---
Snow lashed the towers of Winterfell in long, slanting streaks, driven sideways by wind that came down off the mountains like a cold blade. Within the rookery, the air was dry and smoky from the brazier, but the sound of the gale crept through the high stone arches. The ravens shuffled in their cages, restless, not distressed — as if they could feel the stirrings of something beginning.
Ned Stark stood at the writing table, cloak draped over one shoulder, head bowed as he read the parchment again. The letter bore the mark of the Iron Bank — copper-stamped, not waxed. Formal. Measured. A simple statement:
An appointment has been granted. Two moons' time. Quiet setting. Terms to be discussed in full.
No invitation to grovel. No language of debts or threats. An opportunity — which, in itself, said enough.
He folded the letter, slid it into a leather pouch, and reached for the sheet he'd prepared for the reply.
> To the Representatives of the Iron Bank,
Your appointment is accepted. I will arrive within the time allotted. The matters you wish to discuss are understood. I will bring what is necessary.
— Lord Eddard Stark, Winterfell
No seal beyond the direwolf pressed into plain wax. No house words. No unnecessary lines. The North did not dress up its intentions.
He handed it to the ravenmaster himself.
"This one to Braavos," he said. "Today."
The old man nodded, silent as the birds. Within moments, the letter was tied to the leg of a dark-feathered courier bird, one of the larger ones. When it launched into the storm outside, it didn't hesitate.
Ned watched it vanish into the grey, then turned and reached for a second letter.
This one was to Lord Wylis Manderly.
> Three ships. No fanfare. Crewed by men you trust and provisioned for a long sail east.
I will arrive in White Harbor before the full thaw. Docking arrangements should be handled quietly, but not hidden.
— Eddard Stark
He sealed it the same way. Clean, efficient.
When the second raven was away, he remained in the rookery a moment longer. Snow gathered against the slits. The wind rattled a cage. The air smelled of ash and feathers.
There was no fear. No tension.
Only movement.
---
The halls of Winterfell were quiet, not still. Fires burned low. Footsteps echoed at odd intervals. A boy passed Ned in the corridor carrying firewood in a sling. A woman offered him a shallow nod as she carried folded linens down to the lower chambers. No one spoke more than they needed to. That was the rhythm of Winterfell.
At the base of the inner stair, he paused beside a narrow window slit and looked out toward the east yard.
Benjen was there, cloak tossed over a rail, sleeves rolled. He stood among two dozen boys, perhaps a few more — too young to have fought in the rebellion, but not soft. Not anymore. They held spears of ironwood, some taller than themselves, and followed commands in silence. One row practiced short thrusts. Another moved shields into wall formation. It was early yet, but the rhythm was forming.
Ned watched until Benjen turned and gave a sharp gesture, correcting a boy's stance. The boy adjusted. The spear line realigned.
He moved on.
---
The solar had been warmed, though the fire was just starting to catch again. A map lay spread across the central table — the North, drawn by hand over old hide, inked in black and dark ochre. Moat Cailin sat heavily near the Neck. Queenscrown was marked with a small red stone farther north, nestled in the wooded lowlands just south of the Wall.
Ned stood over it a long moment, hands resting on the edge of the table.
There were no war markers. No figures to move. Just routes — some clear, some buried. He didn't write anything down. Didn't move the stones yet.
"You've already made the decision," Lyanna said from the doorway.
He didn't turn. "I have."
She stepped inside, brushing snow from her shoulders. "Queenscrown first?"
"Survey," he said. "I want men up there before the thaw. Measure the tree line. Check the soil. If there's old stone under the frost, I want it marked."
Lyanna studied the red token. "It's forested."
"That's why we start there. If it's solid ground, we clear what needs clearing. If not, we move."
She leaned over the map. "Benjen says the trails from the White Knife are holding."
"They'll need reinforcing," Ned said. "If the roads vanish, so does the reach."
He picked up the red stone, turned it once in his hand, then placed it back.
---
Later, as the snow deepened and the sky turned to ash, a single raven crossed Winterfell's eastern watchtower, flying hard into the wind. Ned stood near the godswood gate and watched it vanish.
No horns sounded. No banners raised.
