Winterfell courtyard, Spring 226 AC

  Jack Carter

  The training yard was a cold, muddy hell, and I was losing—bad. Artos came at me like a goddamn freight train, his training sword a blur of blunt steel smashing against mine. My lungs heaved as I fumbled with it—a monstrous slab of metal the length of Ice but three times as heavy—trying to keep him at bay. My arms burned, chainmail dragging at my shoulders like a wet sack of bricks—the scent of oil and sweat thick in my nostrils. “How the hell do Victor and Artos strut around in this stuff all day?” I thought. We circled each other—me hesitantly, him anything but. His motions were sharp, fluid, and merciless, beating the shit out of me while I flailed like a kid with a stick. Another hit cracked against my guard, jarring my wrists, and I stumbled back, boots slipping in the muck. Bruises throbbed under the armor—chest, ribs, thighs—sweat stung my eyes, and heat crept up my cheeks despite knowing this would be the outcome. “Give me a rifle and I’d put ‘em all to shame,” I thought ruefully. “Hell, I’d settle for a musket.” I had no such luck—all that I had was steel and embarrassment.

  The sword felt wrong, too heavy, too awkward; every sloppy swing, every tangled step deepened the frown on Artos’ face. He didn’t let up. His grey eyes glinted, cold and hard, as he stepped in close—too close—and hooked my leg with his own. The world tilted, and I hit the ground hard, mud splashing cold against my face, air punched out of my lungs. Before I could blink, the tip of his sword was at my throat, pressing just enough to make me feel it. Judgment radiated off him, disappointment thick in those flinty eyes. “I expected more from my brother’s heir. You fight like a green boy who’s never touched a sword,” he growled, voice as cold as the steel. He leaned down, words a harsh whisper, “I told you, the north expects steel. Is this how you’ll force the Umbers to respect you? Keep the Boltons in line? It’s time you focus on what the North needs—you’ve spent enough time on your flights of fancy.”

  I coughed, mud gritty in my mouth, and glared up at him, chest heaving. “A lord’s worth ain’t just swinging a pointy stick,” I snapped, voice ragged but sharp—I was tired, sore and in no mood for a warlord who’d cut his nose to spite his face. A prickle nagged at the back of my mind, whispering he might have a point, but I shoved it aside. His jaw tightened, eyes narrowing like I’d spat on his brother’s grave. “Our house’s ‘pointy sticks’ are what have kept us safe and prosperous for a thousand years,” he shot back, the sword steady at my neck.

  We locked stares—a silent war of wills, both too stubborn to concede. My heart hammered, Artos’s bulk intimidating as hell, radiating lethality like a loaded gun. But I didn’t flinch. “This is my home now, and I’ll see it improved,” I thought, shoving down the fear clawing my gut. I wasn’t Edwyle, wasn’t trained since birth to be a lord, but I’d be damned if I let this place crumble because I couldn’t hack it. “I’m no ‘green boy’ either,” I thought, “Aye, but my ‘flights of fancy’ will take us to new heights Uncle” I said aloud, voice strained through gritted teeth.

  A rough laugh broke the standoff. “This must be the infamous wolf blood your house is known for!” Lord Medger Cerwyn stepped forward, his grizzled face split with a grin, clapping his hands with a hearty nod. “Come, Lord Artos, even the best of us look green next to you.” Behind him, Jonos—Cerwyn’s cocky son—smirked, sizing me up like he’d fancy a turn next. “Hell, he’d probably mop the floor with me too—not exactly Conan here.” A few guards shifted, their murmurs buzzing low. Artos snorted, racked the sword with a deliberate clank, and stalked off toward the keep, shoulders stiff.

  I hauled myself up, wincing as every bruise screamed. The tension remained even after Artos’ departure, “It’s obvious he cares about the North, just wish he wasn’t such a bastard about it,” I sighed, “I have a feeling we’re going to have this argument a lot.” As I placed my own sword back on the rack, Lord Cerwyn ambled over, his oak-weathered face still set in a slight grin, and clapped a hand onto my shoulder. “You fought well, Lord Stark, I know of few that could best your uncle,” he said, voice gravelly. This man could give some lobbyists a run for their money, I thought, fighting a scoff at his blatant lie. As long as he doesn’t push that daughter of his on me again, I can play along. “He’s a terror with a blade—my bruised ribs can attest to that,” I said, pushing down the lingering embarrassment from the ass-whooping I’d just taken.

