Eddard V
296 - AC
The letter in his hands felt heavier than any sword he had ever borne.
Lord Stark sat in his solar, the fire crackling low in the hearth, its warmth failing to chase away the chill that clung to the stone.
Outside, the wind howled low through the battlements, carrying with it the promise of deeper winter. He barely heard it. His attention was fixed on the parchment, on the careful, measured words penned in Prince Doran Martell's neat, deliberate hand.
A match.
Not merely trade, not merely horses from the sands of Dorne stabled beneath northern skies, but blood. Binding blood.
Across the table from him stood the Red Viper, leaning with careless ease against a carved post as if he were in a wine sink in Sunspear rather than the heart of the North.
His mouth held that ever-present smirk, sharp and knowing, a look that suggested he enjoyed the weight the letter placed upon Ned far more than he let on.
"My brother wishes to tie our houses together in blood," The Viper said at last and Ned lifted his eyes from the parchment. His voice was steady, but there was no mistaking the gravity beneath it.
Ned inclined his head slightly. "He does."
Then, with a snort that was half amusement, half contempt, the Dornish prince went on.
"The Starks of the North," he said. "Half the realm thinks you savages, the other half calls you cold men and colder warriors. I would agree with parts of both. Your lands freeze a man's jewels in a night and kill him in a day. But-." His dark eyes sharpened—"you are honorable. Just. Traits in short supply in this realm."
Ned listened without interruption. If the words were meant as flattery, they were blunt enough to sit well with him. If they were meant as testing steel against steel, he did not shy from that either. The faintest twitch tugged at the corner of his mouth, gone almost before it appeared.
"I would not lie, my prince," Ned said carefully. "I find this… sudden."
Oberyn nodded, his smile softening into something more genuine. "As would I, in your place. Take your time, Lord Stark."
He straightened, smoothing his sleeve, and gave a courteous nod. "My niece and I will depart once the second batch of sand steeds reaches White Harbor. I would welcome your answer before we leave."
Ned nodded in return. Oberyn turned and strode from the solar, his boots echoing briefly against the stone before the door closed behind him.
Silence followed.
He sat back in his chair, the letter still in his hands, and let out a slow breath he had not realized he was holding.
Arianne Martell.
He believed he knew the Princess well enough now. The heir to Sunspear, Prince Doran's eldest child, famed for her beauty, her sharp wit, and her temper. A woman grown, older than Robb by several years, reared in a land of sun and heat and spice. As unlike the North as one could be and still belong to Westeros.
And yet.
He folded the letter carefully and set it upon the table. His gaze drifted to the window, to the grey sky beyond, to the bare branches of the heart tree visible in the godswood below.
A strong match, he told himself.
Dorne was distant, yes, but powerful in its own way. It had kept itself apart since the Rebellion, nursing old wounds and older grudges. A marriage alliance would bring the Martells into closer accord with the North, binding two regions that had little reason to come together otherwise.
Trade would follow blood. The horses were proof enough of that. Sand steeds bred for endurance and heat now crossing half the realm to stand in northern stables—unheard of, and yet already accomplished. With them came coins, ships. The North would prosper.
And Robb.
Ned's thoughts turned, as they always did, to his son.
If not for his age, Ned would have called him a man grown already.
His boy was strong and well fought, with the look of a Tully and the heart of a Stark.
Ned had heard the passing words of the smallfolk around Wintertown, they call his son blessed by the Old Gods, that he had been born to lead, though Ned prayed often that such leadership would never be tested by war.
A marriage to the Martell Princess would place Robb on a stage far larger than the North. It would teach him the arts of alliance, of compromise, of rule beyond sword and honor.
But there were troubles that would follow, they always do.
Arianne was heir to Dorne. Would she accept being Lady of Winterfell, far from Sunspear and the sunlit water gardens? Would Dorne accept it? A marriage like this would not merely bind houses; it would raise questions of succession, of divided loyalties. If Arianne bore Robb children, where would their first duty lie? North or South? Wolf or spear?
He knew well, it would be the North but that might turn the Princess bitter and a bitter marriage all together.
And then there was Robert.
The king might laugh at the notion of sand steeds in snow, but laughter could turn sour. An alliance between the two ends of the realm would not go unnoticed by the rest.
Ned rose and began to pace the length of the solar, boots soft against the rushes. He had lived his life trying to avoid the game of thrones, but it seemed the game had found him regardless.
Honor, he thought. Is there honor in this?
The match itself was not dishonorable. There was no deceit in it, no betrayal. It was alliance, plainly offered and plainly considered. And Robb… Robb deserved a strong match, a wife who could stand beside him, challenge him when needed, temper him when his blood ran too cold.
Arianne seemed to be such a woman.
He stopped pacing and rang the bell for a servant.
"Send for Lady Stark," he said when the girl appeared. "Tell her I would speak with her."
