The weirwood's face wept.

  Not the gentle trickle of red sap that had marked the heart tree for generations, but a steady flow that pooled at its gnarled roots, staining the snow crimson. I stood before it, my breath clouding in the unseasonable cold that had descended upon Winterfell these past fortnight. Eight years as Warden of the North had taught me to trust in the predictable rhythms of our lands—the slow march of seasons, the certainty of winter's approach—but something had changed.

  Something was changing still.

  I knelt beside the tree, reaching out to touch the sticky substance. It felt warmer than it should, almost feverish against my fingertips. The old gods were restless. Even I, never one for superstition, could not deny it.

  "The smallfolk say it's an omen, my lord," came Ser Rodrik's voice from behind me. My master-at-arms approached with careful steps, his great white whiskers frosted from the cold. "They speak of strange lights beyond the Wall, of animals behaving oddly. Some even claim the Others walk again."

  "The Others have been gone for thousands of years, if they ever existed at all," I replied, though the words lacked conviction even to my own ears. "More likely it's the wildlings, growing bolder with each passing year."

  But wildlings could not explain the dreams.

  For three moons now, sleep had brought the same visions: the Wall, stretching endlessly beneath a starless sky; a grove of bone-white weirwoods surrounding a throne of ice; small figures—children, perhaps—moving among the trees; and always, seated upon that frozen chair, a shadowed figure whose face I could never quite glimpse. I would wake with the taste of iron in my mouth and the certainty that something ancient was stirring.

  I was not a dreamer. I was not Brandon, with his wolf's blood and wild imagination, nor Lyanna with her fierce intuition. I was Eddard Stark, steady and practical, a man of duty rather than fancy. Yet even I could not ignore what my senses told me.

  "Have there been more reports from the mountain clans?" I asked, rising to my feet.

  "Aye," Rodrik nodded grimly. "The Wulls speak of strange sounds in the night, and the Flints claim their hunters have gone missing. Nothing certain, mind you, but..."

  "But enough to warrant attention," I finished for him. "Send ravens to the mountain lords. Tell them I'll be traveling to hear their concerns within the fortnight."

  "As you wish, Lord Stark." He hesitated, then added: "There's also a raven from Moat Cailin. From your brother."

  A tightness formed in my chest. "I'll read it in my solar."

  After Rodrik departed, I remained before the heart tree, watching its crimson tears fall. The wolfswood loomed dark beyond the godswood walls, and above, gray clouds gathered like an army assembling for battle. Storm weather, and not the natural kind that brought only rain and thunder. This was the sort of sky my father would have called "a harbinger."

  *Winter is coming.* Our words, always. But this felt like something more.

  I pressed my palm against the weirwood's rough bark, feeling its ancient pulse. "What are you trying to tell me?" I whispered, but only the wind answered, rustling through leaves red as fresh blood.

  ---

  The Great Hall of Winterfell echoed with the sounds of the midday meal—the clatter of wooden trenchers, the murmur of conversation, the occasional bark of laughter from the guardsmen's table. From my place at the high table, I watched my family with quiet pride.

  Robb, now eight, sat straight-backed beside his mother, already showing signs of the lord he would one day become. His Tully-red hair caught the light from the high windows, but his serious expression was all Stark. Beside him, six-year-old Sansa was the picture of courtly grace, even at such a tender age. Little Arya, barely four, could scarcely keep still, much to Septa Mordane's evident frustration. And Bran, my youngest at two, sat in his mother's lap, solemnly studying a piece of honeyed bread as if it contained all the mysteries of the Seven Kingdoms.

  Catelyn caught my gaze and offered a small smile, though it did not quite reach her eyes. Eight years of marriage had forged a bond of respect between us, even genuine affection, but there remained a distance—a space between our hearts where a shadow dwelled.

  A shadow with a name: Jon Snow.

  "You seem troubled, my lord," Catelyn said softly as I took my seat beside her. "Is there news?"

