, sounding older than her thirteen years. "We must protect one another, care for one another, until spring's dawn returns. Then, even after such darkness, there will still be a day of light."
For a moment, Eddard's stern expression softened. "Well spoken." He even smiled faintly. "My Lady, your brother Jon asked me to give you his regards."
Sansa blinked. "Thank you. I shall send a letter in return, if there is chance."
The name surprised her. This Karstark spoke not like a northern warrior, but more like the polished knights of King's Landing. She could not place him.
"Bran," Eddard continued, turning to the boy, "Jon sends his regards to you as well."
Bran, perched stiffly upon Hodor's back, inclined his head. "My thanks. My sister will include them in her letter."
Their words were polite, but Eddard sensed the distance in them. Still, he did not falter. From within his cloak, he drew forth a small chest, which he offered to Bran.
"This is for you."
The boy opened it to reveal a set of carved ivory chess pieces, gleaming white, inlaid with sapphires and rubies.
Bran's face lit up. "They are beautiful!"
Eddard smiled. "I promised last we met to teach you a new game of strategy. This is it. When time permits, we shall play."
Bran's joy was plain. He clutched the box as though it were treasure.
Sansa, watching, felt a faint pang. He had brought nothing for her. Yet she hid her disappointment behind a courteous smile. "Lord Karstark, let us return to Winterfell. You and your men must be tired."
"Indeed."
---
News of the Iron Islands
As they rode, Eddard inquired of Bran, "Tell me, why has Robb gone to Wolfswood? Has Lord Galbart's command faltered?"
Bran shook his head. "No. Lord Mason of Seagard sent word: Balon Greyjoy is dead. He swore the news true. Robb judged it a chance not to be missed, so he marched at once."
Balon Greyjoy, dead.
Eddard's brow furrowed. If so, then Euron Crow's Eye would soon make his move. Mad, cunning, and ruthless, Euron possessed powers best left unspoken. Worse, he had sailed to Valyria itself and returned with dragon-binding horns and armor of Valyrian steel.
Would Robb cross paths with such a foe? Eddard prayed not. Euron's first task would surely be to seize Pyke and claim the driftwood crown. Asha Greyjoy would not yield it easily; she would return to fight him, splitting their strength.
Yes, Robb's instinct was correct. Now was the time to strike the Ironborn. If their castles were retaken, never again could they raid the North so easily.
Sansa, noting his frown, asked softly, "This is good news, is it not?"
"It is," Eddard assured her. "With Balon gone, Robb may soon end this war and return. Our only true enemy left is Roose Bolton, and even he is but a shadow."
Soon Styr would arrive with thirty thousand Free Folk and two hundred giants. Together, they would march on the Dreadfort. Roose Bolton would be starved in his own lair. His end was only a matter of time.
Sansa smiled, reassured by his confidence.
---
At Winterfell
By dusk, the party reached Winterfell. Within the double walls, soldiers went to their quarters while Eddard shared a meal with Sansa, Bran, and little Rickon.
Rickon sulked, still cross with Robb for leaving. Sansa excused herself after supper to oversee the distribution of White Harbor supplies, a duty Robb had entrusted her with.
Eddard remained with Bran, playing chess until Maester Luwin relieved him. Bran, to his surprise, learned swiftly, even managing to turn a hopeless game into a draw by the day's end.
That night, weariness dragged him down. Yet his rest was short.
He awoke in darkness to find a raven on his bedside. Its feathers gleamed blacker than shadow, and upon its brow opened a third eye.
It stared at him, silent, wings half-spread. Then it vanished.
Eddard lay awake, the image burned into his mind.
"The Three-Eyed Raven," he whispered. "What is it you want of me?"
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