Catelyn arrived not long after, her auburn hair braided neatly, her expression attentive and calm. She took in his face at once and knew this was no small matter.
"You look troubled," she said, seating herself opposite him.
Ned slid the letter across the table. "Read."
She did so, her eyes moving swiftly over the words. When she finished, she looked up slowly, her mouth set in a thoughtful line.
"A betrothal," she said. "I had not expected that."
"Nor had I," He replied.
Catelyn leaned back, fingers steepled. "It is a bold offer."
"That is one word for it."
She was silent for a long moment, considering. Ned had always admired that about her, she did not rush to judgment. When she spoke again, it was with care.
"She is bold, beautiful," Catelyn said. "And clever. Too clever, I would say."
He gave a faint huff of amusement. "You sound like you're speaking of a threat."
"I am speaking of a woman who, if this comes to pass, one day be Lady of Winterfell," She replied. "Beauty is no vice, but cleverness can be a blade if wielded poorly."
"Or well," Ned said quietly.
She met his gaze. "Yes. Or well."
She rose and crossed to the window, looking out over the yard where Robb had once trained as a boy and now drilled men as a commander.
"She is older than Robb," she said. "That may be no bad thing. He is earnest, sometimes too much so. A wife with wisdom could steady him."
Ned nodded. He had thought the same.
"But she is Dornish," Ned went on. "She will find Winterfell… harsh. Our ways are not her ways."
"No," Cat agreed. "But neither were they to me, I have learnt them, she will too."
Ned considered. "Oberyn speaks lightly of many things, but he respects strength and tradition. I believe Doran does as well. Arianne would not be asked to forsake who she is, but neither would we."
Catelyn sighed softly.
"I worry for her," she admitted. "And for Robb. Marriage is more than banners and bloodlines."
"I know," Ned said. His voice softened. "But it is also duty."
They stood in silence for a time, husband and wife bound by years of shared burdens.
"At the very least," Catelyn said at last, "it is a strong match."
Ned returned to his chair and picked up the letter once more. "I will speak with Robb," he said. "And then I will send my answer."
His wife nodded. "Whatever you decide, I will stand with you."
Ned looked down at the parchment, at the words that promised sun in a land of snow.
—--
Haden I
296 - AC
Haden Snow—though everyone with half a sense knew better than to call him that to his face—woke with the distinct feeling that the gods had rolled dice for his day and came up laughing.
The first sign was the cold.
Not the honest cold of deep winter, when the air bites clean and sharp and you can curse it like a familiar enemy. No, this was the wet, creeping sort that seeped through wool and leather and settled into the bones like it had paid coins. The kind of cold that promised snow later, just enough to ruin everyone's mood and none of the work.
"How fine." Haden muttered to himself as he swung his legs off the narrow cot in the guards' quarters. "Another glorious day serving. May my toes freeze off in service to honor."
He flexed his feet, grimaced, and shoved them into boots that were still damp from yesterday. Somewhere, far above him, the bells of Winterfell rang out the hour, deep and slow. Morning watch had already changed. He was late. Again.
He dressed quickly, throwing on his cloak and fastening his sword belt with practiced irritation. The sword itself—serviceable steel, nicked and honest—hung at his side like an old friend who knew all his bad habits and judged him silently for them.
As he stepped out into the yard, Winterfell greeted him with its usual mix of steam, stone, and shouting.
The hot springs breathed mist into the air, curling around towers and walkways like ghosts that had lost their way.
Men-at-arms crossed the yard in pairs and groups, boots crunching on frost, voices raised in complaints about everything from rations to aching joints. Somewhere near the kennels, a dog barked like it was trying to start a war with the wall itself.
Haden took it all in with a weary fondness.
He liked Winterfell. Gods help him, he really did.
The place had a way of growing on you, like moss on stone or debt on a bad gambler.
He'd been born not far from here, in a crofter's hut that leaned worse than an old drunk, and when his father had shunned away his mother from Deepwood Motte. It was Winterfell that had taken him in—fed him, trained him, put a spear in his hand and called him useful.
House guard. Not a sworn sword to a lord, not a knight, North didn't have them, not even a proper man-at-arms with a fancy sigil. Just a body in grey and white, meant to stand where he was told and hit what he was told to hit.
Still, it beat freezing to death in a field.
"Oi, Haden!"
He turned to see Rodrik's cousin—small Kole, not the one with the sense—waving from near the armory.
"You're late," Kole called.
"I prefer the words delayed." Haden replied, strolling over without much hurry. "It speaks of struggle and keeps the thought low."
Kole snorted. "Ser Wendel's looking for you."
Haden stopped. Slowly. "Looking how?"
"Like a man who woke up on the wrong side of his wife," He said cheerfully. "And then found the bed missing."
Haden sighed. "Of course he is."