  From the corner of my eye I caught a flash—black hair, grey eyes—Jocelyn, peering from a covered stone walkway that connected the keep and one of the various other buildings in the castle grounds. Her gaze locked on me, sharp and curious, before she ducked inside the keep. “Watching me flail—great,” I thought, a twinge of unease mixing with the ache in my bones.

  We trudged on, the bailey alive with activity now that the men had returned from Long Lake. Stark men-at-arms drilled under Victor’s watchful gaze, his gravelly voice cutting through the clank of steel—every man a reminder that might was right here in Westeros. Most wore mail of varying quality over thick wool tunics, the Stark direwolf blazoned on chests or shields.

  I shook off the yard’s chill, cursing my missing cloak, as we stepped inside the keep. As I began to lead us to my solar Medger spoke again, “My lord, I wanted to ask you. We saw a most intriguing machine in your fields as we rode in. I was shocked how fast it turned the soil.” The unspoken what the hell is it hung in the air.

  I nodded, the corner of my lips twitching into a grin. “And now we come to the real reason for this conversation.”

  “That’d be our new heavy plow, Lord Cerwyn. I reckon in a year’s time, we’ll have twice the fields planted in half the time,” I said, watching the calculating gleam in his eyes. I could see him plotting how to talk me into one—good thing I already planned on sharing the design.

  “If you wish, Lord Cerwyn, send a smith to learn from Torhen how to make one.” His jaw slackened, then he grinned and nodded like he’d just won a wager. “That’s generous of you, Lord Stark. I’ll gladly accept,” he said, recovering fast.

  I admit it was gratifying to see the shocked look on his face. He probably expected me to put up more resistance—extracting some sort of advantage for my house from him. “But the more people with plows, the less that starve—hopefully, they’re all as eager as Medger here, maybe then Artos’ll pull that pointy stick out his ass and see the North thrive.”

  The solar’s solid oak door thudded shut, silencing the keep’s bustle. “Place is like a beehive now that Artos and the men’ve returned. Plus Medger and his entourage,” I mused, as I dropped into my chair. I felt my body relax as the scent of parchment and woodsmoke, ever present in the solar, wrapped around me, and the hearth’s crackling glow cut through the yard’s chill that followed me in. I winced as my bruised ribs barked—damn, wasn’t all this padding and chainmail supposed to stop me from hurting? Medger eased down across from me, lips still curled in a pleased grin, but his sharp eyes caught everything: the map of the North on the wall, fresh ink marking new villages; ledgers stacked uneven, Henry’s tight scrawl in two columns; parchment scattered across my desk—designs for seed drills, lathes, other modern inventions I hoped to bring to life. I gathered them into a neat stack, his gaze lingering on a seed drill sketch, brow twitching.

  Medger leaned back, waiting ‘til I finished, but the interested gleam in his eyes was unmistakable. “Are these your ‘flights of fancy’ your uncle spoke of, Lord Stark?” he finally asked, voice tinged with that same calculating edge from earlier. “Aye, I suppose they are,” I replied after a moment, my eyes giving him a hard look. Medger’s been the most receptive to my ideas since I woke up. “Question is, is he being genuine or just kissing ass? Do I even care either way?” Maybe my ego, on top of my ribs, was bruised from Artos’ sword, but I leaned forward, “I wasn’t joking about bringing the North to new heights, Lord Cerwyn. We all grieve my father, but my uncle is too blind with vengeance to see past it.” I punctuated my next point by tapping the stacked parchment with a finger, “Soon the North won’t need Southron grains to survive the winter.”

  “It’s not my place to judge your focus, my lord,” he said slick as any politician. “Your house has ruled justly for centuries—if your plans are half as clever as your plow, I'm eager for what’s next,”

  “This guy would’ve made a killing as a car-salesman—or is it a wagon-salesman?” I thought, bracing for his pitch. He scratched his beard, then smirked faintly. “House Cerwyn has forever been loyal to House Stark. Should you require anything—you need but ask, My lord. In fact, my Jonos has been chaffing to prove himself. If you are amenable to it, Lord Stark, he could enter your service. He is a smart and capable man, I have no doubt he would serve you well, maybe even with one of your machines in that pile.”

  I leaned back, the chair’s carved direwolves digging into my back, hiding a grimace. “The last thing I want is that cocky shit in my service,” I thought, “but I can’t just say no either.” Having a vassal owe me a few favors could be useful when the other lords roll in. I might be their liege, but feudal loyalty isn’t guaranteed. “I don’t remember much from the books, but that lesson stuck.”

