Ever since Bran Stark had broken his legs, he had developed a particular fondness for the tower on Winterfell's city wall. From there, he could observe the landscape with his bronze telescope, tracing the hills, forests, and rivers in a way that made him feel connected to the world beyond his confined mobility.
Since Robb Stark returned to Winterfell, Bran found himself with more free time than ever. The young Lord of Winterfell spent nearly every hour in the council room, meeting with his bannermen or poring over maps, tracing troop movements and trade routes with a finger. He simply had no time to accompany his younger brother, and Bran, though curious, accepted the solitude.
On this cold, blustery morning, Winterfell and its surrounding lands were tinged with the melancholy of early winter. Most leaves had turned yellow and spiraled to the ground, a quiet herald that the harsh season was approaching. The wild grass along the roadsides had begun to wither, losing its rich green hue. In the North, winter always arrived earlier than in the South, bringing a bitter edge to the wind and a somber tone to the landscape.
Bran lowered his telescope and turned to Maester Luwin. "Whose banner is that? A silver field with two black towers and a golden sun hanging above them?"
Luwin, who had spent many hours teaching Bran about the heraldry of Westeros, took the telescope and peered through it. "That is the contingent from Twin River City, a branch of House Karstark—your distant cousin, Eddard Karstark's banner."
Bran nodded slowly. A shadow of gloom crossed his face as he sat atop Hodor's back. He remembered the day Robb had first summoned his vassals to Winterfell. Eddard Karstark had been present at the feast, whispering alongside his brother. Bran thought, with a pang of melancholy, that if he were in Eddard's position—crippled, unable to walk—he might have chosen death over enduring such helplessness.
Maester Luwin tucked the telescope into his sleeve. "Come along. The city is about to become lively. You should also accompany your brother to meet his most important vassal—someone who may even become your brother-in-law someday."
Bran nodded obediently. "Let's go, Hodor." Summer, his loyal direwolf, followed close behind, padding silently over the cold stone.
To the south of Winterfell, the rumble of hooves heralded the approach of an army of over two thousand men. Guards atop the walls quickly recognized the banners and hurried into the city to deliver the news.
Soon, a small cavalry contingent bearing the Running Wolf Flag crossed Winterfell's inner and outer drawbridges, riding swiftly to meet the approaching force. Leading them was none other than Robb Stark, King in the North.
Eddard rode at the front of his contingent, and from a distance, he spotted Grey Wind. The direwolf's amber eyes flickered with recognition, almost as if it felt a subtle kinship with him.
"Eddard!" Robb called out as he galloped forward, his youthful energy evident. He seemed less like a lord and more like a brother eagerly welcoming an old friend.
Beside him rode Eddard's elder brother, Harrion Karstark, Smalljon Umber—missing an arm—and Daisy Mormont, heir to House Mormont. As Robb drew near, he reined in his horse and smiled. "You've had a long journey."
Eddard returned the smile. "It's manageable. But after a year in the South, I had somewhat forgotten how brutal winter in the North can be."
He wore a silk-lined, thick wool coat over chainmail and a bearskin cloak on top. Even so, the chill of the northern air bit at him. His soldiers were equipped with cold-weather clothing, enough to cope for now, though the real winter would challenge even the hardiest of men.
Robb nodded. "The cold winds blow, winter approaches, and the situation is precarious. It's good that you're here. I need advice to navigate this mess."
Since returning, Robb had realized the true limitations of his forces. To the east, the Boltons held their strongholds. To the west, the Ironborn lingered, seeking opportunities to raid. And with winter coming, the morale and security of both vassals and common folk required the guidance of a strong hand in Winterfell. Reluctantly, Robb knew he needed Eddard's counsel.
Eddard grinned. "Then tell me the specifics."
Robb gestured toward the city. "We'll discuss it inside."
The soldiers not part of the immediate council camped nearby, while Eddard, accompanied by personal retainers, crossed the moat and entered the castle.
By the gate, a burly man carried a boy in a basket on his back. "Bran?" Eddard greeted politely. He was not inherently rude, and he felt sympathy for his crippled kin.