Ser Wendel Mollen had a voice like a warhorn and a temper like sour milk. He was also, unfortunately, in charge of the day's assignments.
He made his way toward the inner gate, rehearsing excuses in his head. His favorite involved a fictional goat, a broken fence, and an act of heroism that would have made the singers weep. Sadly, Ser Wendel had heard it before. Twice.
He found the knight near the gatehouse, barking orders at two new lads who looked like they'd been scraped off the wrong end of a village.
"There you are," Ser Wendel growled when he spotted him. "You planning on showing up before noon next, or should we just assign your post to a scarecrow?"
"Scarecrow wouldn't last," He said mildly. "Crows would eat him. I only get insulted."
Ser Wendel glared. "You're on escort duty today."
Haden blinked. "Escort duty?"
"Aye. Dornish party moving through the lower yard. Prince's people."
That woke him up properly.
"The Dornish?" He asked. "The ones with the spears and the smiles?"
"The very same," Ser Wendel said. "You, Jory, and three others. You'll walk them where they need to go, make sure no one stares too much, and keep the peace."
Haden scratched his chin. "No staring? In Winterfell? At Dornish?"
Ser Wendel leaned closer. "Try not to embarrass us."
"No promises," He replied.
He was already regretting it.
The Dornish were impossible to miss.
They moved through Winterfell like summer walking through winter—bright, loud, and entirely unconcerned with the cold.
Their cloaks were lighter, their colors warmer, their laughter too easy by half. Spears rested on shoulders instead of being gripped like lifelines.
They looked around with open curiosity, as if the ancient stone walls and steaming ground were some grand amusement rather than the seat of Northern power.
Haden walked alongside them, boots steady, eyes sharp. He'd never been south of the Neck, but even he knew the stories. Poisoners. Lovers. Fighters who smiled while they killed you.
One of them—a woman with dark hair braided tight and eyes too clever—caught him looking and smiled.
"Cold place," she said.
"Only if you're alive," He replied. "Dead men don't complain."
She laughed, bright and musical. "I like him."
"Don't," Haden said. "I'm a disappointment."
They passed through the lower yard, where smiths paused in their hammering to stare, and stableboys forgot their work entirely. A few guards muttered prayers. One lad dropped a bucket.
Haden shook his head.
'Gods,' he thought, 'Bring a few people from the south and suddenly everyone forgets they've seen a woman before.'
They escorted the Dornish toward the Great Keep, where higher matters waited. As they walked, he caught bits and pieces of conversation—talk of horses from Sunspear, of trade routes and strange wines, of how snow tasted worse than sand.
One of the Dornish men glanced at Haden. "You live here all your life?"
"Sadly," Haden said. "It's this or become a bard."
The man looked confused. "Is that worse?"
"Much," He replied.
By midday, his duty done, found himself released with a sore back and a head full of impressions he hadn't asked for.
Winterfell felt different today.
Not changed—not truly—but unsettled, like a pond after a stone had been thrown. Lords and ladies moved with purpose. Servants whispered. Guards leaned closer together when they spoke. Something was happening, something larger than horse shipments and foreign smiles.
Haden didn't care much for politics. Politics got people killed, and rarely the right ones.
He made his way toward the kitchens, where a bowl of stew waited that tasted exactly like every other bowl of stew he'd ever had, which was to say: hot, filling, and best eaten quickly before someone better ranked decided it was theirs.
As he ate, he listened.
Men talked about the Princess of Dorne. About the Stark heir. About marriage and alliances and things that never ended well for folk like Haden.
"Big things brewing," Jory said between mouthfuls.
"Big things always brew," He replied. "Then they boil over and scald whoever's standing closest."
Jory frowned. "You ever say anything good?."
"I try," Haden said solemnly.
His shift ended late, as it always did, with the sun already sinking behind Winterfell's walls.
The cold returned with vengeance, and He pulled his cloak tighter as he headed toward the gate.
Home wasn't far—a modest stone house just outside the inner walls, where his sister lived with her two children. It wasn't much, but it was warm, and that counted for everything.
As he walked, he thought about the day. About Dornish laughter echoing against northern stone. About whispered talk of marriages and wars yet to come. About how men like him would stand in lines and hold shields when the time came, no matter whose banners flew.
He reached the door and knocked once before pushing it open.
"Haden?" his sister called.
"In the flesh," he said. "Still alive. Barely."
She smiled when she saw him, and for a moment, the world felt smaller, simpler. The children ran to him, and he scooped them up, pretending to stagger under their weight.
"Careful," he said. "You'll break me."
They laughed, and Haden laughed with them.
"Sit, the soup is getting cold." Ser Wendel called as he picked one of the boys in arms.
"Listen to your father now." Haden said as he sat close.
Whatever storms were gathering over Winterfell, whatever alliances were being forged in warm rooms and whispered words, they hadn't reached this little house yet.
And for now, that was enough.