Eddard II
293 - AC
The wind outside the solar carried the sharp scent of frost and pine. It howled faintly through the cracks in the old stones, a familiar sound to him — the song of the North itself.
He sat before his desk, quill resting idle between his fingers, eyes moving over a sheaf of parchment. The ink had long dried on most of them, but he read them again all the same.
Letters. So many letters.
He had found more ink-stained parchment crossing his table these past moons than in any season before. At first, he thought them Luwin's doing — reports from his bannermen, tallies from White Harbor, the usual burdens of stewardship. But these bore Robb's hand.
Neat, measured, deliberate.
Eddard turned one of them in his fingers, its wax seal broken but carefully reattached — the crest of House Manderly stamped deep into the red.
The words inside were cordial and warm, full of respect and quiet gratitude. Lord Wyman wrote of renewed trade between White Harbor and Winterfell — grain and salt fish flowing north, fine lumber and wolfwood timber flowing south. A simple thing, and yet it had filled the Winterfell coffers more in a moon than some seasons had seen.
The idea had been Robb's.
It was he who had noticed the surplus of cut timber stacked idle by the carpenters' sheds.
He who had suggested sending word to White Harbor to see if the Manderlys might buy the excess for shipbuilding.
"Idle hands and idle stores serve no one," Robb had said. "The North must look after its own, and trade keeps loyalty alive."
Eddard had thought it clever at the time — a small, harmless act of lordship in the making. But the boy had not stopped there.
His quill had reached every corner of the North — from the Umbers of the Last Hearth to the Flints of Widow's Watch, even as far as the Skagosi across their frozen isle, though their replies came late and cold as the sea wind. Some letters had gone beyond the Neck, too, reaching minor houses sworn to the Eyrie or the Vale, and one — he knew — had been sent to a merchant family in Braavos.
Coins had begun to trickle in from unexpected places. Not in torrents, but steady. Traders from Essos who bought northern furs and dyes spoke the name 'Stark' with newfound familiarity. Winterfell's accounts — usually thin from long winters and generous hearts — were beginning to grow again.
He should have been proud. And he was. But beneath the pride sat unease — the quiet, persistent weight of uncertainty.
Robb had changed.
He had not been the same since that day in the woods — since they had found him pale and still beneath the snow, breath weak as mist. When the boy had awoken, he had thanked every god he knew. But the Robb that rose from that bed was not quite the boy who had fallen.
His laughter had returned, yes, and his kindness too. He still played with Bran, still carried Arya on his shoulders through the yard. But there was thought in his eyes now, deeper and older than his years should bear. He asked questions about grain and trade, about law and loyalty, about war and its lessons.
Ned had not expected to see so much of himself in his son so soon and for some reason it hurt him.
The door creaked open.
"Father?"
He looked up. Robb stood in the doorway, dressed in a thick wool tunic, hair tied back, a faint dusting of snow on his shoulders. He closed the door quietly behind him.
"You wished to see me?" Ned asked, gesturing to the firelit chair across from him.
His heir sat, his expression calm, though his fingers toyed absently with a scrap of parchment. "I did not wish to disturb you, Father. I only wanted to speak of something I've been considering."
Ned studied him — the poise in his shoulders, the measured tone in his voice. So young still, yet speaking like a man half-grown. "Go on."
Robb took a steady breath. "It's about Arya."
That gave him pause. "What of her?"
"She's… restless," He said, his tone careful, thoughtful. "She doesn't take to her lessons, and she has little patience for the needlework the septa gives her. You know how she is — wild, fierce, and untamed as the North wind. But she needs a place to shape that fire. I've been thinking…" He hesitated. "Perhaps she could be sent to Bear Island, as a ward to Lady Maege Mormont."
Ned leaned back in his chair, brows furrowing. "Bear Island?"
"She would be among women who value strength," He said earnestly. "Maege and her daughters are warriors. Arya might not understand at first, but in time she would. And it would strengthen the bonds between our houses."
The Lord listened quietly, the firelight glinting in his eyes. For a moment, he said nothing.
He remembered Arya's laughter echoing down the hallways, her feet forever scuffing across the stone floors, her hair wild and tangled. He remembered her stubborn chin and fierce, curious eyes — the same eyes Lyanna had.
And the thought of sending her away — even to loyal friends like the Mormonts — felt like tearing away a part of their home.
"She is but six," Ned said softly. "Too young to be parted from her kin."
Robb's shoulders fell slightly, though his expression remained composed. "Maester Luwin thought as much."
"You speak with wisdom beyond your years," Ned continued, his tone gentler now. "But Arya's place is here — with her mother, her brothers, her sister. Her lessons will come in time, as all things do. There will be a day for such talk… but not yet."
The boy nodded slowly, eyes lowered to the floor. "As you say, Father."
He rose from his chair and placed a hand on his son's shoulder. The boy's frame was growing solid, the beginnings of a man's strength beneath the wool.
"You've done well these past moons," He said quietly. "The North has taken notice. The men see you learning, leading. That is enough for now."
He looked up, a faint smile touching his lips. "Thank you, Father."
Ned gave his shoulder a firm squeeze. "But remember — a lord's first lesson is patience. The second is knowing when not to act."
"Yes, Father."
As Robb turned to leave, his gaze lingered on the boy — the son who had nearly been lost to the cold and now returned with a mind sharper than steel.
