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Chapter 3 - Chapter 2 – The Seeds of the North

The morning air in Winterfell was sharp enough to bite. Elias's breath fogged as he crossed the courtyard, boots crunching on fresh snow. He liked the cold—it cleared the mind, made each movement crisp. The torches along the walls burned low, their light barely touching the gray of predawn.

Ser Rodrik Cassel was already in the training yard, pacing in front of the weapon racks like a sentry awaiting his relief. His thick white mustache bristled as he saw Elias approach.

"You're early," Rodrik said, voice roughened by years of barking orders.

"A lord's enemies won't wait for him to wake," Elias replied, planting himself before the rack.

Rodrik gave him a look that hovered between amusement and approval. "Then let's see if you can keep those words when your arms ache. Pick a weapon."

The rack offered swords, axes, shields, and spears of varying lengths. Elias's hand went to the spear immediately. It felt right in his grip light enough to move quickly, long enough to keep an opponent at bay.

"A sensible choice for your size," Rodrik said. "The spear keeps a man alive when the sword would get him killed. But it needs precision. Keep your point on me. Make me work to get close."

They began slowly, circling each other. Rodrik's first lunge was deliberate, giving Elias time to pivot aside and tap the padded leather of the old knight's jerkin.

"Good. But again."

The second pass was faster. Elias blocked high, then drove the butt of the spear toward Rodrik's leg. The knight sidestepped, answering with a sweeping strike that Elias narrowly avoided by twisting away.

Rodrik pressed harder, mixing feints with real attacks, forcing Elias to shift from defense to counterattacks. By the time they broke apart, his arms trembled with effort.

"You've an eye for distance," Rodrik said. "Don't lose it. Now—drop the spear. Sword."

The blunted steel felt heavier in Elias's hand. His first swings were cautious, testing the balance. Rodrik came in quicker now, his blade a blur. Elias blocked one strike, let another glance off his guard, and waited for the moment the knight overextended. When it came, Elias stepped in and tapped the man's shoulder.

Rodrik grunted, a flicker of respect in his eyes. "You're patient. Patience wins fights more often than speed."

They ended with the bow. Elias nocked arrow after arrow, the twang of the string echoing in the yard. Most found the target, though his arms shook from the strain of repeated draws.

When they were finished, Rodrik clapped him on the shoulder. "You've the makings of a fighter. Keep rising before the sun, and you'll be more than a lord with a sword—you'll be a man others think twice about crossing."

"I'll be here," Elias promised.

After a wash and a quick meal, Elias headed to the library. The warmth from the hearth seeped into his bones, and the scent of parchment, leather, and candle wax filled the air. Maester Luwin looked up from his desk, a quill in hand.

"Back so soon? We've only just covered the laws of inheritance."

"Today I want maps," Elias said, setting his gloves aside. "And anything on the animals and plants of the North. Hunting manuals too."

Luwin's brows rose, but he retrieved the requested works without comment. Soon the table was buried under rolled maps of the Wolfswood, illustrations of elk skeletons, diagrams of owl wings, and notes on the mineral veins of the mountains.

Elias traced a river route with his finger, noting where it narrowed into a natural choke point—perfect for controlling movement or trade. He studied the tensile strength of iron, the malleability of copper, the way clay could be hardened in fire.

One heavy tome, bound in dark leather, detailed the beliefs of the First Men. He lingered on the passages describing how the Old Gods' followers shaped their lands, tending sacred groves and binding oaths beneath the watch of heart trees. He committed the words to memory.

The midday meal was a quieter affair, though the Great Hall still buzzed with the low hum of conversation. Elias sat near the end of the high table. Beside him, Robb squirmed in the nursemaid's arms—barely a year old, his auburn hair already thick. Near the fire, Jon Snow lay swaddled, no more than a few weeks old.

When Jon began to cry, Elias crossed the hall without hesitation and lifted him from the cradle. The baby quieted almost immediately, dark eyes blinking up at him.

That was when Septa Mordane's voice cut through the air, sharp and cold. "The high table is no place for a bastard."

The hall fell silent. Even the clink of cutlery stopped.

Elias turned slowly. "The high table is for those of my blood. Jon Snow is my brother."

"Your brother by father only, and not by marriage," Mordane said, her mouth tightening. "Custom—"

"—does not bind the Starks of Winterfell," Elias interrupted, his tone flat but unyielding. "Not while I have a voice in this hall. One day, I will decide who sits here, and Jon Snow will always have a place."

A murmur ran through the room. Lord Karstark's eyes flicked from Mordane to Elias, unreadable. Lord Glover hid a small smile behind his cup. Mordane flushed and stepped back, glancing toward Catelyn.

Catelyn sipped her wine, face composed. "We'll speak of this later," she said, her voice carrying a note that made it clear the matter was not forgotten.

Elias returned to his seat, Jon still in his arms, feeling the weight of the lords' eyes on him. That was fine. Let them watch.

That afternoon, Benjen found him in the training yard, still working the spear against a straw target.

"You've been at it for hours," Benjen said, leaning against the fence.

"I'm not ready to stop," Elias replied, loosing another thrust that tore the target's sackcloth.

Benjen stepped into the yard, drawing a blunted blade. "Then let's see how you fare against me."

The bout was different from Rodrik's drills. Benjen moved faster, closing distance in sudden bursts. Elias learned quickly, adjusting his stance, angling the spear to deflect strikes before darting back to safety. Twice Benjen got inside his guard; twice Elias recovered by forcing him out again.

When they stopped, Benjen grinned. "You think too much."

"Thinking keeps you alive," Elias said.

"And hesitation gets you killed," Benjen countered.

As the day faded, Elias climbed the walls of Winterfell. From here, the Wolfswood stretched out like a dark sea, the White Knife glinting faintly in the distance. He traced the walls with his gaze, noting the strengths—the thickest towers, the reinforced gate—and the weaknesses—places where ice piled high, spots where the parapets were narrow.

His mind returned to the maps he'd studied: rivers to dam, roads to straighten, land to reclaim. He imagined more than walls—he imagined habitats, guarded by creatures no enemy could anticipate.

One day, this fortress would not just withstand an army—it would feed one, arm one, and protect one without a single southern coin.

On his way back to his chambers, he passed through the godswood. The heart tree loomed in the moonlight, its red eyes seeming to catch the faint glimmer of the stars. Elias stopped before it.

"I'll be ready," he murmured. "When the time comes, I'll be ready for all of it."

The wind stirred the branches, scattering snow around him like pale petals.

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