  “I’d be honored to have Jonos join my service, Lord Cerwyn,” I choked out, rubbing at my sore shoulder. Just as his grin stretched wider an idea struck me. “However, I need a favor in return,” his grin froze at my words, wary curiosity flickering in its place. “Of course, Lord Stark—if it’s within my power I will see it done.”

  “You’ve seen it, Lord Cerwyn—harsh winters, thin harvests. We need more hands to work what little good land we have, so I’ve sent riders to white harbor. They’ll seek passage to King's Landing, and every port along the way. They’re spreading word: Winterfell has land for all willing to work it. I want Cerwyn lands open too.” As I spoke, his face ran a gamut of different expressions—polite attention, confusion, shock, a touch of anger—then settled on thoughtful, his eyes settling once again on the stack of parchment on my desk. “Have you asked this of your other bannermen, Lord Stark?” he asked, tone carefully neutral.

  I shifted, trying to get comfortable, but my bruises and those damn carved wolves made it impossible. “Just my aunt and a few advisor so far—I’ve yet to tell my uncle.” I stifled another grimace, “That’s gonna be a shitshow, I can already tell.” Already seeing flinty, judging grey eyes, but I quickly shook off the image. “I want every northern farmer to have a plow, imagine how many more fields we could plant”

  Oh he definitely could—I could practically hear the gears turning—but he wasn’t sold on the idea yet. “How to sweeten the pot?” I mused, before my eyes caught on the ledgers that Henry had finished rewriting. “Tax breaks—a universal tool—works in any century.”

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  “Remind me, Lord Cerwyn, what are your tax obligations?” I asked. His brow creased at the shift, before smoothing. “ Twelve bushels of oats, nine of barley, ten head of pigs, my lord.”

  “To offset any strain, I’ll cut your dues—by a tenth for three years.” He didn’t blink. “I accept—House Cerwyn’ll find land for any who settle,” he said, smirk back in force. I narrowed my eyes. “I just got played, didn’t I?” I stood, Medger quickly followed suit, and reached out. “My steward’ll write it up,” I said. We clasped forearms, our deal sealed.

  As Medger left, I sank back into my seat, lost in thought, as my gaze drifted to the map. During a conversation with Maester Rodrick the other night, “A rant more like,” I snorted, as I recalled it. He told me how a Targaryean King of the past gave a not insignificant portion of our northern territory—“The New Gift” it was called—to the men of the Night’s Watch. “The watch has done naught but let it rot since—and we’re weaker for it,” Rodrick he’d growled. Ever since his words of their neglect had stuck with me—William’s blood was on their hands as much as the wildlings’. That same night I had penned a letter to be sent to Castle black, requesting the lord commander to make his way to winterfell. “I might not grieve for him like Jocelyn and Artos,” I thought, “but maybe there is a way to make this work to everyone's advantage, without the need to shed blood like Artos seems to demand.”

  I massaged my temples, head throbbing to the beat of a silent drum. My gaze drifted up—Ice hung above the hearth, dark steel gleaming like a damn guillotine. “Just keep moving Jack.” I let my thoughts drift again, time slipping until a soft knock snapped me back—Aunt Alysanne stood in the doorway, eyes red and puffy, but her posture was regal. “It’s time Nephew—let us lay him to rest.”

  Dusk was setting in as we descended the spiraling stone stairway, the crypts a cold, shadowed vault beneath Winterfell. Torchlight danced off the stone effigies—past Stark lords, their carved faces stern, eyes hollow, stretching back centuries along the walls. As we wound our way deeper I noticed that some statues had a stone direwolf at their feet and an iron sword across their laps. “Past lords, I guess,” I thought, “Probably means I’ll get something similar.” The thought was a little surreal, the most I expected back on earth was an engraved cross and a final 21 gun salute. Here though my final resting place would be in a place just as cold and damp as the land I now ruled. I shook off the thought as we arrived at William’s slab. Artos and Jocelyn were already there waiting.

  Beside me, Alysanne, her regal poise fraying, grey eyes wet again with her grief stepped up to her brother’s still form. Artos loomed beside her, jaw clenched tight, loss carved deep in his weathered face. Jocelyn hovered near, her hands twisting in her cloak, eyes glistening as the reality sank in. I stood on the other side of them, my eyes taking in the body before me. William Stark’s long face was bone white in death, but there was something serene about his expression, like he was finally at peace. The serenity was immediately ruined by the ugly puckered line of stitched flesh where his head had been reattached. “I already knew Westerors was harsh as hell, but if ever I needed a reminder…” my thoughts trailed off, fighting back the three phantom thumps that flash through my mind. My mouth flooded with saliva and I swallowed thickly. “You are not gonna puke on the corpse jack,” I told myself, pushing the sudden nausea aside with sheer will.