Bran's gaze was hesitant. He wished to approach his future brother-in-law, but he feared potential mockery. He nodded slightly, keeping his eyes averted. Summer, sensing Bran's emotional tension, howled—a low, defiant sound that seemed to echo across the courtyard.
Most horses, unused to direwolves, grew agitated. A few reared, whinnied, or rolled their eyes in panic. The elite cavalry quickly regained control, but the tension remained. Eddard calmed his own mount and met Grey Wind's yellow gaze. "Summer, back! Go back!" Bran called, his voice urgent.
Grey Wind, sunning lazily earlier, now rose, eyes narrow, glowing with intent. Summer whimpered and bolted into the dark stairwell. Grey Wind howled and followed, keeping the wolves at bay. Eddard, familiar with direwolves, waved away the minor hostility.
Bran's face flushed with apology. "I'm really sorry. Summer isn't usually like this."
Robb, noticing a flicker of light in Eddard's palm, asked, "Are you alright?"
Eddard smiled. "Of course. I'm not some weakling like Joffrey, who's scared of a wolf."
Robb chuckled, reminded of Robert Baratheon's visit to Winterfell. "Indeed. Joffrey is nothing but an empty shell. Let's proceed. I've arranged a feast in your honor."
Inside, the hearth fire blazed, driving away the chill. Winterfell's halls were simple but spacious, adorned with banners and taxidermy. Eddard paused before a bear head mounted on the wall. Its fangs glistened in the firelight, its eyes fierce.
"This was caught by my grandfather, Lord Rickard," Robb said, offering the head as a gift. "If you like it, consider it part of Sansa's dowry."
Eddard politely declined. "No, Twin River City's study isn't suited for this. It would be out of place."
He turned to business. A detailed map of the North lay on the wooden table, scattered with wooden flags. Deepwood Motte, Wolfswood, Karin Bay, and the western coast were marked with Ironborn ships. Dreadfort displayed a flayed man hanging upside down, while direwolves represented Stark forces across the North.
"You've dispersed your forces?" Eddard asked, frowning.
Robb explained. "Though we've pushed the Ironborn back to sea, the northern coastline is long. High tides allow them to land almost anywhere, and sometimes they sail inland along rivers, raiding villages. Villagers need protection, which stretches our troops thin."
Eddard nodded. The Ironborn reminded him of early medieval Vikings—swift, ruthless raiders who returned to sea before any retaliation could be mounted. Winter would naturally curb their attacks, and fortresses were too late to build now. Migration offered the only viable protection for the populace.
"And the Dreadfort?" Eddard inquired.
"Roose Bolton refuses to negotiate," Robb said, his face darkening. "I sent Ramsay Snow with a chance to surrender—he ignored it and flayed my messenger. I gave mercy and he scorned it."
Eddard rubbed his forehead. "Ramsay is worthless to him now. Even if Walda Frey bears his child, the Old Flayer wouldn't care. Forget trying to negotiate. Focus on action."
Robb nodded. "Greatjon is already handling him."
Eddard studied the map and letters. The situation, though tense, was manageable. Winter favored the North, limiting Ironborn mobility. Balon Greyjoy's impending death would likely scatter the fleet, relieving Karin Bay. Dreadfort, isolated and unsupported, could not endure much longer.
Eddard asked cautiously, "Robb, you called me urgently—does this involve the Wall?"
"Yes," Robb admitted. "Maester Luwin received a letter from Lord Commander Mormont. Tens of thousands of wildlings plan to cross the Fist of the First Men, and the Night's Watch requires reinforcements. The Others have also been spotted Beyond the Wall—in frightening numbers."
Eddard nodded, the gravity of the situation sinking in. The North was vast, winter was coming, and threats were multiplying—from the Iron Islands to the frozen reaches beyond the Wall. Yet, with careful planning, strong leadership, and timely reinforcements, he believed they could face what was coming.
Füll bōøk àvàilàble óñ pàtreøn (Gk31)