Just a bird in flight, and the sound of drills beginning again in the yard below.
---
Rodrik Cassel returned through the snow without banners or fanfare. His cloak was torn at the hem, his beard rimed white, and he smelled of pine tar and sweat. But his eyes were sharp, and the men who followed him were sharper still.
They came on shaggy horses and worn boots, some on foot, none in shining mail. Half had no sigils. A few bore faded patches — an old direwolf here, a broken trident there — but most wore only leather and rust. These were not lords. These were survivors. The greybeards.
Ned met them in the eastern yard with Benjen and Lyanna at his sides. He said nothing as Rodrik dismounted.
"You asked for killers," Rodrik said. "These are the ones who didn't die in the last war. Or the one before it."
The men behind him didn't bow. One spat. Another scratched at a neck thick with old scar tissue. One eyed Benjen's neat collar and sniffed like he smelled a pig.
They were older than the yard's recruits, some by twenty years or more. Broad-shouldered, stoop-backed, faces like cracked stone. One man had three fingers on his left hand. Another was missing an ear. None of them looked uncertain.
Ned nodded once. "They'll do."
Training began that afternoon.
Benjen's line — the boys — had been drilled daily for a moon. They moved in near-silence now, not from habit but from cold focus. Their wooden spears were ironwood-shafted, tips blunted but heavy. Their shields were mismatched, practice-cut from spare timber, painted grey in the Stark yard.
The greybeards didn't line up. Not at first. They stood off to the side, arms crossed or leaning on blades worn dull with time. Some laughed. One of them — thick-necked, with a cracked nose and a stitched cheek — pointed toward the forming spear wall and snorted.
"Pretty line of saplings. What's next, a dance?"
Rodrik turned on him. "You hold your tongue or I'll break your teeth again."
The man shrugged. "I'll line up. When there's someone worth standing beside."
Another man stepped forward without a word. He took a place beside one of the boys — barely more than twelve — and lifted a shield that creaked when he moved. He didn't speak. Just stood there, eyes forward. One by one, the others followed.
By the end of the hour, the first proper formation had been built.
Three rows deep. Ironwood spears. Shield to shield.
Ned stood above on the stone steps, arms folded, watching as Rodrik walked the line. He corrected footwork, adjusted grips, barked out names and orders. He never once raised his voice beyond a measured growl.
Behind the spear wall, the second yard had been cleared for the shock unit.
Benjen had begun shaping them as well — fewer men, broader shoulders. Not for formation. For impact.
Among them was Hodor.
He stood at the far end of the group, wrapped in a thick coat too short at the sleeves, head bowed slightly as if unsure whether he should be present. He was massive. Taller than any man in the yard. Barely fourteen, soft-cheeked, hair damp with snowmelt. He held his hammer close — a haft of dark pine nearly as long as he was tall, the head broad, square, and dull at the corners. He hadn't yet been given armor. Only weights.
One of the greybeards, the same man who'd scoffed at the boys, turned to him.
"What's this then?" he said. "Did you bring the stable mule to war?"
Some laughed. Others didn't.
Hodor looked down, said nothing.
Benjen moved to correct the man, but Ned raised a hand from the steps. He didn't speak. Just watched.
The next drill began.
Benjen called for forward movement — a burst charge, shock contact. Axes swung. Maces thudded against straw-bound posts. Some men grunted. One fell.
Hodor stepped late.
When he did, it was as if something inside him had shifted. He moved without speed, but with a weight that made every footfall thud against the packed earth. He lifted the hammer in two hands and swung sideways into a wooden post bound with chain.
The hammer struck, and the post snapped clean through at the base.
The sound cracked across the yard like a falling tree. The post flew five feet sideways, chain dragging in the air behind it.
The yard fell still.
Hodor looked down at the broken beam, confused.
"Sorry," he said softly.
The greybeard who had mocked him didn't laugh. No one did.
Benjen stepped forward and placed a hand on Hodor's shoulder.
"You'll do," he said.
---
Rodrik gathered the greybeards that evening in the east hall — not the great hall, but the smaller one with stone benches and a wall map of the Wolfswood. Ned stood with him, speaking little.