  The silence stretched—awkward as hell. I should say something—some sort of eulogy—I was his son, at least physically. “My Father fell defending us all…” I began—but the words tasted like ash. I didn’t feel the loss they did. Instead the weight of the crypt pressed heavily into me—those statues, lords who’d forged a kingdom from this brutal land, their legacy a mountain on my shoulders. “These men carved a realm—I’m just a guy who wants to play in the dirt. Can I keep their legacy from crumbling?” Doubt gnawed at me, sharp and cold. I wasn’t one of them, just a stranger with an alien set of ideals, and every stone eye judged me unworthy.

  Jocelyn’s breath hitched mid-sentence—a sob broke free, raw and jagged. Her grey eyes spilled over, the ceremony’s weight crushing her. She turned and fled, boots ringing on stone, sobs lost in the dark. “I don’t think it really hit her that her father was gone ‘til now…” I thought, as I watched her go, a pang of empathy cutting through my haze. “I’m not her real brother, but I could comfort her like one.” Guilt twisted my gut—I hadn’t tried, not once, since waking in this body, too caught up in plows and soap. “Damn, no wonder she’s pissed at me.” Alysanne’s hand brushed William’s cheek one last time, then she left, Artos trailing her, his steel gaze lingering on me and for once there was no judgment, no disappointment, just the sad eyes of a man who lost his brother.

  Alone with the dead, I squared my shoulders. Jocelyn needed me—grief or not, I’d find her. Before I left, I leaned down close to William's ear. “I’ll look after her. I’ll keep her and the North safe. You have my word,” I whispered. Back in the bailey, the crypt’s chill still lingering in my bones, I asked around—a guard pointed me to the godswood. “Guess I’m not the only one who enjoys its quiet,” I noted. The sky was a bruise above the ancient trees, the first twinkles of starlight winking into existence. The heart tree loomed—bone-white bark, red leaves trembling, sap weeping from its mournful face. This is where I found her, slumped by the black pool, clutching a piece of wood, its half carved shape vaguely resembling a wolf. Tears streaked her face, soaking the wood as she sobbed into it, shoulders shaking.

  I froze at the sight, fingers twitching. “I’ve got no right to this family, but she’s hurting, and I made a promise” She hadn’t seen me yet, lost in her grief, and I stepped closer, throat tight. I’d failed her ‘til now—time to fix that, or at least try.

  Winterfell Godswood, Spring 226 AC

  Jocelyn Stark

  The black pool stared back, cold and still, the heart tree’s red leaves bleeding into its dark mirror. Jocelyn slumped against the mossy stone, the half-carved wolf clutched tight in her hands, its rough edges biting her palms. The knife she’d been using to carve lay forgotten at her side. Tears streaked hot down her cheeks, soaking the wood as she pressed it to her face—the image of Father’s long face, white and cold, was burned into her mind and refused to leave. Sobs shook her, spilling out into the godswood’s quiet stillness. He’d promised—“Back before you know it,” his laugh warm and loud—and now he was gone, cold in the crypts forever. She’d held out hope that he wasn’t really dead, that this last week was just a nightmare she’d wake from; that Father’d be there with his kind smile and her brother would act like he should. Seeing that grotesque gash earlier had dashed that hope. Surely the Old Gods saw the battle—why didn’t they keep him safe? “Were my prayers not enough?” she thought, fresh tears spilling out.

  Her fingers trembled, tracing the wolf’s jagged snout—nowhere near as good as Edwyle’s. His had been smooth and fierce, while hers just looked rough and sad. She’d begun it by the pool days ago, but now her shaking hands and aching heart refused to let her finish. She rocked forward, knees sinking into the cold, damp earth, and pressed the wood harder against her cheek, splinters pricking her tear-stained skin. “Father’s blood should be mourned—the North remembers.” she thought. Uncle Artos knew this—his rough voice confident, promising vengeance. Aunt Alysanne too—“They’ll pay,” she’d vowed between sobbing breaths. But Edwyle… she didn’t know who he was anymore. She saw him again in the crypts—awkward, hollow, fumbling words about their father while his face was still dry of tears. It was just too much for her, this stranger wearing her brother’s face broke her, she had to flee.

