Winterfell didn't just wake up; it roared to life.
For the first few days after Ned's return, the castle had been holding its breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. But once the ravens flew and the riders were dispatched, the silence was shattered. The Great Keep became a hive of activity that would have made a chaotic RTS game look organized.
The first lords started trickling in within three days. By the end of the week, the trickle had turned into a flood of fur, steel, and shouting.
The North was vast, empty, and generally quiet, but when you poked it with a sharp stick—like, say, burning its Warden alive—it woke up angry.
Ned sat in the Great Hall, the high stone seat of the Kings of Winter feeling cold and hard beneath him.
"Lord Rickard Karstark," the herald announced, his voice cracking slightly under the pressure.
The Lord of Karhold strode in. He was a gaunt man with a beard like a wire brush and eyes that looked like flint. He wore a cloak made from the pelt of a shadowcat.
Karstark stopped before the dais. He didn't bow immediately. He looked Ned up and down, searching for the boy he remembered.
"They say Aerys burned your father," Karstark rumbled, his voice echoing off the rafters. "They say he strangled Brandon. And they say you rode through the mountains alone to call us."
"They say true, Lord Rickard," Ned replied. His voice wasn't a shout, but he projected it—using a subtle trick of the Force to make it resonate in the chest of every man in the hall. "The Mad King thinks the North will bleed quietly. I intend to show him otherwise."
Karstark's eyes narrowed, then widened as the sheer weight of Ned's presence hit him. It wasn't just confidence; it was an aura. A heavy, static pressure that felt like the air before a lightning strike.
Karstark fell to one knee.
"Winterfell calls," Karstark swore, drawing his sword and laying it on the stones. "And Karhold answers. My sword is yours, Lord Stark. Until the last drop of blood."
"Rise, Lord Karstark," Ned said, keeping his face impassive. "Save your blood for the Targaryens."
This scene played out a dozen times a day. The Umbers arrived with the Greatjon roaring about smashing dragon skulls. The Glovers arrived with their quiet professionalism. The Manderlys sailed up the White Knife with a train of supplies that made Ned's logistic-loving heart sing.
Every time, Ned met them. He looked them in the eye, accepted their vows, and integrated them into the war machine he was building. He wasn't just a Lord anymore; he was the gravity well that held the North together.
But holding the North together required more than just speeches. It required power. And Ned Stark was determined to be the most powerful piece on the board.
His routine became a punishing cycle of grind and growth.
04:00 - The Witching Hour
While the rest of the castle slept, Ned was in the Godswood.
The air was usually freezing—dark, still, and biting. Ned sat cross-legged in the snow before the Heart Tree, wearing only thin breeches.
Cold is just a sensation, he told himself, shivering violently. Control the sensation. Control the body.
He closed his eyes. The Force here was thick, ancient, and heavy. It didn't want to be moved. It wanted to sit like a stone. Ned had to wrestle with it.
Lift.
He focused on a heavy iron shield he'd dragged out from the armory. It lay in the snow, weighing twenty pounds.
Ned extended his hand. He didn't visualize lifting it with muscles; he visualized the space around the shield warping, pushing it upward.
The shield groaned. Then, it lurched into the air. One foot. Two feet.
"Hold it," Ned grunted, sweat freezing on his brow. The mental strain was immense, like holding a plank position with his brain.
He held it for a minute. Then two. Then, with a gasp, he let it drop.
Clang.
"Better," he whispered, checking his internal progress bar. The 10x multiplier meant that every morning session was worth a week of intense training. In ten days, he'd essentially done three months of Jedi initiate drills.
He could now sense the heartbeat of a squirrel across the Godswood. He could lift heavy objects, though not throw them yet. And he could create a "Force Push" strong enough to knock a man off his feet, though it drained him to near-collapse.
08:00 - The Sparring Ring
After a breakfast that consisted of enough calories to feed a small horse, Ned headed to the training yard.
This was public. This was theater. The soldiers needed to see their Lord wasn't just a strategist; they needed to see a warrior.
"Who's first?" Ned asked, spinning a blunted tourney sword in his hand.