"We don't need knights," Rodrik said. "We need walls that move and teeth behind them."
He pointed to the formations sketched in charcoal.
"These are the teeth. You'll shape them."
No one argued.
---
By dusk, snow fell slower. The yard lights flickered behind oiled cloth. The spear wall was re-formed one last time before nightfall. This time, no one broke rank.
Ned watched them from above, alone now.
Greybeards beside boys. Shields steady. Lines formed. No horns. No cheers. Just breath, discipline, and cold steel in the making.
The forge had taken its first shape. The heat would come later.
----
Snow pressed soft against the solar windows, drifting steadily, silent as ash. Inside, the air was warm from the hearth and thick with the scent of old ink and oiled parchment. Three maps stretched across the long table—one of the Neck, one of the Frostwater ridge near Queenscrown, and a third, older chart marked with half-faded trade routes and river paths. The only voices were the Starks.
Ned stood at the head of the table, hands flat against the wood. Benjen sat opposite, hunched slightly, hood still pulled back from his patrol. Lyanna leaned one hip against the wall near the fire, arms crossed. The table was covered with notations—timber samples, stone chips, parchment tags bearing frost-depth readings and moss reports.
"We send the first team south," Ned said. "Three engineers, two diggers, and a guide who's walked the causeway since he could stand. They mark soil depth and map the bogline. No assumptions. No digging deeper than the ground allows."
Benjen scratched at the side of his neck. "If they sink before they measure, we lose the month."
"They won't," Ned said. "I've seen the timber. It'll hold long enough to move."
Lyanna stepped forward. "And north?"
"Same team count," Ned replied. "Different tools. Frost picks, trail markers, survey flags. They go slow—take four days if needed. I want the full slope walked. If there's stone worth keeping, they flag it. If it's rot or rubble, they come back."
She nodded once. "And if it's neither?"
"Then we see it for what it is."
No one mentioned the boy who'd inherit it. No one had to.
Jon cooed softly from the cradle near the fire. Theron lay swaddled beside him, fast asleep, one tiny hand resting on the edge of his brother's blanket. The wet-nurse sat on a stool in the corner, silent, mending a strap on the carrying sling. The room didn't pause for them, but the sound was acknowledged all the same.
Benjen leaned forward and touched a single point on the map of the Neck.
"If they want to move timber through this bend," he said, "they'll need to clear that deadfall from last season."
"They'll document it," Ned said. "We won't move a branch until the ground says it's worth the trouble."
Lyanna raised an eyebrow. "And what if the ground lies?"
"Then we build somewhere else."
She snorted faintly, not unkindly. "You've gone cold, brother."
"I was born cold," he answered.
Benjen reached for the travel ledger beside the map. "The team for Queenscrown. You've named Marnen, Rys, and Kell the younger. That's good steel. The others?"
"Hunters," Ned said. "Quiet ones. No green boys."
"They'll return by the week's end?"
"If the slope lets them."
A log cracked in the hearth. The wind pushed harder against the glass, but it didn't rattle.
Lyanna moved to the edge of the table and rested her fingers against the corner of the Queenscrown map.
"If it's solid, and you don't like what they find?"
"Then we deal with it," Ned said.
She didn't press. There was no need to name Jon. They all knew.
He continued, "No forward structure. No timber laid. Not until we know how deep the frost goes."
"And Moat Cailin?" Benjen asked.
"They walk the towers," Ned said. "Every stone. Every stair. If there's anything worth sealing, we seal it. If there's anything worth breaking, we break it."
Benjen's voice lowered. "You want me there, in time."
"In time," Ned agreed. "But not yet."
"I'll wait."
Ned adjusted a few of the markers on the table—one to indicate the road bend near the White Knife's third crossing, one to mark a half-crumbled ruin once scouted by his father's men. These weren't battle maps. They were roots.
"We lay signal lines between both sites when the scouts return," he said. "Glass or smoke. No riders. No banners."
Benjen nodded.
Lyanna studied the worn edge of the map, then looked past it, toward the cradle.
Ned stepped back from the table, rolling his shoulders once.
"I leave before the second moon wanes. The work must move without me."
"It will," Benjen said.
