The courtyard of Winterfell buzzed with life, the crisp northern wind softened by an unusual hint of warmth from the clear sun, which teased the edges of my senses. I stood with the rest of my family, hands clasped behind my back, my eyes fixed on the gate. Arya fidgeted beside me, her excitement a restless spark I could sense without looking, while Sansa stood poised, her auburn hair gleaming in the sunlight like a banner. Theon lingered nearby, a familiar smirk curling his lips, though his eyes darted with a nervous look. Jon stood to my right, tense and silent like a shadow. Mother had urged me to keep him out of sight when our guests arrived, but I brushed her words aside. He belonged here not just to stand with us as my brother in blood, but because I had plans stirring in my mind. Dacey Mormont and the rest of the fosterlings' arrival might be the extra threads to connect him more firmly to me, the North, and Wintefell if the time came to reveal his true parentage, and I wouldn't let that chance slip through my fingers by not having him be here for the interduction.
Beyond the gate, the sound of hooves clattered on stone as three riders emerged, flanked by guards carrying the banners of Manderly, Mormont, and Umber. A smile tugged at my lips, sharp and clear. This was it, the first step toward a stronger, more united North for the Stark Banner, a true North, one forged under my leadership with some of the future generation of lords sleeping, eating, and training with me years before any conflict would make me their Northern Stark King. These fosterlings were the cornerstones of a foundation I intended to build, proof that my presence was already altering the narrative I knew all too well.
Father stepped forward, waiting as the riders dismounted from their horses, his voice ringing out, steady and warm. "Winterfell welcomes you. "His words were short and welcoming", and this castle is yours for as long as you remain."
A maid hurried over with salt and bread, following the old ritual of guest right. Smalljon Umber grabbed the loaf, tore off a chunk, dipped it in salt, and stuffed it into his mouth. "By the old gods," he said with a grin as he chewed, "Father wasn't lying. Winterfell's a bloody beast. I would wager it could be held with just a handful of men. Though from the men I don't see much here to test an Umber's mettle, he said with a goading smile."
I opened my mouth to answer, a challenge rising in my throat, but he barreled on. "Are there any Starks worth sparring with? My father claims your son can swing a sword decently, but I've yet to meet a wolf pup who could topple a giant. Though he also said no mere fighter could best the Sword of the Morning, I'd like to hear that tale, milord." His eyes flicked to Father, and I caught the shift in Father's face, a solemn shadow passing over it, heavy with memory.
Before I could speak, Dacey Mormont cut in, her voice sharp as a blade and laced with mischief. "The Starks were kings of kings long before an Umber was called an Umber for a reason, Umber. I'd bet even the half Stark could knock you flat." The guards chuckled, a low rumble, and Smalljon's grin widened, unbothered. Jon shifted beside me, his discomfort plain as day, though I felt a spark of gratitude for Dacey's jab; as it hit closer to my hopes than she knew.
Wynafryd Manderly stepped forward and dipped a curtsey to Mother. "Your castle is beautiful, Lady Stark," she said. Turning to Sansa, her smile shone like polished silver. "And your dress is lovely, did you embroider it? Grandfather sent me with cloth and trimmings. Maybe we could sew it together?" Mother's expression softened slightly at that, and I couldn't help but hide a smile.
Sansa beamed, smoothing her skirts with pride. "I'd like that."
Father laughed, a warm sound, as Arya tugged at his sleeve, her patience fraying like a worn rope. "Alright, Arya," he said, indulgent as ever. "Show Dacey and the rest to her rooms, they're ready. Winterfell will treat you all well, and I trust you'll settle in." His gaze turned to Smalljon, firm yet kind. "The guards will be eager to spar with you, Umber, once you've rested."
Jory Cassel, lingering near the stables, grinned broadly. "Aye, the men and Robb could use a fresh spar."
Smalljon's grin grew wider, but my attention had already shifted. I nudged Jon and kept my voice low. "Did you see how Dacey looked at you? Go with Arya to help her show Dacey around."
Jon's face flushed, his eyes darting to Dacey, who was already trading jokes with Arya as they headed inside. "I don't."
"Go," I said, firm but quiet, a brother's command. "She's north and wild just like Arya. You'll get along well even with your Status."
He nodded, stiff as a bowstring, and followed them. Watching him go, a flicker of triumph warmed my chest, with Jon walking alongside them not just as my brother but also for what he might mean to the North's fate. A wild thought darted through my mind, then those half-mad tales I'd once scoffed at, whispers of dragon eggs hidden in the crypts beside Lyanna's statue, or perhaps before then, with the old Targaryens' visit during the Dance of Dragons. What if there was truth buried there? If so, Jon's place here might matter more than anyone guessed. I tucked the notion away and turned my focus back to the present.
As the group moved toward the Great Hall, I fell into step with Theon, who had been quiet as a ghost. "You're thinking hard," I said, keeping my tone light, though I could sense the storm brewing within him.