At first, the guards had been hesitant. No one wants to accidentally bruise the Lord Paramount. But after Ned had casually disarmed Jory Cassel three times in ten seconds, the gloves came off.
"Come on!" Ned shouted, dodging a swing from a burly Umber man-at-arms. "You fight like old women! Two at once! Get in here!"
Two guards circled him. They attacked simultaneously—one high, one low.
In the old days, Ned would have parried one and dodged the other.
Now?
Force Sense.
He felt the intent before the muscles even fired. He saw the trajectory of the attacks as red lines in his mind's eye.
Ned stepped into the attack. He caught the first blade on his crossguard, twisted his wrist to lock it, and then used his enhanced strength to shove the first man into the second. They tangled in a heap of limbs and curses.
"Three!" Ned barked, sweat flying from his hair. "I want three!"
By the end of the week, he was fighting ten men at once and winning consistently. He wasn't using flashy flips or lightning. He was using efficiency. He moved faster than he should, hit harder than he looked, and never, ever seemed to be in the wrong place.
The rumors started spreading through the camp. The Wolf-Blood, they whispered.
13:00 - The War Room
Afternoons were for the Wiki.
The Maester's solar became Ned's command center. He sat surrounded by maps, supply manifests, and confused stewards.
"My Lord," Maester Walys tried to explain, "we simply cannot forge enough spearheads in time. The smiths are working day and night, but—"
"The bellows are inefficient," Ned interrupted, not looking up from a map of the Neck. "They're using single-chamber lungs. Tell Mikken to switch to a double-chamber system. Continuous airflow means hotter fires. Hotter fires mean faster smelting. I sketched the design on your slate this morning."
The Maester blinked. "A... double-chamber system? My Lord, where did you learn of smithing?"
"I read a book," Ned lied smoothly. "Also, the grain carts. Why are we using square axles? The friction is slowing them down. Grease the hubs and round the bearings. We lose three hours a day just on bad wheels."
"As... as you say, my Lord," the Maester stammered, scribbling furiously.
21:00 - The Night Shift
After dinner—which was usually a loud, boisterous affair with the gathered lords to keep morale high—Ned returned to his chambers. But he didn't sleep.
He practiced control.
He sat at his desk, a single candle burning. He focused on the flame.
Calm.
He tried to suppress the heat. To shrink the flame without extinguishing it. It was a test of fine motor control for the mind.
Sometimes, Benjen would come in. The boy was staying strong, adhering to his duty, but Ned could feel the longing in him.
"The Karstarks are loud," Benjen muttered one night, sitting by the fire. "They think this is a game."
"They'll learn," Ned said, watching the candle flame dance. "War has a way of teaching very harsh lessons very quickly."
"Are you afraid?" Benjen asked suddenly.
Ned stopped his meditation. He looked at his brother. "Terrified."
"You don't look it."
"That's the job, Ben," Ned smiled tiredly. "The Lord creates the weather. If I look scared, the storm breaks. If I look like stone, the men stand tall."
On the tenth day, the army was ready.
Fourteen thousand men filled the fields outside Winterfell. It was a sea of grey and white, punctuated by the sigils of a dozen houses. The Giant of Umber, the Sunburst of Karstark, the Fist of Glover, the Merman of Manderly.
The noise was deafening—the clash of steel, the whinnying of horses, the roar of thousands of voices.
Ned stood on the battlements of the Hunter's Gate, Benjen beside him.
"It's time," Ned said.
He turned to his brother. Benjen looked like he was trying very hard not to cry.
"You have the hardest watch, Ben," Ned said, gripping the boy's shoulder. "Winterfell is yours. Keep it safe. Keep the people warm. And listen to Maester Walys, but trust your gut."
"I will," Benjen vowed. "I'll make you proud, Ned."
"You already have."
Ned walked down to the courtyard where his horse—a massive black destrier this time, a proper warhorse—was waiting. He mounted up, Ice strapped to his back.
He raised a hand. The trumpets blew—a long, mournful note that echoed off the ancient walls.
The gates opened.
Ned Stark rode out, and the North rode with him.
The Kingsroad was a river of mud and men.
