Snow fell in lazy spirals over the courtyard, softening the edges of stone and wood. Elias, now eight years old, stood at the edge of the training yard, arms folded as he watched Robb hack at the air with a wooden sword. The boy was four, his small frame dwarfed by the practice blade, but he swung with unshakable determination, his breath coming out in frosty bursts.
"You'll split your own foot before you split an enemy," Elias called, voice carrying just enough amusement to keep it from being a scold.
Robb puffed out his cheeks. "I'm stronger than I look!"
"Strength is useless without control." Elias crossed the snow, taking the sword from Robb and adjusting the boy's stance. "Feet apart. Knees bent. You're bracing against the wind, not standing for a feast. And keep your grip firm, but not so tight your hands go numb."
Robb tried again, imitating the posture. "Like this?"
"Better," Elias said.
From the steps of the keep came the sound of soft laughter. He turned to see Sansa—only two years old—bundled in a thick fur-lined cloak, clutching the hand of her mother's maid. Her red-gold hair caught the pale winter light, and her wide blue eyes followed every swing of Robb's sword.
She released the maid's hand and ran toward Elias, her small boots leaving tiny prints in the snow. "I want to try!"
Elias crouched down to meet her gaze. "You're too small for a sword, Sansa."
"I'm not too small," she insisted, her voice clear and stubborn for someone barely past her second nameday.
"Ladies do not play at swords," came Catelyn's voice, smooth but edged with authority. She descended the steps with Septa Mordane close behind, both women wrapped in heavier cloaks than Elias was wearing.
Elias didn't rise. "There are different ways to protect yourself," he told Sansa quietly. "Not every weapon is a sword."
Her eyes lit with curiosity. "Like what?"
"Knives. Bows. Even words. All can be as sharp as steel." He stood, looking at Catelyn as he added, "Better to have a way to stop harm from to yourself than wait for rescue."
Catelyn's jaw tightened. "The Faith teaches that a lady is protected by her family, her husband, and the law."
Elias didn't look away. "And when her family is gone? When her husband is the one who means her harm? The law will not save her."
Septa Mordane's lips pinched. "You speak like a sellsword, not a lord's heir."
"I speak like someone who intends to keep his kin alive," Elias said, his voice calm but leaving no room for argument.
Catelyn's gaze held his for a long moment before she turned to Sansa. "Come, my sweet. Your needlework waits."
Sansa hesitated, looking between her mother and Elias. Her voice was soft but sure when she asked, "Will you show me later?"
"Yes," Elias said without hesitation.
That afternoon, with Catelyn and Mordane occupied in the solar, Elias found Sansa in the nursery with Robb and Jon. Robb was stacking wooden blocks; Jon, three years old and smaller than his half-brother, sat nearby with a cloth doll, chewing on its ear.
"Come here, Sansa," Elias said, beckoning her over.
From beneath his cloak, he produced a small wooden dagger—blunted but balanced. "Hold it like this." He demonstrated the grip. "Point low if they're close, high if they're far. Never take your eyes off them."
Sansa gripped it with both hands, frowning in concentration. She jabbed at the air, giggling when Elias corrected her form. Robb quickly abandoned his blocks to join in, insisting he could do it better. Even Jon toddled over, tugging at Elias's leg until he was handed the dagger. The boy laughed when Elias guided his hand through a clumsy thrust.
When the lesson ended, Elias tucked the dagger away. "You tell no one," he said quietly to Sansa. "If they ask, you were playing at stories."
Her face was solemn. "I promise."
Later, Elias found his father in the solar, bent over a table covered in maps and parchments. Ned Stark looked up when Elias entered, his grey eyes softening slightly.
"How are your lessons with Ser Rodrik?" Ned asked.
"Progressing," Elias replied. "I've been working with the spear, sword, and bow. And I've been reading Maester Luwin's records on the Wolfswood."
Ned smiled faintly. "Always thinking ahead. You'll need that one day."
Elias stepped closer, glancing at the maps. They were trade routes, supply tallies, and reports from distant holds. "You spend a lot of time looking south," Elias said.
Ned's brow furrowed. "The realm is larger than the North. We have obligations."
"And the South has never cared for us unless they needed our swords," Elias said quietly.
Ned's eyes sharpened, but he didn't rebuke him. "One day you'll understand that ruling means more than guarding your own walls."
"One day," Elias said, though he wasn't sure they were speaking of the same thing.
That evening, Winterfell welcomed guests from Bear Island. Lady Maege Mormont rode through the gates with two of her daughters—Dacey, already broad-shouldered and strong for her age, and Jorelle, who was only a year older than Elias.
The Mormonts came dressed for war rather than court, their cloaks thick, their boots mud-stained. They spoke loudly, laughed easily, and seemed more at home in the cold than many of the Stark bannermen.
Jorelle's dark hair was braided tight, her grey-green eyes sharp. She carried herself with the quiet poise of someone who knew her worth.
"You're the one they call the Dayne boy," she said without greeting.
Elias regarded her evenly. "I'm Elias Stark."
Her lips quirked. "Good. I don't care for nicknames."
At the feast that night, Bear Island warriors filled the benches, their laughter booming over the roar of the fire. Jorelle sat near the high table, more interested in watching the hall than eating. Elias joined her between courses, noting how her gaze lingered on the mounted weapons along the wall.
"Which would you choose?" he asked.
She pointed to a long-handled axe. "Heavy enough to break a shield, long enough to keep me breathing. You?"
"The spear," Elias said. "It keeps my enemies where I want them—far away."
Her eyes met his, and in that moment, an unspoken understanding passed between them.
By the time the Mormonts departed two days later, Sansa was begging for another lesson with the wooden dagger. Robb had taken to following Elias into the yard, demanding to practice swordplay, and even Jon brightened whenever Elias entered a room.
They were still children—too young to understand the dangers of the world—but Elias understood all too well. And he had already begun deciding who would need the most training, who would be the easiest to sway toward the Old Gods, and how best to protect them when the time came.