Lyra tilted her head. A small, serene smile touched her lips—a smile that looked far too peaceful for a child who had almost been murdered hours ago.
"No, Father," she said, her voice like a wind chime. "You are a good man. Your spirit is grey, like the stone, but it is warm inside."
She squeezed his rough fingers.
"The Gods may have taken my eyes," she whispered, "but I can see more than you can through naked eyes. I see the threads that bind us. I see the winter that sleeps and the winter that walks. Do not fear for me."
Ned stared at her, stunned. She speaks like the Old Nan, he thought, a shiver running down his spine. So young, yet she speaks of threads and spirits.
"You… you are special, Lyra," Ned choked out, overwhelmed by her forgiveness. "Be strong. Be a wonderful girl."
"I will," she nodded.
Ned turned to the boy.
Yoriichi stood with his hands clasped behind his back, watching the exchange with an unblinking gaze. His pain was subsiding slowly and feels little hungry also.
Ned reached out and pulled the boy into a light hug. It was different from hugging Lyra. Yoriichi felt solid. Rigid. Like hugging a sheathed sword. Ned patted his small back, feeling the frailty of his ribs but the tension of his muscles.
"I know you will protect your family, Yoriichi," Ned whispered into the boy's ear. "I saw what you did tonight. It scares me, but it also gives me hope. Be strong, as always. I wouldn't be there with you to shield you from the wind."
Ned pulled back, gripping Yoriichi by the shoulders, looking deep into those crimson eyes.
"Be a great warrior, son. The North has need of strong men."
Yoriichi looked back. He didn't look away. He didn't look down. He held the gaze of the Warden of the North as an equal.
"Sure, Father," Yoriichi said, his voice calm and steady. "I will."
Then, the boy paused. He looked at Ned's face—the dark circles under his eyes, the stress lines on his forehead.
"Take care of yourself also, Father," Yoriichi added. "Especially your health. You carry too much."
Ned blinked, surprised by the sudden concern.
"The people need you," Yoriichi continued, his tone shifting from personal to something almost analytical. "And also the North. I have read the books, and I have walked the markets. The North is peaceful compared to the other kingdoms. The security is good. Even at the towns, the guards keep patrolling on schedule. That is why you were able to come as quickly as you did tonight."
Yoriichi nodded, a gesture of approval. "You rule well. Do not let the Southern rot weaken you."
Ned Stark froze. His mouth opened slightly, but no words came out.
He stared at his six-year-old bastard son. He noticed the patrol schedules? He compares the North to other kingdoms? It was an observation that a seasoned castellan or a Maester might make, not a child born in a mud hut.
"You..." Ned stammered, then shook his head, a wry, sad smile forming on his lips. "You observe much, Yoriichi. More than I realized."
"I see what is there," Yoriichi stated simply.
Ned nodded slowly, standing up. His knees cracked in the cold. A strange feeling washed over him—a mixture of pride and a profound sense of loss. What could this boy have been if his name was Stark? he wondered. He would have been a Robb's right hand. Or perhaps... something more.
"Up you go, then," Ned said, his voice regaining its command.
He helped Serena climb onto the wooden bench of the wagon. He lifted Lyra up to her, then Yoriichi. The boy climbed nimbly, settling beside his sister and wrapping a heavy fur blanket around her shoulders immediately.
Ned walked to the driver, a grizzled guardsman named Tomard.
"Keep them safe, Tom," Ned ordered low. "If you run into trouble, you die before they get a scratch. Do you understand?"
"With my life, My Lord," Tomard promised.
"Go. Ride hard. Do not stop until you see the Wall."
Ned stepped back.
The driver flicked the reins. "Hya!"
The garrons snorted, their breath pluming in the air, and the wheels began to turn. The wagon lurched forward, crunching over the frozen snow of the lichyard path.
Ned stood there, alone in the graveyard. He watched the lantern swinging on the back of the wagon, a tiny star growing smaller and smaller in the encroaching darkness.
He felt a sudden, crushing wave of loneliness.
He raised his hand. "Goodbye," he whispered to the wind.
In the back of the wagon, Serena looked back. She saw the lone figure of the man she had loved, standing amidst the gravestones. She forced a smile—a brave, heartbreaking smile—and waved. Beside her, Lyra waved blindly in his direction. Yoriichi simply watched, his face solemn, bowing his head once in a final farewell.
Then, the wagon turned a bend in the road, and the darkness swallowed them whole.
They were gone.
Ned stood there for a long time, until his feet were numb and the cold had seeped into his bones. The silence of the night was absolute, save for the distant howl of a wolf deep in the wood.
"It is done," Ned said to himself.
He turned his back on the road.
The walk back to his horse felt miles long. He mounted heavily, his body feeling twice its age. He turned the horse toward the looming shadow of Winterfell.
The castle was a beast of stone, dark and imposing. Inside, Catelyn was sleeping. Robb and Sansa were sleeping. The maesters were writing their scrolls. The game of lords and ladies continued, a suffocating web of etiquette and lies.
Ned sighed, a sound that seemed to come from the bottom of his soul. How did it come to this? he wondered. I tried to be honorable. I tried to do the right thing.
But as he rode, the image of his children's faces lingered in his mind.
Lyra, with her sightless eyes that saw the threads of fate. Yoriichi, with his crimson gaze and the mind of a general.
They are special, Ned thought, looking up at the sky. Both of them. Just special in their own way.
The clouds had parted above, revealing a vast tapestry of stars. They were cold, distant, and beautiful. They twinkled down at him, indifferent to the struggles of men, indifferent to bastards and lords alike.
But to Ned, they looked like eyes. Watching. Waiting.
He remembered the words of House Stark. Winter will soon end.
But tonight, looking at the stars, he felt a strange sense of peace settle over him. He had sent his blood away, yes. But he had sent them to the one place where the cold could not hurt them—because they were born of it.
"Grow strong," Ned whispered to the stars as the gates of Winterfell opened to swallow him back into his cage. "Grow strong, and survive."
And under the watchful gaze of the Ice Dragon constellation, the wagon rolled north, carrying the Sun toward the Wall.