Chapter 67 – Return to Winterfell
The Wall – Castle Black, Council Chamber
Eddard Stark stood in silence, the letter trembling faintly in his hand.
The raven from King's Landing had brought grim news: Hand of the King Jon Arryn had died of illness. No details were given as to what illness—only that he was gone.
The letter also stated that King Robert Baratheon was already on the road north, bringing with him half the royal court. He intended to visit Winterfell and discuss matters of the realm. Preparations for the king's reception were to begin immediately.
Eddard's brow tightened.
Did Robert truly understand what was happening beyond the Wall? Did he have any notion of the growing threat of the Others? The entire North now stood beneath the looming shadow of the White Walkers. There was neither time nor strength to spare for feasts, hunts, and royal ceremonies.
And Jon Arryn's death…
That struck him hardest of all.
He had meant to write to Jon—to seek greater support from the Iron Throne for the defense of the Wall. Instead, this raven had arrived first.
Even now, Eddard found it difficult to believe that the gentle old man—the one who had fostered him and Robert like sons—was truly gone.
Robb, standing nearby, broke the silence.
"Father… what does the letter say?"
Eddard did not answer at once. After a long moment, he handed the parchment to his son.
Robb read quickly, eyes widening.
"The Hand is dead?"
"And King Robert is already on his way to Winterfell?"
He looked up in disbelief.
"Father… I'm sorry," Robb said softly after steadying himself. "Jon Arryn was like family to you."
Eddard nodded faintly, though his thoughts were elsewhere.
Jon Arryn's sudden death.
Robert's abrupt northern journey.
A royal court descending upon Winterfell at a time like this.
None of it felt like coincidence.
Beyond the Wall, the White Walkers were gathering strength. The free folk were still making their slow, perilous migration south. Dragon-glass weapons were in short supply. The North stood on the brink of war against the dead.
And yet now—another storm approached from the south.
Eddard folded the letter carefully.
"Prepare the horses," he said at last, voice firm though heavy. "I must return to Winterfell."
Castle Black would remain under the command of Jeor Mormont. The Wall must be held at all costs. But as Warden of the North, Eddard could not ignore the king's summons—especially not now.
If Robert had ridden north in person, it meant one of two things.
Either he sought comfort in an old friend…
Or something far more serious had driven him from King's Landing.
Robb knew well how deep his father's bond with Jon Arryn had been.
In his youth, Eddard had served as Jon's ward and squire. When the Mad King demanded that Jon surrender his young wards, Jon Arryn had refused outright—and raised his banners in rebellion instead, igniting the war against Targaryen tyranny.
Eddard gave a quiet nod.
"He was already an old man," he said softly. "I only hope his passing was not a painful one."
"Will you return to Winterfell, Father?"
"We will return," Eddard corrected gently. "The king himself is coming to Winterfell. It is the greatest honor House Stark can receive."
"You are the heir to Winterfell. When the king is welcomed, you must be present. To be absent would be seen as a slight."
Robb hesitated.
"We? But what of the Wall? Beyond it, the White Walkers and their wights are watching us. They could attack at any time. If we both leave—"
Eddard considered this carefully before answering.
"The Wall has stood for thousands of years. It will not fall overnight. The northern forces will remain under Lord Commander Jeor Mormont's authority for now. When Saelen returns, command will pass to him."
Jeor Mormont inclined his head. "The Wall's defenses are already on a stable footing. With me and Saelen overseeing matters, there will be no major problems in the short term."
He continued, "And in truth, the Wall cannot survive without the Iron Throne's support. This visit may be an opportunity. Lord Stark can personally inform the king of the threat beyond the Wall and request additional grain and manpower."
Eddard nodded. That had been his thought as well.
The letter mentioned that King Robert Baratheon wished to "discuss matters of state." If Eddard judged correctly, Robert likely intended to offer him the position of Hand of the King.
At first, he had resolved to refuse. The North needed him now more than ever—how could he abandon his people to serve in the south?
But Mormont's words had shifted his thinking.
The Hand governed the Seven Kingdoms in the king's stead. If he accepted the office, he could marshal the strength of six kingdoms to reinforce the North and the Wall. That influence would far exceed what he could accomplish as a commander stationed at the Wall.
Robb suddenly spoke up.
"If the king is already on the road to Winterfell, what of Othell? He's escorting the wight south. Could they have missed each other?"
Eddard shook his head.
"They won't. The Kingsroad is the only proper route to King's Landing. They are bound to cross paths."
Having made his decision, Eddard wasted no more time. The following morning, he and Robb departed with twenty mounted riders for Winterfell.
---
Meanwhile, Othell had just left Riverrun and was heading toward the Kingsroad.
True to Saelen's instructions, Othell had displayed the captured wight everywhere he passed. From small villages of a few dozen souls to bustling towns and castles housing hundreds or thousands, he showed it without exception.
At times, he even invited bold knights to step forward and stab the creature, to see whether steel could kill it.
The result was always the same.
Watching proud southern lords pale and stumble backward in terror filled Othell with grim satisfaction. The shrieks of noble ladies in their castles amused him more than any tavern pleasure ever had. Even those knights who tried to mask their fear—legs trembling beneath polished armor—could not hide the dread in their eyes.
And when Othell told them that beyond the Wall lay countless such monsters… well, he did not shy from embellishing the horror.
The effect was immediate.
Every departure earned him purses of gold dragons—sometimes dozens, sometimes hundreds. The Riverlands proved as wealthy as their reputation suggested. Combined with contributions from northern lords earlier, Othell had amassed nearly ten thousand gold dragons.
His force had grown as well. What began as twenty riders had swelled to four or five hundred.
Most were hedge knights and sellswords; a handful were overlooked noble bastards and younger sons hungry for glory. When Othell cried, "For the living!" many answered—drawn by the promise of honor, fame, and perhaps coin.
He named them the Brave Company.
They brought their own arms and armor and demanded no wages. There was no reason to refuse them.
At that moment, a scout rode back at speed.
"Othell! There's a large encampment ahead."
"A large force?" Othell narrowed his eyes. "Did you see their banners, Markos?"
"The crowned stag and the lion," the scout replied. He was an experienced outrider who had ridden with Othell through several deadly skirmishes.
House Baratheon and House Lannister.
A newly joined knight spoke up. "That would be the royal host."
His name was Daniel Rivers, a bastard of a minor Riverlands house. Having seen real battle, he now served as Othell's second-in-command.
"I counted several hundred riders," Markos added.
Othell considered briefly, then gave his orders.
"I'll ride ahead. Daniel, keep the men in line."
Daniel nodded.
"Markos—take a few riders. Raise the direwolf banner. We'll go forward and see."
With that, Othell spurred his horse onward, the direwolf of House Stark snapping in the wind behind him.