Eddard VI

Lord Stark looked down on the yard below. Absentmindedly, he kicked the railing along the walkway to clear off the light dusting of snow that had been accumulating on his boots. All of Winterfell was covered in a thin film of soft powder, but the grey clouds above promised that more might be on the way.

He watched his son and heir, Robb, practice with the greatsword Ice. It was no easy thing, training with Valyrian steel, which was like to notch swords and shiver shields, so light and fast you might cut your partner by accident. Arya mentioned in her letters that she could only safely use Dark Sister against Lord Domeric, who had a blade of his own, and was fast enough to catch and turn her cuts. Robb, in contrast, had no such luck, and had ruined three or four of poor Jory's tourney swords in turn. There was no mistaking it: Robb was no boy, not anymore. He had a man's beard and looked broad and strong with Ice clutched in his gauntleted fists. Ned's heir had been a man wed for several years and had fathered a daughter and a son. Little Rickard was only three months old, but loud and strong for all that. He had his mother's Dornish coloring, save the eyes, which were unmistakable Tully blue.

"My lord!" Maester Luwin called to get his attention, straining to be heard over the action and making Ned start.

"Yes?" Ned answered, perhaps a little more testily than Luwin deserved.

The grey-robed maester swallowed heavily. "The white raven has come. Winter, true winter, is here at last."

Eddard lifted his head, noting the darkening skies. The long autumn was a mercy. Now the storm would begin for true. "Any other news?" Ned asked. He hoped for word from Jon. Things in Dorne had been terribly queer, cool and comfortable with generous rains. Lady Jynessa, who had letters from her mother and brother at Blackmont, reported much the same.

"Lord Bolton sends another of his reports," Luwin reported, only sounding slightly disapproving.

Ned smiled despite himself. "I'll take it up with Robb when he's done."

Domeric Bolton believed being "detail-oriented" was the mark of a skilled battlefield commander, and Ned did not disagree. "Even the slightest scrap of information can be the difference between life and death," he'd told Ned once. "All warfare is information warfare." Thus, the letters they received from the Dreadfort often proved, shall we say, dense. Every obsidian weapon, every pot of wildfire accounted for, every known wielder of a Valyrian blade, and a dozen other things would be updated, every single time. Bolton kept him abreast of Arya's training, and how things fared at the Dreadport, and half a hundred other matters.

Still, he hoped for word from Jon. Two years gone, Jon had written Eddard in great dismay, fearing that Carmyn Uller had not been true to him. "I saw a lifelike mosaic of Ashara Dayne at Starfall. She had black hair, not silver-gold," it read.

The gods jape with us all, Ned thought. He sent a reply assuring Jon that Carmyn had been true and Ned knew precisely why the babes were colored thus, but the information could not be entrusted to a raven. Eddard meant to go down to Dorne for a visit, but the trip kept getting put off for other matters. He couldn't even get away long enough to see Cat and the children at Riverrun. Now there was word of a plague in Oldtown, and Prince Doran had declared that no one would enter Dorne until it passed. Thank the gods this autumn sickness had not spread there already.

Ser Rodrik declared they had enough for one day, and so the men quit the yard. That might be for the best. From what Ned could see, the air was growing chiller by the second. Once he had a roof over him again, Stark took off his cloak and shook it out, leaving the stones beneath his feet damp with melting snow. A servant brought him some mulled wine, and he settled into his place in the high seat of the great hall to go over this letter from Lord Bolton. The evening meal would be served within the hour, but there was no reason he couldn't read in here rather than his solar. With Cat gone, he preferred places with folk about. His chambers were dark and lonely.

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Robb was not far behind him, red-faced from the cold, and warming his hands over a burning brazier. At this time, Jynessa was usually with the babes in the nursery. "What are you reading, Father?" he asked.

"The latest missive from the Dreadfort. Bolton proposes a scheme to deploy what he calls a 'quick reaction force' to the Wall, in case it is assailed by the Others."

Snowmelt dripped from Robb's boots as he stomped over. "Bolton presumes to command you?"

Ned chuckled. "Nay, Robb." He turned the letter over where his son could see. "Lord Domeric is always careful with his wording; you see 'urge' and 'suggest' often enough, but never 'command.' He believes, not without reason, that the Others bring the cold with them, and the coming of winter might bring with it resumed hostilities."

"Still," Robb complained, "you are the Warden of the North, not him."

"And Domeric Bolton is the finest knight and battlefield commander in the Seven Kingdoms. I would be a fool not to heed him, Warden of the North or no. See here? He proposes that we prepare a light mounted force that can rush to the wall, manning gaps the Watch can't, if it came under threat, but he likewise believes we ought to have a 'strategic reserve,' his words, against possible contingencies."

"Contingencies?"

"What if the Others go around the Wall, and not over it? Could they freeze the sea and walk over a bridge of ice? For that reason, we need to hold a force back, two forces, actually. Reinforcing the Wall can be accomplished by houses that are closer, Umber for one, and likely Glover and Karstark. Ah, and the Mountain Clans. For the reserve, he proposes two commands for east and west. Naturally, he would like to head the eastern reserve, and I see no reason why he should not. Bolton is terribly concerned about this 'bridge of ice' that might happen."

Though Robb was no doubt jealous of Domeric Bolton, who was not so much older than him, Ned could see his son was beginning to understand the sense in the plan. "Who would lead the western reserve?"

"You."

Robb recoiled as if struck. "Me?"

"Lord Domeric has great confidence in the Stark wolves. You have no idea how many times he's begged me to let you train with him. I would send him Bran if it wouldn't break Cat's heart, or Jon, if he wasn't in Dorne. Arya and her wolf go out ranging all the time, but I felt your place is here."

"I hunt with Grey Wind often enough!" Robb replied.

"You do," Eddard allowed. "Bolton includes the advice he often gives Arya. You must listen to your wolf. He is more than a wolf. A gift from the gods, some say. Wildlings used to be able to slip around the Shadow Tower. The Others might as well. We have stores of obsidian spears, arrows, and pots of wildfire. You know the Wolfswood well, which is where you would have to meet them, should the Wall prove an insufficient barrier."

"What about you, Father?"

Eddard let the parchment fall from his hands. "There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. I shall hold the castle and make sure your wife and children are safe." He smiled. "It's the least a grandfather can do."

They shared a warm smile. Yes, it was past time for Robb to have some part in this. He'd missed the war against the Lannisters and the ranging beyond the Wall. Should winter bring...

The ground moved beneath their feet, a terrible shaking that Eddard felt in his very bones. Robb fell to the ground, servants and soldiers joining him as Winterfell itself seemed to be tearing itself apart. Then, after about ten seconds of terror, it just stopped.

With trembling limbs, Robb pulled himself back up."What was that?"

Lord Stark didn't know, but the fire in the hearth had gone out, and it suddenly felt quite a bit colder in the great hall.