The autumn air was sharp and cold, carrying the scent of woodsmoke and the promise of a long winter. From the high gallery overlooking the training yard, Eddard Stark watched his children, a rare moment of quiet contemplation in a life that seemed to have been stripped of it. Catelyn's words from the night before still echoed in his mind, sharp and full of a mother's worry. "She is becoming wild, Ned. A daughter of a Lord cannot be seen climbing trees and fighting with the stable boys. You must speak with her."
Below, Robb stood with Bran, his posture a perfect mirror of Eddard's own when he was a boy learning from his father. He was patient, his voice calm and steady as he corrected Bran's grip on the bowstring. "Keep your elbow high, Bran. Don't pull with your arm; pull with your back."
Bran, his small face a mask of intense concentration, nodded and loosed another arrow. It flew wide, thudding into the outer ring of the target with a soft thump. He let out a frustrated sigh.
"You're thinking too much," a voice called out from the side.
Arya stood there, a small, half-sized bow in her hand, her expression one of fierce, impatient confidence. Before Robb could admonish her, she nocked an arrow, drew, and loosed in a single, fluid motion. Her arrow flew true, striking the dead center of the target with a satisfying thwack, not ten feet from where Bran stood.
"Arya!" Robb's voice was a sharp reprimand. "Gods, you could have hit him!"
"But I didn't," she shot back, a defiant glint in her eyes. "You just have to feel it, Bran. Stop trying to aim."
Eddard watched, a familiar conflict twisting in his gut. Catelyn was right, in the way of the south. A lady of a great house was meant for needlework and courtly graces, not for archery contests in the yard. His duty as a lord, as a husband, was to go down there, take the bow from his daughter's hands, and guide her back to the path that had been set for her. But he could not bring himself to do it. In Arya's fierce, untamable spirit, he saw the ghost of his sister, Lyanna. He remembered her at that age, out-riding and out-shooting all her brothers, her laughter a wild, free thing in the wolfswood. To crush that same spirit in his own daughter for the sake of southern sensibilities, for Catelyn's peace of mind, felt like a second, deeper betrayal.
It was only then, in the face of Arya's untamable nature, that he allowed himself to think of the one person who had ever truly understood her. Jon. He had always been the bridge between Arya's world and the rest of them, the one who had encouraged her, not chided her. But Jon was gone vanished into the east.
He was about to turn and leave, the memories too heavy, when the sound of the gate horn blew a single, sharp blast. A lone rider. Eddard frowned. They were not expecting any guests.
He watched from the gallery as the rider galloped into the courtyard, his horse lathered and breathing hard. The man was clad in the black of the Night's Watch, his face grim and weathered by the cold.
But then the man dismounted, and as he pushed back his heavy, fur-lined hood, Eddard saw his face. It was not a messenger.
"Benjen," he breathed, the name a whisper of disbelief.
Below, Robb and the children had seen him too. "Uncle Benjen!" Bran shouted, his archery practice forgotten as he ran towards the newcomer.
Eddard moved, his own long strides carrying him down the stairs and into the courtyard, his mind racing. Benjen was the First Ranger. He did not leave the Wall for social calls. For him to ride south with such haste, alone... it meant something was wrong. Terribly wrong.
He reached the courtyard just as his brother was clapping Robb on the shoulder, a weary but genuine smile on his face. He looked up and saw Eddard approaching, and the smile faded, replaced by a look of grim, urgent purpose.
"Ned," Benjen said, his voice low. "We need to talk."
Eddard nodded, his own face a mask of stone. "My solar."
He led his brother through the keep, the questions of the children and the curious stares of the household staff following them. He closed the heavy oak door of his solar behind them, the familiar room suddenly feeling like a war council.
"What is it?" Eddard asked, his voice direct. "Why are you here?"
Benjen did not waste words. "The dead walk, Ned."
Eddard stared at him, a cold feeling creeping into his stomach. "What are you talking about?"
Benjen's face was grim, his eyes haunted by a memory Eddard could not see. He told him everything. He spoke of the two rangers, Othor and Jafer Flowers, brought back from a ranging, their bodies unnaturally preserved. He spoke of the attack in the night, of the creature that had tried to kill the Lord Commander in his own chambers, a creature that could not be stopped by steel.
He spoke of its glowing blue eyes, of its unnatural strength, of the severed hand that had crawled on its own. He spoke of how it had only been destroyed by fire.
He spoke of Jon.
"Jon saved him," Benjen said. "Mormont. Jon saved his life. He was the one who saw it coming. He was the one who used the lamp."
Eddard sank into his chair, his mind reeling. Wights. The Others. These were the tales of Old Nan, the stories used to frighten children, not the stuff of reports from the First Ranger of the Night's Watch. It was madness.
