Winter Town.
The sun was a pale, shy disc behind a veil of thin clouds, offering a pleasant warmth that belied the season. Winterfell was built atop sprawling hot springs, and that ancient heat seeped into the surrounding town, making it a refuge for the Northmen as the winds began to bite. In the spring and summer, four-fifths of the houses stood empty, silent monuments to the seasonal migration; now, as autumn waned, the streets were "packed" with people from every corner of the North, seeking the shelter of the Stark walls.
At a quiet street corner, Sansa Stark sat atop a white pony. She wore a gown of heavy black velvet that made her red hair look like a dying fire. Beside her, Hodor stood patiently, carrying Bran Stark in the wicker basket strapped to his massive shoulders. A dozen Winterfell guards, draped in grey direwolf pelts and polished mail, formed a protective ring around them.
Sansa watched the townspeople go by. They offered sincere, respectful greetings, a sharp contrast to the poisoned pleasantries and hidden daggers of King's Landing. She found herself momentarily unable to adapt, her head nodding in a practiced, courtly rhythm that felt too formal for the muddy streets of the North.
She had been back for a month, and the news Bran had shared was a heavy meal to digest. Her mother was trapped in Riverrun, serving as a political anchor for the restless Riverlords. Arya was a ghost, rumors placed her on a ship to Braavos, but the search parties had found nothing but empty roads.
And then there was her fiancé.
Her freedom had been bought by Tywin Lannister's failure at the Twins, a defeat orchestrated by Eddard Karstark. In her childhood memories, he was a cheerful, boisterous boy. Now, as a troop of cavalry emerged from the morning mist, she saw a man who looked like he had been forged in a different fire.
Under the silver-and-black banner of the Sunburst, Eddard Karstark rode at the head of a hundred riders. He looked like a knight from the old songs, resolute, robust, and commanding a fearful admiration from everyone who looked upon him. But as he drew closer, Sansa saw his eyes. There was no joy there, no romantic spark. Those grey-blue eyes held only the cold scrutiny of a judge.
She understood then: this was a family marriage. A transaction of blood and steel.
"Lord Karstark," Sansa said, her voice soft and perfectly modulated. "You must be tired from your journey."
Politeness was her armor, and it was thicker than his plate.
Eddard nodded, his gaze softening just a fraction. "It's fine, My Lady. I apologize for the delay. Winter is coming, and the matters at the Wall were... troublesome."
He should have been here yesterday, but the blue light he had seen in the forest had kept him awake. He had spent forty-eight hours ensuring Styr and Tormund herded the sixty thousand surviving Free Folk through the gate. He had watched the rear as the temperature plummeted and the Others emerged from the trees, ghastly white shadows on mammoths, their blue eyes watching the living retreat. He had stood until the last child was safe, and only then had he turned his horse south.
"The cold winds rise," Sansa said, sounding like a little adult. "We will protect each other until the spring returns and the sun rises."
In Westeros, she was already a woman grown. She was expected to marry, to provide heirs, and to manage a household. She looked at Eddard, trying to find the boy she once knew, but found only the "Lord of Thunder."
"Well said, My Lady," Eddard praised. "Jon Snow asked me to give you his regards."
Sansa's face lit up with a genuine warmth. "Thank you. I will write to him tonight."
She was surprised by his speech. Eddard Karstark didn't sound like a rough Northerner anymore; his mannerisms were measured, almost like the high-born knights of the capital.
"And Bran," Eddard said, turning to the boy. "Jon sends his love to you as well."
"My thanks will be in my sister's letter," Bran replied. He wasn't as resistant as he had been during Eddard's last brief visit. He sat tall in his basket, his eyes curious.
Eddard reached into his travel-stained surcoat and pulled out a small wooden box. "I promised you at dinner last time that I would bring you a new game. Something to keep the mind sharp while the body rests."
He handed the box to Bran. The boy opened it eagerly. Inside were thirty-two chess pieces carved from mammoth ivory. They were pure white and delicate, inlaid with gold and sparkling with rubies and sapphires.
"It's beautiful!" Bran gasped.
Eddard had asked the Night's Watch artisans to customize the pieces. The Rook was a Dragon, the Knight a Rider, the Bishop a Maester, and the King remained the King. It was a bridge to mend the "grudge" the original Eddard had left behind.
Sansa watched her fiancé. She felt a strange, fleeting pang of disappointment that there was no gift for her, but she masked it with a sensible smile. "Lord Karstark, I have prepared the guest rooms. Let us return to the castle. You and your men need hot food."
"Lead on," Eddard said.
As they rode toward the massive double walls of Winterfell, the conversation turned to the war.
"Bran, tell me," Eddard asked. "Why has Robb gone to the Wolfswood? Is Lord Glover in trouble?"
"No," Bran explained, hugging his chess box. "Lord Mallister sent a raven from Seagard. Balon Greyjoy is dead. Robb thought it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to reclaim the forests while the Ironborn are fighting over who gets the driftwood crown."
Eddard's pupils contracted. Balon was dead. That meant Euron "Crow's Eye" Greyjoy was about to arrive on the Silence. The madman with the Valyrian steel armor and the dragon-controlling horn was the real threat of the islands.
"Robb's vision is sharp," Eddard mused. "As long as the Ironborn are driven from the castles now, they won't find a foothold again for years. Our only remaining enemy is the Leech."
Within half a month, Styr would arrive with the thirty thousand Free Folk and the giants. Eddard planned to lead them straight to the Dreadfort, surrounding Roose Bolton and starving him into a memory.
"That's good news then," Sansa said, her heart settling at Eddard's confidence.
The party passed through the gates. The guards headed for the barracks, while the Starks and Karstarks shared a sumptuous family dinner. Rickon threw a tantrum about their mother being away, and it took both Sansa and Maester Luwin to calm the five-year-old.
Eddard spent the afternoon playing chess with Bran. He was a terrible player, but he was astonished by Bran's talent; the boy managed a hard-fought draw by sunset.
That night, Eddard collapsed into his bed, the weariness of the Wall finally catching up to him.
In the depth of his sleep, he suddenly snapped his eyes open.
A pitch-black raven sat on the headboard of his bed. It was unnervingly still. On its forehead, a third eye blinked, a milky, wet organ that seemed to look right through his skull. The bird watched him for a heartbeat, then flapped its wings and vanished into the shadows of the rafters.
Eddard sat up, gasping. He looked at the headboard, but it was empty. The room was silent.
"The Three-Eyed Raven," Eddard whispered to the dark. "What does it want with a Karstark?"
He looked up at the ceiling, his mind racing. The Game of Thrones was almost won, but the Game of Gods was just beginning.
[System Notification: Narrative Pivot: The Sight.]
[Status: Observed by the Bloodraven.]
[Quest Updated: The Dreadfort Encampment.]
[Soul Power Gained (Relationship Mending): 150 SP.]
Drop Some Power Stones Plz.
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