Chapter 64: Winterfell and the North
The wind clawed at Winterfell's grey granite walls like a starving wolf, howling through arrow slits and rattling shutters in the stone solar. Lord Eddard Stark sat hunched over the scarred oaken table, a single tallow candle guttering against the gloom, casting long shadows across maps of the wolfswood and ledgers tallied in Ned hand. Robb slept upstairs, Jon gods-knew-where in the kitchens with wildling games. The North felt heavier these days without the presence of its beloved Demon, Catelyn's in the sept. Peace was a cold bedfellow.
A knock cut the quiet. Maester Luwin entered, chain clinking soft, face drawn under his grey robes. In his hand, a scroll sealed with black wax—a roaring giant's head, Umber's mark."My lord," Luwin said, voice measured as always. "Word from Last Hearth."
Ned broke the seal himself, unrolled the thick vellum. Greatjon's hand—bold strokes, ink blotted like blood-spatter.
Lord Stark,
Rogar Umber's Lord of the Last Hearth, My father is dead. Passed at dawn, wounds finally claiming him. Fought to live to the last breath, but old gods have claimed him. North mourns one of its teeth.
GreatJon Umber
Ned's jaw tightened, parchment crumpling slight in his fist. Rogar—bull of a man, laughed like thunder, stood beside Rickard ,his father at the wars . Stood behind Starks in the Trident. Took a spear meant for Artos once, laughed it off through the pain. Gone. Winterfell felt colder.
Luwin waited, eyes keen behind his chain. "Greatjon honors the old ways, I see. He has called for the Starks and Winterfell grace to be the next Lord of the House. Fitting for such a lord of the North."
Ned nodded slow, rolling the scroll tight. "Rogar deserved better than festering slow. Fought for my father, for Robert's mad claim. Last Hearth'll roar emptier without him."
"Indeed, my lord." Luwin folded hands. "A great house loses its head. Someone must stand for Winterfell at the rites. Custom demands it—Stark blood to honor Umber blood.Its a respect Lord Rogar Umber deserves but your schedule and young Rob too little."
Ned's gaze lifted, grey eyes flat as polished steel. "I can't leave.A Stark always needs to be in Winterfell . Benjen's Moat Cailin now—Moor Stark, aye and he's chained there with new House responsibility."
Luwin inclined his head. "True, my lord. Yet Umber's no minor hold. Rogar fought beside Lord Rickard, bled for you at the bells. Respect must be paid—a Stark voice atleast, or whispers start. 'Winterfell forgets its own,' they'll say. Especially after the Lord Artos fiasco."
Ned stared into the flame, jaw working, Robb babe-in-arms, himself the anchor. ."Send raven to Last Hearth," Ned said, voice low, certain. "Winterfell grieves with Umber. My regrets I cannot come. "
Luwin " I get my Lord you are busy but you can't ignore and slight the Umbers like that "
Ned stares heavy in Luwin eyes "But House Stark sends its heart—my brother Artos will stand for us."
Luwin blinked, chain glinting as he straightened. "Artos, my lord? Last word we had... rumors from Skagos. A bastard child,from Lord Artos Lover . Whole of North knows and say he abandoned the name after your... disagreement."
Ned met the maester's eyes, unflinching. "He'll come. Send the letter to the Umbers . I know my brother he will come to pay his respect. Artos has growl enough left. Time the pack howls together, even if for a short while. Enough tantrums. I erred and make a mistake with the sept—family bleeds for it. Abandoning kin's too far, even for him. He'll answer.He will handle it I trust my brother. He is my blood . He is a Stark no matter what he says."
Luwin hesitated, lips thin. Maester's learned doubt, aye—Stark brothers sundered, Artos fled east to sellsword gold. But Ned's word was iron. "As you command, my lord. The raven flies at first light."
Ned nodded curt, turning back to maps. Luwin bowed out, chain whispering. Door shut. Ned sat alone, candle spitting. Come home, brother. North needs teeth. They miss thier Demon. I miss my little brother.
White HarborWaves hammered the harbor mole like war-drums, spray sheeting across the deck of Sea Hammer. Lord Wyman Manderly puffed atop his merman banner, vast as a beached whale in velvet and sealskin, face creased deep. News from Last Hearth hit like a squall—Rogar Umber dead, pyre smoking already.
"Gods piss on it," Wyman rumbled, fist thumping gilt chair. "Rogar—the giant is dead huh. Grave news. "
Wylis stood beside, solemn oak to his father's tide. "Greatjon's strong, Father. Young, but Umber through. Still... rites need witnesses. Stark send anyone?"
Wyman hawked, spat over rail. "Ned's hands tied—Winterfell, babes, Benjen is now a MoorStark. But mark me, word'll come. Umbers and Starks—bond older than most families. Artos Stark," Wyman murmured, smile sly. "Demon abroad will come home for Rogar. Ned will choose him to be the representative."
Wylis " Are you sure father about Artos . Even if he came , will it resolve. He abandons the name himself and will Artos even tolerate it. Will North accept it."
He clapped Wylis. "Oh like that would be enough for the brothers to be enemy. Oh whatever they do , don't be a fool to think they would not be the first one to tear the neck out of thier enemies for each other. Artos would come himself and kill half the realm if someone threatened Lord Eddard Stark."
Moat Cailin
Benjen Stark—MoorStark now, by Ned's and Artos wishes —stood ankle-deep in fen muck, overseeing half-built towers under sullen skys, air thick with peat rot and pine tar.
Benjen throws the letter in his hands, gut sinking. Rogar dead. Fuck.He read by torch in the watery hall, flames dancing shadows on damp stone. Greatjon's words blunt. Ned chained to Winterfell, aye. Benjen to this swamp hell.
"Lord MoorStark?" Bert ventured, helm under arm.
Benjen crumpled parchment. "Rogar's gone. Make preparations to go to Last Hearth "
Bert nodded grim. "I'll prepare the men, my lord. Honor Umber that's the least we could do for him to pay our respects."
Benjen stared into fen dark. Essos wanderer. You will be Coming home, you prick. " Artos'll answer. Always does for Umber. Won't you want to go Bert. You will meet him after a long time."
Bert " No , he handed me responsibility and it is here. You go my Lord . I think he will understand."
Karhold
Rickard Karstark hunched by hearth in his dour hall, snow-clogged banners limp overhead. Mormont ravens brought word—Rogar Umber cold, . Karstark face soured, fist cracking ale-tankard."Fucking Umbers," he growled to his sons. "Rogar—bull through Robert's Rebellion, took heads like wheat. Now dead so coldly and lonely. I always thought he would die in a war killing ten's of men with his death. Old Gods aren't that merciful in the way of death."
Rickard spat in fire.
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