He glanced at me, shrugging disinterestedly with one shoulder. I grasped it with reassuring force. You can speak honestly to me, Theon. "I'm just wondering about my place. You're gathering new allies and making moves. I feel a bit left out and adrift from my Ironborn roots. Grandfather had big ideas; he nearly made us more than raiders. I want to do something of my own, something significant, while still staying tied to the Ironborn, even if my father has all but disavowed me. I wrote to him last week, the first time in years, but there's been no reply, just like all the others." His voice dripped with venom, bitter as winter frost.
I liked that hatefuledge in him, the way my plans could twist it, letting him hate his father while still honoring his grandfather's vision. It felt right for Theon this time. If all went as I intended, he might one day claim a title by storming Casterly Rock, though that lay years ahead.
I clapped his shoulder, firm and familiar. "You're still my brother, Theon. The North's changing, and we'll change with it. You'll carve out something worth bragging about."
He smirked, nodding slightly. "Maybe so."
The feast filled the hall with warmth, roast fowl, fresh bread, and mutton stew, the scents thick and rich. Smalljon piled his plate high, Dacey traded barbs with Arya like they'd known each other forever, and Wynafryd charmed Sansa and her mother with talk of needlework. I sat by Father, my mind churning beneath the noise. These fosterlings were allies to win: Smalljon's raw strength, Dacey's quick wit, Wynafryd's subtle ambition. They'd shape what was to come, which, if handled right, would help me with the acceptance and Implementation of my plans.
Later, I slipped away to the godswood. The weirwoods stood silent, their red leaves stark against the grey dusk, rustling faintly in the wind. I knelt by the heart tree, its carved face staring back, unblinking. I wasn't one for prayers in this life or the other, but they serve a more actionable purpose here. The stillness steadied me, clearing the clutter from my thoughts. Bonds with these fosterlings, with the North, were my aim. The Old Tongue was a Tactical plan, and my green sight powers and Warging were just the beginning, but there was more to unearth: the old magic, the warging dreams that tugged at the edges of my sleep.
Jon joined me, his footsteps soft on the moss, his face thoughtful. "You were right about Dacey. She's… not what I expected. She doesn't treat me like a bastard."
I smiled, glancing at him. "She sees the Stark in you, name or not."
He frowned, brow creasing. "I'm not sure what I am."
"You're my brother," I said, my voice hard with certainty. "You belong here."
He nodded, though doubt lingered in his eyes like mist. I stood, clapping his back. "Let's see if Smalljon's all talk."
In the courtyard, Smalljon hefted a practice sword, grinning as I approached. "Thought you'd chickened out."
I grabbed a blade, spinning it in my hand to showboat a bit of my skill, the weight now familiar. "Let's see."
Steel clashed, ringing sharp in the air, the crowd buzzing as we traded blows. Smalljon was strong, his strikes landing like hammerfalls, but I was faster, ducking low to land a hit on his side. He grunted, stepping back, still grinning through the sting.
"Not bad," he said, rubbing the spot. "But I'm not finished."
We clashed again, and with a twist of my wrist, I sent his sword spinning to the dirt. The courtyard roared, and Smalljon, though surprised, laughed, loud and with an honest smile, slapped my shoulder hard enough to jolt me. "You're a wolf, alright."
I grinned back. "You do your Symbol justice yourself."
Wynafryd approached as the crowd thinned, her smile warm and measured. "That was impressive, my lord. You wield a sword well."
I inclined my head, polite but guarded. "Thank you, Lady Manderly. Glad you think so."
"Winterfell's lord interests me," she said, her eyes bright with something I couldn't quite place. "I'd love to hear more."
I chuckled, deflecting lightly. "I'd love to show you around more of the castle sometime." It would be good for me to gain more of her favor, even if I had no intention of being with her.
Night fell, and I climbed to the battlements, the Wolfswood sprawling dark and endless below. Laughter drifted up from the hall where the fosterlings were settling in, their voices weaving into the keep's pulse. It was a start, fragile as newly made ice, but real. Theon joined me, leaning against the stone, his presence easy
"You're turning into a proper lord," he said, his tone casual but his eyes sharp. " But yet, I'm still puzzling out my bit in this world. The Ironborn's future with Grandfather's dreams, Father's messes. I want something big, something mine, but still tied to home. I want to make the Iornborn more than just the stupid on all but the sea Menace, all the Historical books and accounts describe them to be."
I smiled faintly, the wind tugging at my hair. "You're like a brother to me, Theon. You always will be. The North will change, and winter will come. and so will you find your place, or I'll find some feat for you to earn the Ironborn's respect."
He smirked, a glint of his old self sparking. "Aye, we'll see, thank you, Stark."
He wandered off, boots scuffing the stone, and I turned back to the horizon. The threads mine to knot or cut. But another shadow lingered in my thoughts: Ramsay Bolton. His threat was unchangeable and growing. Unlike Theon, it was not a probability of his betrayal but a poison creeping closer, and it was time I set a plan to root him out.