  "Nothing of immediate concern," I replied, though it wasn't entirely true. I had not yet opened Benjen's letter, but its very existence stirred conflicting emotions. "The mountain clans report disturbances. I'll need to ride out soon."

  "So close to Bran's name day?" There was a hint of reproach in her voice.

  "I'll be back in time," I promised, reaching for my cup of ale. "It's likely nothing more than wildling raids."

  She nodded, accepting my judgment as she always did in matters of lordly duty, though I noted the slight tension in her shoulders. Catelyn was southern by birth, but she had embraced the North with admirable determination. Still, there were aspects of our ways—our beliefs, our connection to the old gods—that remained foreign to her. The weeping weirwood would only deepen such misgivings.

  "Papa," Arya said suddenly, breaking away from her septa to tug at my sleeve. "Mikken says there's a giant at the Wall. Is it true?"

  I smiled despite my heavy thoughts, running a hand over her wild dark hair. Of all my children, Arya bore the strongest resemblance to the Starks of old. To Lyanna. "Mikken's been telling tales again, has he? Well, there might be giants beyond the Wall, but they keep to the Frostfangs, far from our lands."

  "I want to see one," she declared, gray eyes flashing with determination.

  "No you don't," Sansa interjected primly. "Giants are savage creatures. Septa Mordane says ladies should concern themselves with beautiful things, not monsters."

  Before Arya could protest, Robb leaned forward. "If there are giants, Father, would they fight for us or against us if the wildlings came south?"

  A lord's question. Even at eight, my son thought of alliances and defense.

  "Giants answer to no one but themselves, Robb," I said carefully. "But they have little love for men on either side of the Wall. Best we keep our distance from them, and they from us."

  I did not add that giants, like the Children of the Forest and the Others, were likely nothing more than legends given substance by the long, dark winters of the North. Yet my dreams whispered otherwise, and the weeping weirwood seemed to mock my rational dismissals.

  "I've had word from your uncle Benjen," I said, changing the subject. "I'll be reading his letter after the meal."

  "Will Jon be coming to visit?" Robb asked eagerly. He and my nephew—no, my son, though not by blood—had formed a fast friendship during Jon's rare visits to Winterfell.

  I felt Catelyn stiffen beside me, her smile becoming fixed. "We'll see what your uncle writes," I said neutrally. "Moat Cailin is a long journey from here, especially with winter approaching."

  The mention of Jon cast a pall over our conversation. Catelyn busied herself with Bran, while Septa Mordane seized the opportunity to reclaim Arya. Robb, sensitive to the sudden shift in mood, turned his attention to his meal.

  I ate without tasting the food, my mind already racing ahead to Benjen's letter and what news it might contain from Moat Cailin. From Jon. From Benjen himself, who had taken a path none of us had expected in the aftermath of Robert's Rebellion.

  And perhaps, I thought with a mixture of anticipation and dread, news of another matter altogether—one that involved violet eyes and a southern beauty who had once captured my brother's wild heart. One whose secret I had kept for eight long years, alongside the other burdens I carried in silence.

  ---

  The winds howled outside my solar window, carrying the first flakes of an early autumn snow. I sat at my desk, Benjen's unopened letter before me, Ice propped against the wall nearby—a reminder of the weight of Stark tradition, of duty and honor that traced back eight thousand years.

  Eight thousand years of Starks in Winterfell. Eight thousand years of guarding the North against threats both human and... otherwise.

  I reached for the letter, then hesitated, my gaze falling instead on the small portrait resting on a shelf behind my desk. It showed all of us as children—Brandon, Lyanna, Benjen, and myself—painted during one of the rare visits of a traveling artist to Winterfell. Brandon stood tall and confident, his hand on Lyanna's shoulder. Benjen and I flanked them, both serious-faced boys with more solemnity than our ages warranted.

  Brandon. Even now, eight years after his death at the Mad King's hands, I could still hear his booming laugh, could still feel the shadow he cast—the elder brother I had never quite measured up to. Brandon the Bold, Brandon the Bright. The true heir to Winterfell, whose destiny had been stolen by Aerys Targaryen's cruelty.

