Chapter 5 – The Tenth Winter
Winterfell woke slowly on the morning of Elias Stark's tenth nameday. A pale sun hung low in the sky, casting long blue shadows across the snow-covered courtyard. Smoke curled from the chimneys, the scents of roasting meat and baking bread mingling in the air.
Elias stood at his window, watching the keep stir to life. The clatter of buckets from the well, the shouts of stablehands in the yard, the distant clang of hammer on anvil from the forge—it was all familiar, yet this morning felt different.
Below, Robb—six years old now—was in the training yard with a wooden sword, practicing swings under Ser Rodrik's watchful eye. His feet still shuffled too much, but he was stronger than last year.
Near the kitchens, Sansa, only four, was running through the snow in a fur-lined cloak, chasing a scarf tossed to her by a laughing servant. Jon, five, stood off to the side, hands tucked into his sleeves, quietly watching the scene with a faint smile.
Arya, now two, was likely in the nursery, stubbornly resisting the nursemaid's attempts to keep her still. Bran had been born just months ago and was swaddled indoors.
Elias took in the sight of them all with a small, tight smile. They were his world. Not the South, not a king's court—this. These faces, these lives.
When he came down to the Great Hall, the place was already a flurry of activity. Servants moved between tables, setting out trenchers and cups. Garlands of pine and holly hung from the beams.
Ned Stark stood near the high table, speaking in low tones with Benjen and Maester Luwin over a rolled map. His father looked up at his approach, grey eyes softening.
"Ten years today," Ned said. "You've grown into your mother's height and my eyes."
Elias inclined his head. "I've grown into what I need to be."
Something unreadable passed through Ned's expression, but he only said, "There's still much to learn. Your time will come."
Elias didn't answer. He didn't want to talk about when his time would come. Today was for something else.
He slipped away before the feast could begin, making his way to his chambers where a leather satchel waited. Inside were the items he'd gathered over the past year, each one a small victory:
The bones and hide of a snow hare—taken from a winter hunt with Robb and Benjen, the others none the wiser when he kept them.
The feathers of a northern hawk—plucked from a carcass left in the snow by a fox.
A pouch of copper filings—quietly swept up from the smithy floor after a long day's work.
A shard of clear quartz—taken from a rocky outcrop in the Wolfswood during a spring ride.
He had carried these pieces in secret, waiting for the day the Old Gods promised his power would be fully his.
The godswood was silent as he entered, the snow untouched. The heart tree loomed ahead, its red eyes watching him with a solemn intensity.
He knelt before it, setting the satchel down.
The connection came slowly, like warm water creeping into cold hands. The ground beneath him seemed to hum, the sound deep and resonant, like the heartbeat of the earth.
Begin.
The word pressed into his mind without sound.
Elias laid out the hare's hide and bones, arranging the feathers along the spine, sprinkling copper filings over the heart, and placing the quartz shard at the skull's base.
He closed his eyes and let the image build in his mind. Swift. Small. Able to leap through snowdrifts and take to the air when pursued. He shaped long, powerful hind legs for bounding, wings strong enough for sudden flight, eyes sharp enough to see the twitch of a mouse's ear in the snow.
At first, the hare's nature resisted, clinging to the ground. The hawk's spirit fought to remain aloft. The two warred inside the vision, straining against his will.
His temple throbbed, and sweat pricked his brow despite the cold. He poured himself into the work, willing the copper to thread through the creature's blood, a spark of speed when it needed to flee. The quartz fused into the skull, sharpening every sense.
The snow steamed faintly around his hands.
Then came the sound—a faint crick-crick-crack of bones knitting, the whisper of feathers unfurling. The hide shifted, taking on the mottled white-and-grey pattern of snow and shadow.
It breathed.
When Elias lifted his hands, a creature crouched before him: the size of a fox, furred like a hare, winged like a hawk. Its gold-flecked silver eyes locked on him, unblinking.
One.
The drain hit him at once—his limbs heavy, his breath uneven. But there had to be two.
The second was harder. His vision blurred at the edges, his hands trembling. He almost lost the image twice, forcing himself to push past the resistance. When it was done, his nose bled from the strain, the crimson drops steaming where they hit the snow.
Two hare-hawks now sat in the snow, moving in eerie unison.
He carried them to a hollow in the outer wall he had been preparing for months. The space was sheltered, lined with moss and straw, with a gap in the stone for sunlight.
The hare-hawks hopped inside, testing their wings. One leapt to the ledge and back. The other tilted its head at him as if studying its maker.
"This is yours now," he murmured. "Grow strong. Stay hidden."
By the time he returned to the Great Hall, the feast was well underway. The heat of the fire washed over him, the scent of venison and fresh bread almost dizzying after the cold.
Robb waved him over, proudly showing a new practice sword Ned had given him. Sansa pressed a bundle of snowdrops into his hands, declaring she had found them herself. Jon simply met his eyes and gave a small nod, and that was worth more than the loudest cheer.
Benjen clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Where were you hiding all morning?"
"Nowhere important," Elias said, managing a faint smile.
But Catelyn's eyes lingered on him from across the table, narrowing slightly as she took in the faint smudge of blood he hadn't quite cleaned from his sleeve.
That night, long after the hall had gone quiet, Elias returned to the hollow. The hare-hawks were curled together, sleeping. He crouched, resting a hand lightly on their backs.
The bond was there—thin now, but growing. He could feel their breathing, their heartbeats, as if they were an extension of himself.
Back in his chambers, he unrolled a fresh sheet of parchment and began sketching. Not just hare-hawks—other shapes, other ideas. Balanced pairs. Environments to keep them thriving. A network of life that would outlast any crown.
Today had been only the beginning.