  Aunt Alysanne had said he was locking his grief away, donning the mask of Lord Stark for the North’s sake. Jocelyn knew Edwyle better, though—she didn’t believe it. A shiver ran through her—he’d fumbled in the yard today, put flat on his back by Uncle, hesitant and awkward, legs wobbly like a newborn doe. Like her, years back, when he’d taught her to swing a knife, laughing as she stumbled. “It doesn’t make sense—what’s happened to him?” she thought, red-rimmed eyes flicking back to the weirwood, hoping in vain the Old Gods would whisper an answer. The wind hummed low, rustling the red leaves, and the weirwood’s sap plinked steadily into the pool, but the tree stayed stubbornly silent.

  A twig snapped behind her, sharp in the stillness. She froze, breath catching, tears blurring the pool’s edge. Boots crunched closer—slow, unsure—and her shoulders hunched, fingers tightening on the wolf. Uncle Artos? No, too soft, not his forceful-heavy tread. Aunt Alys? Too tall, too unsteady.She didn’t turn—didn’t want anyone seeing her like this, not when she was in such a dreadful state. The steps stopped, close, and a shadow stretched over the water, thin against the bruised sky. Her throat thickened—Edwyle.

  Her jaw clenched, “He didn’t come before—why now?” but the anger flickered out fast—she was too tired, too hollow. She couldn’t help the flicker of hope at his presence though, “What do you want?” she asked aloud, voice thick and small, eyes still on the pool. She waited, pictured him standing there, his easy grin once again on his face. She wiped her sleeve across her face, breath shaky, and glanced back. He loomed there, torchlight flickering on his face—no grin, no red in his eyes, just a nervous smile where his smirk used to be.

  “I realised that… I have not been a good brother to you this last week,” he said, taking another few hesitant steps closer. He watched her warily like he was approaching a trapped wolf.

  Her breath hitched, a sob catching—hope surged, warm and sudden, tangling with the ache. “He’s here. He came.” She clutched the wolf tighter, splinters stinging, and stared up at him, grey eyes wet but searching. “You… you’ve been so distant,” she whispered, voice cracking, “like we didn’t matter. Didn’t you know I needed you” He crouched slowly, joining her on the soft ground, his hands twitching like they didn’t know where to go. He reached out, hesitant, and rested a hand on her shoulder—warm, steady, like when he’d steady her after a fall.

  “I’m sorry, Jocelyn,” he said, soft, his voice catching odd—not the smooth tease she knew, but something rougher, like he was trying too hard. “I should’ve been here—I will be, from now on.”

  Her chest fluttered—Joss, he’d have said, with that lopsided grin, not this stiff “Jocelyn.” Hope warred with confusion, her tears slowing. “I miss him,” she said, small and shaky, leaning into his touch despite herself. “Do… Do you miss him?” She faltered, brow creasing, “you just took his place, like he didn’t even matter.” she felt the anger rising up again, and struggled to not yell at him. To shove his hand away and shake him.

  He flinched, just a twitch, but she caught it—her eyes narrowed, the knot in her chest tightening. He’s not right. “What’s wrong with you?” she pressed, voice steadying, sharp with need. “You haven’t cried—not once. Father’s gone, and you’re… I don’t know who you are anymore, brother.” She searched his face—nervous smile, no ring-twist, no “Joss”—and the weirwood’s red tears plinked behind her. “Tell me why,” she pleaded silently, hope and doubt tangling as she waited for his answer.

  “I miss him—every damn day,” he said, voice rough, meeting her eyes for a second before looking away. “Something… changed in me when he died. I don’t know how to be the brother you remember—I’m trying to figure it out.” His hand tightened on her shoulder, awkward but warm. “Give me time, okay?”

  Her breath caught, hope flaring bright—he misses him, he said it—but confusion swirled thicker, tugging at her heart. “What does he mean ‘changed in me’—why won’t he tell me, we had no secrets before,” She stared at him, grey eyes flicking over his face—he wouldn’t keep her gaze, his eyes looking off to the side. His arm felt real, warm like she remembered. “Time?” she echoed, swallowing hard, leaning closer despite the doubt, needing his warmth. “What changed? Why won’t you tell me?”

  “I can’t explain it yet,” he said, a heavy sigh escaping, “but I’ll tell you when I can. I promise.” Once again, his eyes slid to meet her gaze briefly before looking away.

  “Okay,” she nodded. Her fingers tightened on the wolf, splinters biting deeper—she wanted to believe him, wanted her brother back, but something held her back, sharp and cold. “I’ll keep watching, " she thought, the weirwood’s sap plinking, steady as her resolve. For the next hour though she just let herself relax in the warm embrace, until her tears dried and her chest wasn’t so tight.

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