Lyanna didn't speak. She moved to the fire and knelt beside the cradle, one hand brushing back the edge of the fur wrapped around Jon's foot. He stirred, but didn't wake.
Ned rolled up the edge of the Neck map and tied it with a single cord. The tools, the flags, the orders—all would go out in the morning. No ceremony. No farewell. Just paths opened, frost tested, truth gathered.
And when he returned from Braavos, he'd know what the land was willing to give.
The snow was light that morning. Steady, silent, unhurried. Ned stood in the yard beside his horse while the men finished their final checks. His cloak was clasped, gloves drawn, satchels secured. He wore no colors beyond the grey of the North, no token beyond the small iron ring bound to his belt. The wind carried no horn, no song, only the creak of leather and the breath of animals steaming into the cold.
Benjen approached first. He didn't speak right away. Just checked the saddlebags, tugged twice at the girth strap, then stepped back with a short nod.
"The causeway's clear," he said. "Manderly sent men to watch the passes. You won't be slowed."
Ned gave a small nod. "If the frost holds, I'll reach the Wolf's Run by the fourth day."
"You'll have eyes the whole way."
Lyanna joined them from the inner steps. She wore riding leathers under her cloak, hair bound tight, boots lined in black fur. She moved with no urgency.
Jon gave a soft sound from the nurse's arms by the door, a small, muffled breath. Theron stirred beside him but didn't wake. Lyanna's eyes flicked toward them for a beat, then returned to Ned.
"We'll keep them safe."
"I know."
Ned mounted with practiced ease. The horse shifted under him, steady but aware. One of the guards—Wyl, a quiet man from the Wintertown—signaled the column ready.
No more than seven rode with him. No banners. No pageantry. No. They wore Stark grey, carried no trumpets, and left without song. The gate opened wide, and the wind cut in.
Lyanna stepped closer, her hand briefly on his boot. "You'll return before the thaw."
"I will."
He gave Benjen a look, sharp but sure. The kind they had exchanged since they were boys—when things needed doing and there was nothing left to say.
Then he rode.
The road was packed firm with frost, the snow shallow enough to keep speed without slipping. They passed the outer crofts by midmorning—smoke curling from stone chimneys, dogs barking low behind fences. A pair of children waved from a gate. Ned lifted a hand in return. The guard said nothing.
They moved south across the spine trail, cutting through sparse birch and open field. At noon they passed the edge of the Wolfswood, where a thin stream crossed the road and a crow watched from the tree line. One of the men murmured a wordless charm, half to himself.
That night they camped in a clearing marked by two flat stones. The fire was kept small, the meat salted, the sleep quiet. No one asked for tales. No one offered any.
By the third day, the land began to change. The woods grew thinner, and the soil less deep. Hills gentled. The scent of salt rode higher on the wind. White Harbor was close.
They stopped once at a village near the Wolf's Run, just long enough to water the horses. The woman tending the well gave Ned a look of recognition and said nothing. She offered a dipper without being asked.
By dusk the towers of White Harbor rose through the mist. The eastern gate stood open. No guards halted them. One of Wylis Manderly's stewards met them halfway up the quay—a thick man in green and blue, boots soaked with brine.
"My lord," he said with a bow. "The ship's loaded. Dock cleared. You'll find your quartermaster belowdecks."
Ned dismounted and followed without comment.
The vessel moored at the dock was broad-keeled, Northern-built, rigged for both sail and oar. Stark grey across the hull. No false flags. No names carved to hide behind. The crew were Northern men—quiet, dressed in wool, hands worn.
Crates had been packed into the hold: ink, vellum, hardened clay tablets, salted meat, barrels of fish oil, timber samples, and bound silver from the White Knife trade. There were ledgers sealed in wax, and a chest of simple stone-cut tools. Everything requested. Nothing more.
Ned walked the length of the deck once, then down to the mid-hold and checked each lock himself. The steward waited, offering nothing unless asked.
When he returned above, the tide had begun to shift. The sun was low behind the tower, and gulls cried over the water.
The wind smelled clean.
He said nothing. When the rope was loosed and the ship pulled from the dock, Ned stood at the stern alone, hands gloved, eyes forward, not back.