  "What would you have done, brother?" I murmured to the painted face. "What would you make of the North now? Of the dreams? Of your son?"

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  Your son. Edric Sand, the boy with Stark features and violet eyes, hidden away at Starfall under Ashara Dayne's protection. Brandon's seed, sown during the tourney at Harrenhal and bearing fruit only after his death. A boy who should have been a Stark, who might even now be training in Winterfell's yard alongside Robb, had fate been kinder.

  Had I been braver.

  I had first learned of the boy during my journey to return Dawn to Starfall after the war. The shock of discovering Brandon had left behind a son had nearly undone me, coming so close on the heels of Lyanna's death. And Ashara, proud and beautiful despite her grief, had refused my stammered offer to bring the child north.

  "He is safer here," she had said, her violet eyes both defiant and wounded. "The new queen was Dornish. A Dornish bastard raises fewer eyebrows than a Northern one would in Robert's new realm."

  She had been right, of course. Robert's hatred of Targaryens might not have extended to Brandon's son, but others at court might have seen the boy as a threat. And there was the matter of Catelyn, still nursing Robb and awaiting my return to a marriage neither of us had chosen. Bringing home two bastards instead of one would have been a cruelty beyond measure.

  So I had left Edric in the south, just as I had brought Jon to the north, each boy a living reminder of the war's complicated legacy. Each a burden of conscience I shouldered in silence.

  I broke the seal on Benjen's letter at last, unfolding the parchment with careful fingers. My brother's handwriting was neat but hurried, the letters pressing forward as if eager to deliver their news.

  *Ned,*

  *I write to you from White Harbor, where I arrived three days past to meet Ashara's ship from Starfall. The journey north was kind to her—she is as striking as ever, though there is a weariness in her eyes that was not there in our youth. The years in Dorne have not been easy, it seems, despite the protection of her family's name.*

  *Edric stood beside her on the deck, tall for his age and unmistakably of our blood. One look was enough, Ned. The boy has the Stark features so prominently that Lord Manderly himself remarked upon it within moments of their arrival. "Another wolf for the North," he said, not knowing how true his words may yet prove to be.*

  *We depart for Moat Cailin on the morrow. The Manderlys have been gracious hosts, but I sense Ashara's discomfort at being the subject of such open curiosity. Too many eyes, too many whispers following them through the halls of New Castle. She confided that this scrutiny was becoming commonplace even in Starfall—hence her decision to finally accept my proposal after all these years.*

  *Winter comes earlier to Moat Cailin than to Winterfell, and we must make haste before the Neck's paths grow treacherous. The marshes have already begun to freeze at their edges, and the crannogmen speak of unusual movements among the lizard-lions. Howland Reed visited last week, bringing strange tales from the deeper swamps that I will share when next we meet.*

  *Jon awaits our return with uncommon excitement. When I told him of Edric's coming, something in his eyes brightened that I have rarely seen. He grows stronger daily, you should know. He has your solemnity and Lyanna's quickness. Sometimes I look at him and see her so clearly it steals my breath. He asks of Winterfell often, though less of you than of your children—of Robb especially.*

  *I must ask again what I have asked before: Consider bringing your family to Moat Cailin for the wedding. Let Jon know his cousins. Let Edric see that he is not alone in his Northern blood. And let us, the last of our father's children, stand together as Ashara joins our family in truth rather than whispered rumor.*

  *The wolves howl louder when they hunt as a pack.*

  *Your brother,*

  *Benjen*

  I set the letter down, my thoughts racing. Ashara Dayne, coming north at last. And bringing with her Brandon's son—a boy who, had circumstances been different, might have been the heir to Winterfell instead of Robb.

  A boy with a claim to the North, if anyone cared to press it.

  No, that was unfair. Ashara had never made such demands, had never even officially acknowledged Brandon as the father. And Benjen was not one for political scheming. If they sought the safety of Moat Cailin, it was out of genuine need, not ambition.