The march south was a logistical nightmare that Ned managed with the obsession of a grand strategy gamer. He enforced discipline strictly. No looting. No straggling. Camp sanitation was mandatory.
Three days south of Winterfell, near the Castle Cerwyn, they saw the banners of the Dreadfort.
The Boltons had arrived.
Roose Bolton rode at the head of his column. He was a pale man, his face smooth and unlined, his eyes the color of dirty ice. He wore armor of pink enamel that looked uncomfortably like flayed muscle.
Ned rode to meet him, surrounded by the Greatjon and Rickard Karstark.
"Lord Stark," Roose said. His voice was incredibly soft, forcing you to lean in to hear it. It was a power move. "The Dreadfort is yours."
Ned looked at him.
Force Sense: Active.
Most men gave off a "buzz" in the Force—emotions, heat, life. The Greatjon was a roaring bonfire of aggression and loyalty. Karstark was a jagged rock of pride.
Roose Bolton felt like... nothing.
It was like looking into a void. A cold, empty silence where a soul should be. It made the hair on Ned's arms stand up. The man was a sociopath, a creature of pure calculation.
"Lord Bolton," Ned replied, his voice equally cool. "Your men are welcome. Take the rearguard."
It was a slight, and Roose knew it. The rearguard was for stragglers and supply trains. The glory was in the vanguard.
"As you command, my Lord," Roose said, his expression not changing by a millimeter. But Ned felt a tiny, sharp flicker in the Force. A needle of malice.
I see you, Ned thought. And I'm watching.
"Keep an eye on him," Ned muttered to the Greatjon as they rode away.
"The Leech Lord?" Greatjon spat. "I'll keep a boot on his neck if you like."
"Just an eye for now," Ned said. "We need his men."
The march continued. They gathered the Hornwoods, the Cerwyns, the Tallharts. The army swelled like a snowball rolling down a hill.
By the time the ancient towers of Moat Cailin rose from the mists of the Neck, Ned commanded nearly twenty thousand men.
Moat Cailin was a ruin, broken and sinking into the swamp, but it was the most formidable choke point in Westeros. Three towers remained of the original twenty, looking like rotted teeth jutting from the black bog.
Ned rode up to the Gatehouse Tower. The air here was thick with humidity and the smell of decay.
"Camp here!" Ned ordered, his voice cutting through the humid air. "Umber, take the Drunkard's Tower. Karstark, the Children's Tower. Bolton, you hold the causeway."
He dismounted and walked to the edge of the causeway, looking south. The Neck stretched out before him, a labyrinth of swamps and lizard-lions. Beyond that lay the Riverlands. Beyond that, the Trident.
And beyond that, the Iron Throne.
Ned placed his hand on the mossy stone of the ancient fortress. He closed his eyes.
He could feel the ghosts here. Thousands of years of Andal invaders who had broken themselves against the North. The Moat was soaked in blood and magic.
He breathed it in.
Multiplier check.
His connection to the Force was stronger than ever. The constant practice, the leadership, the sheer will required to move an army—it was all fueling his growth. He wasn't just a man anymore. He was becoming something else. A symbol. A force of nature.
"My Lord?"
It was Jory. He held a scroll in his hand. A raven had found them on the march.
"From the Eyrie," Jory said, handing it over.
Ned broke the seal. He read it quickly.
Jon Arryn has secured Gulltown. Robert sails for Storm's End. The Vale is secured.
Ned exhaled, a cloud of white in the damp air. "Good. The board is set."
He looked at the second part of the message. Riverrun remains neutral. Hoster Tully waits.
"Politics," Ned muttered, crumpling the scroll. "He waits to see what we have to offer."
He threw the parchment into a nearby brazier, watching it curl into ash.
"We rest tonight," Ned told Jory. "Tomorrow, we cross the Neck. We find Robert. And then..."
He looked south, his grey eyes flashing with a cold, terrifying light.
"...then we go hunting for dragons."
Ned turned back to the camp. Thousands of fires were starting to burn, illuminating the fog. The North was here. The Wolf had come down from the mountain.
And he was bringing the winter with him.