When the door shut behind him, the Lord of Winterfell looked again at the letters spread across his desk — the marks of ink, the wax of seals, the proof of a mind already reaching farther than Winterfell's walls.
For the first time, the thought stirred in him — not of pride or worry, but something deeper, more uncertain.
The North would one day belong to Robb Stark. And the North, he feared, might never be quite the same.
—---
Leira I
293 - AC
The night in Winterfell was colder than most. The fires in the great hall had long since died, and only the moon kept watch over the keep. Its pale light spilled through narrow windows and lay like silver dust upon the stone floors. The castle slept, as it always did — deep and quiet — though the walls themselves seemed to breathe with the cold.
Down in the servants' quarters, Leira stirred awake, she had served House Stark near half her life.
She woke with a start, her heart fluttering in the stillness. The cold had crept through her blanket again. Muttering under her breath, she swung her legs from the cot and reached for her cloak.
The corridors were empty. Her footsteps made small, careful sounds against the flagstones as she made her way toward the back passage, the one that led out into the yard.
She had no wish to wake the others. The torches along the hall had burned low, their flames thin and trembling, shadows shifting behind them like restless things.
Halfway to the door, she paused.
There — A figure, tall and cloaked, slipping soundlessly out through the main doors of the keep. It moved with a slow purpose, steady and deliberate, as if drawn by some unseen call.
She froze where she stood. It was no guard — none walked that way so silently, nor wore cloaks of that cut. Her first thought was of thieves or spies; her second, of ghosts, the ones Old Nan speaks about and swears she saw.
This was Winterfell, after all, and the crypts were full of Starks whose rest might not always be peaceful.
Her fingers tightened around the edge of her cloak. She ought to fetch the guards, she thought. She ought to. But the hour was deep, and her mind whispered that perhaps she had only imagined it.
And yet… she looked again.
The moonlight caught the edge of the figure's cloak as it turned down the path leading to the crypts. She took a step forward, then another. Her feet moved before her courage could catch up.
Snow had begun to fall again, light as ash, and each flake seemed to hush the world further. The figure's steps left no trace. It moved beneath the old stone arch and disappeared into the darkness of the crypt.
She hesitated at the top of the steps. The air that drifted up from below was colder still — old, dry, and heavy with the scent of earth and dust. Her breath rose before her, thin and white.
Slowly, she followed.
The torches in the passage were unlit. Her hand brushed the wall as she descended, fingertips tracing the damp stone. The silence grew thicker, a living thing that pressed against her ears.
And then she heard it — a faint sound ahead, like whispering.
At the base of the steps, the corridor opened into shadow. Statues of the kings of Winter lined the walls, their faces grey and grave beneath crowns of dust. Her lanternlight trembled over them as she passed. The sound came again — closer now, though still muffled, like someone praying beneath their breath.
The cloaked figure had stopped before one of the statues — a woman, slender and sorrowful, her stone hands folded around a sword too small for war. The likeness of Lyanna Stark.
The figure lingered there, unmoving, as if listening.
Her heart beat loud in her chest. For a moment, she almost called out — Who goes there? — but the words never left her lips. Something in the air stopped her, some cold weight that pressed her voice down to silence.
Then, slowly, the figure moved on. Down past the last of the Starks, beyond where visitors ever went.
She hesitated only a moment before following.
The steps grew uneven here, carved rougher into the stone. The walls were closer, the air thicker. A faint, strange smell lingered — not decay, but something older, metallic, and faintly sweet. She rounded the last turn and froze.
The corridor ended in a low chamber lit by the flicker of a single candle wedged into a skull. Its flame danced across walls that were not stone alone — branches of weirwood had been driven into the cracks, twisting like roots seeking earth. Bones — men's, women's, she could not tell — lay woven through them in patterns like vines.
At the chamber's heart stood the figure.
He had lowered his hood.
For a moment, she thought she must be mistaken. It was the young lord.
His face was pale in the candlelight, streaked with something dark across the cheek. His lips moved soundlessly as he knelt before an object she could not name — a small idol of wood, carved crudely into the shape of a man with wings. Its face was eyeless, its mouth open in something that might have been a scream.
Her breath caught. Her voice trembled before she could stop it. "M'lord?"
The whisper broke the air like glass.
His head turned slightly, as though hearing her from far away. The shadows deepened around him, swallowing the faint light of the candle.
She saw, for the briefest instant, something in his eyes — not the grey she had known since he was a boy, but a darkness that reflected nothing at all.
She stumbled back, words dying in her throat. The air around her seemed to shift — colder, heavier. The candle sputtered once, twice, and the chamber dimmed to shadow.
There was a sound — not footsteps, but the rustle of cloth, the whisper of breath behind her. She turned.
The candle went out.
In the dark, something moved — not seen but felt, like the air itself had taken form. Her heart hammered. She thought she saw hands — too many, reaching up from the cold earth, pale as ash, slick with shadow.
"Your sacrifices have been noted, your children will be taken care of." She heard him say as he plunged forward like a wolf from the dark.
She felt a sharp sting as a knife found its root in her heart.
Her scream caught before it reached her lips.
And then, only silence.
When the light returned, the candle burned steady again, its flame small and calm. The chamber was empty but for the idol, the bones, and the faintest trace of footprints fading into the frost-dark stone.
From somewhere above, the wind sighed through Winterfell's halls — low and mournful, as if the castle itself had dreamed something it could not bear to remember.