  Still, the implications could not be ignored. Two bastards with Stark blood—one the son of my brother, one presented as my own but in truth born of my sister—both gathered under Benjen's protection at a strategic stronghold. It would raise eyebrows at the very least, perhaps even reach Robert's ears in King's Landing.

  I rubbed my temples, feeling the beginnings of a headache. This was the price of secrets—they grew more complicated with time, tangling together until the truth lay buried beneath layers of necessary deception.

  And yet... a part of me welcomed this development. Benjen had been right to remind me of the pack. The Starks had been broken by war, scattered by duty and death. Perhaps this was a chance to heal some of those fractures, to bring our blood together again, even if the connections must remain hidden from the wider world.

  ---

  Later that evening, I found myself back in the godswood, drawn to the heart tree like iron to a lodestone. The bleeding had not slowed; if anything, the crimson sap flowed more freely now, staining the snow in ever-widening circles.

  I knelt before the carved face, feeling the eyes of the old gods upon me. In the South, men prayed to the Seven for guidance, for forgiveness, for strength. Here in the North, before the heart trees, we simply listened.

  Tonight, I needed to listen more than ever.

  The wind whispered through the red leaves overhead, carrying the first serious snowfall of the season. Winter was coming indeed, perhaps sooner than any of us had anticipated. I could feel it in my bones, in the air that grew sharper with each passing day. Eight years since the long summer began, and now it waned at last.

  Eight years since I had ridden south with my father and Brandon, since I had returned north with a sister's corpse, a Valyrian greatsword, and a babe who should have been a prince.

  Eight years of peace built on secrets and lies.

  "I don't know if what I did was right," I whispered to the heart tree. "I don't know if what I'm doing now is right either."

  The tree wept its silent answer, sap running like tears down its carved features.

  My mind turned to the dreams again—the Wall standing stark against a night sky, the grove of white trees, the throne of ice, and the shadowed figure who sat upon it. Were they merely dreams, or something more? My father had always said that the blood of the First Men ran strong in the Starks, that we were bound to the North and its mysteries in ways we could never fully comprehend.

  "Are you trying to tell me something?" I asked the void. "Is this connected to Jon? To Edric? Or something beyond the Wall?"

  Only silence answered, broken by the distant howl of a wolf—one of the pack that still roamed the wolfswood, growing bolder as the cold deepened. The sound sent a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with the falling snow.

  I rose, brushing ice from my cloak. Whether the old gods heard or not, I had made my decision. I would ride to Moat Cailin for Benjen's wedding. I would face Ashara Dayne again, would look upon Brandon's son and acknowledge him as blood, if not as heir. I would see Jon, would embrace the boy I had sent away and try to mend whatever damage my choice had caused.

  And perhaps, in doing so, I might begin to understand the warnings carried on the northern wind, the meaning behind the weeping weirwood and the dreams that haunted my nights.

  The North needed its wolves together now. All of them.

  ---

  "You mean to go, then?" Catelyn asked, her voice carefully neutral as she brushed out her auburn hair before the fire in our chambers. "To Moat Cailin?"

  I had shared the contents of Benjen's letter—most of them, at least. I had told her of the wedding invitation, of Ashara Dayne's imminent arrival in the North. I had not mentioned Edric, nor the true nature of my concerns about Jon. Some secrets were not mine to share, even with my lady wife.

  "Yes," I replied, watching her reflection in the mirror. Even after eight years, the sight of her still stirred me—her Tully beauty tempered by the North, by motherhood, by the quiet strength that had seen her adapt to a life far from the rivers and sunshine of her youth. "I would have you come with me, and the children. Robb should see more of the North than just Winterfell, and Benjen has seen little of Sansa and Arya. Nothing of Bran."

  Her hands paused in their work. "And Jon? He will be there."

  The unspoken question hung between us: *Will I be expected to treat your bastard as family?*

  "Jon is my blood," I said quietly. "As is Benjen. As will be his bride."