"You're certain?" he asked, his voice a hoarse whisper. "You saw this yourself?"
"I saw the ashes, Ned," Benjen said, his voice hard as iron. "I saw the bodies of the seven men they killed. Good men. I saw the fear in the eyes of the survivors. This is not a story. It is a threat."
Eddard was silent for a long time, the implications of his brother's words washing over him. He knew Benjen. He was not a man given to flights of fancy or exaggeration. If he said it was true, it was true. The legends, the old tales his ancestors had fought against in the Long Night... they were real. And they were waking up.
"Gods be good," he breathed, running a hand over his face. "What does Mormont mean to do?"
"He means to fight," Benjen said. "But we are a handful of old men and green boys. We cannot face this alone. We need help. We need the North. We need the King."
Eddard looked at his brother, the full, crushing weight of their reality settling on him. "You think I can send a raven to Robert, telling him the dead walk? He will laugh, and so will every lord in the south. They will say the cold has frozen our wits. They do not believe in grumkins and snarks, Ben. They believe in gold, and power, and their own petty squabbles." He stood, pacing the room, the same way he had when Jon had confronted him. "We are alone in this."
"Alone or not, we have to do something," Benjen insisted, his voice sharp with a ranger's practicality. "We can't just sit here and wait for the end of the world."
Eddard stopped pacing and turned to his brother, his face a mask of weary frustration. "Do what, Ben?" he asked, his voice a low, tired growl. "Raise the banners? Send a thousand men with swords to fight shadows that cannot be killed by steel? What can we do?"
"We can prepare," Benjen shot back. "Mance Rayder has united the wildlings. That is a threat the other lords will understand. Mormont is planning a great ranging to find Mance. To talk to him. To find out why he's gathering them. Why now. Mormont thinks this is all connected. But to do that, he needs more men. More supplies."
Eddard listened, his mind already turning over the political impact. Benjen was right. The wildlings were a tangible enemy, a threat he could use. "I cannot call the banners for a war against the dead, Ben. Not without proof. You must understand my position. If I go to my lords with this, they will think I have gone mad."
He looked at his brother, his eyes full of the weight of his lordship. "But I can help. I will send what men I can spare. I will see that the Watch's storehouses are full before winter. But you must bring me proof. A captured wight... something. Anything. Without it, my hands are tied."
Benjen let out a long, weary sigh, the fight draining out of him. "See what you can do, Ned. This isn't just about the Watch. It's about all of us. All life."
Eddard nodded, the silence in the room heavy and oppressive. "You said Jon was there," he said finally, his voice quiet. "Is he... is he well?"
The question was a spark on dry tinder. The weariness on Benjen's face was instantly replaced by a flash of the raw, wounded anger from their conversation at the Wall. "He's well enough," Benjen said, his voice cold. "No thanks to you."
Eddard flinched. "Benjen—"
"Don't," Benjen cut him off, his voice a low, furious whisper. "He told me, Ned. Everything. About Lyanna. About the tower. About the choice you gave him." He took a step closer, his eyes blazing with a lifetime of unspoken questions. "You carried that all these years, and you never told me? Your own brother? Did you think I would betray you? Betray her?" He shook his head, a look of profound, bitter hurt on his face. "You let him grow up a bastard, despised in his own home, and then you forced him to leave it. All for a promise. Was your honor worth his happiness, Ned? Was it?"
Eddard's face, which had been a mask of a lord's concern, crumbled into that of a weary, grieving man. He sank back into his chair, the strength seeming to leave his legs. "His happiness?" he asked, his voice a hoarse whisper. "Or his life? What happiness would he have found as a head on a spike on the walls of the Red Keep?"
He looked up at his brother, his own eyes full of a pain that was fourteen years old. "You think that choice was easy? You think I enjoyed watching Catelyn shun him, watching him grow up with the stain of my supposed dishonor? I did it to keep him safe. That was all that mattered. The promise I made to Lyanna was not to make her son happy. It was to keep him breathing."
He leaned forward, his voice a low, intense growl. "He is gone now, Ben. He has been gone for months. He made his choice. My part in it is done. Do not stand in our home and question the sacrifices I made to protect our sister's son. You were not there. You did not see what Robert became. You did not see what they did to Elia's children. I did."
The fire in Eddard's voice died out, leaving grief. Benjen was silent, the fury in his own eyes tempered by the raw, undeniable pain in his brother's. The argument was over. There was nothing left to say.
Benjen nodded once, a sharp, curt gesture of acknowledgement, if not of forgiveness. "I will ride back at dawn," he said, his voice flat. "Send what you can." He turned and left the solar, leaving Eddard alone with his ghosts.