  "Lady Ashara." There was a hint of something in her voice—not quite jealousy, but a wariness born of old rumors. After the war, some had whispered that Ashara Dayne had been my lover during the tourney at Harrenhal, that Jon might be her son rather than some unnamed northern woman's. I had never confirmed nor denied these whispers, finding them a useful shield for the greater secret.

  "You have nothing to fear from Lady Ashara," I assured her. "Whatever might have been between us was long ago, and brief. Her heart belonged to Brandon, though few knew it."

  Catelyn's eyes widened slightly at this revelation. "Brandon? But he was betrothed to me."

  "My brother's appetites were not always governed by duty," I said carefully. It was as close as I had ever come to speaking ill of Brandon to Catelyn, who had once been promised to him. "But that is in the past. What matters now is that Benjen has chosen her, and she him. Their union deserves our support."

  She was silent for a long moment, considering this. Then: "If we go to Moat Cailin, people will talk. They will say House Stark legitimizes your... indiscretion by embracing its result so openly."

  "Let them talk," I said, with more force than I intended. "Jon is my blood. He will always have a place among the Starks, whatever his birth."

  Catelyn flinched slightly at my tone, and I immediately regretted my sharpness. This was not her burden to bear, yet she had carried it with dignity for eight years, raising my trueborn children while enduring the presence—and now the memory—of my supposed bastard.

  I crossed the room to her, placing my hands gently on her shoulders. "Forgive me. I do not mean to speak harshly. This is... difficult for all of us. But Benjen is my brother, the last of my siblings. His happiness matters to me, as does the strength of House Stark. And that strength lies in our unity."

  She looked up at me, her blue eyes searching mine. "There is something more troubling you, Ned. Something beyond this wedding."

  Perceptive as always. I sighed, choosing my words with care. "There are... changes in the North. Strange reports from beyond the Wall. Unusual behavior among the animals. The heart tree in the godswood bleeds more heavily than I have ever seen. I cannot help but feel these things are connected, that they herald something significant."

  "The smallfolk would call it magic," Catelyn said, a hint of Southron skepticism in her voice.

  "Perhaps," I conceded. "Whatever it is, I believe we are stronger together than apart. Benjen's hold on Moat Cailin secures our southern border. His connection to the crannogmen through Howland Reed gives us eyes in the Neck. If there are troubles coming, I would have all the strength of House Stark united to face them."

  Catelyn was quiet for a moment, absorbing my words. Then she nodded, decision made. "Very well. We will go to Moat Cailin. All of us."

  Relief washed through me, though I was careful not to show too much of it. Catelyn's support in this matter meant more than she could know.

  "Thank you," I said simply, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

  She leaned into my touch briefly, then drew back, her expression serious. "But Ned... one day, you must tell me the whole truth. About Jon. About whatever haunts your dreams and draws you to the godswood at all hours. We have built a life together, a family. There should not be these shadows between us."

  For a heartbeat, I considered it—considered unburdening myself of the secrets I had carried since finding Lyanna in her tower of blood and roses. The truth about Jon. The truth about the promise that had shaped the last eight years of my life.

  But I could not. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.

  "Some burdens must be carried alone," I said softly. "Not because I do not trust you, but because knowledge itself can be dangerous."

  Disappointment flickered across her features, quickly masked. "As you say, my lord." She turned back to her mirror, resuming the brushing of her hair with deliberate strokes. "We should prepare to leave within the fortnight, before the snows grow too deep for comfortable travel."

  I nodded, recognizing the shift from wife to Lady of Winterfell—practical, efficient, focused on the tasks at hand rather than the emotions beneath them. It was a defense I understood well, having employed it myself countless times.

  As I readied myself for bed, my thoughts returned to Benjen's letter, to the imminent arrival of Ashara and Edric in the North, to the strange bleeding of the heart tree and the dreams that plagued my sleep.

  *The wolves howl louder when they hunt as a pack.*

  Benjen was right. Whatever storms approached, whatever secrets threatened to surface, we would face them together as Starks had done for eight thousand years.

  As we would do for eight thousand more, if the gods were good.