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Ever since the fall that broke his legs and stole his future as a knight, Bran Stark had found a strange, quiet solace in the high places of Winterfell. He spent his mornings in the guardroom of the inner wall, his hands gripping a heavy bronze telescope.
Since Robb's return, the castle had felt both crowded and empty. The King in the North was almost always locked away in the Great Hall, his voice echoing in heated debates with the Greatjon or Rickard Karstark, his finger tracing the jagged lines of maps until the parchment frayed. Robb had no time for climbing stories or wooden sword practice.
On this morning, the North felt as if it were holding its breath. The sky was a pale, scouring grey, and the wind carried the scent of frozen pine and old snow. Most of the leaves had turned a brittle, sickly yellow, spiraling into the mud of the courtyard, a silent message that autumn was a spent candle.
Bran lowered the telescope, his brow furrowed. "Maester Luwin, whose banner is that? A silver field with two black towers... and a golden sun rising between them?"
Maester Luwin, his many-linked chain clinking against his grey robes, leaned over to peer through the glass. He took a breath, his old eyes crinkling. "That is the contingent from the Crossing, Bran. A branch of House Karstark. It is the personal sigil of your cousin, Eddard Karstark. The man they are calling the 'Lord of River Crossing'."
"I remember him," Bran whispered. He remembered the tall, quiet boy who had stood at the back of the feast when the King came to Winterfell. He remembered how his father had spoken of the Karstarks as "the sun of winter." Now, that sun had its own towers.
"Let us go," Luwin said, gently patting Bran's hand where it rested on Hodor's shoulder. "The city is about to wake up. You should be there to welcome your brother's most important vassal. Some say he may even be your good-brother one day."
"Hodor," the giant murmured, lifting the basket on his back with effortless strength. Summer, Bran's silver-furred direwolf, shadowed them as they descended, his yellow eyes fixed on the southern horizon.
The army of two thousand men approached Winterfell like a slow, dark river of steel. At the head of the column rode Eddard Karstark. He was a vision of Northern authority, draped in a bearskin cloak over a thick wool coat and polished chainmail. On his breastplate, the black towers and golden sun caught what little light the grey sky offered.
"EDDARD!"
Robb Stark galloped out to meet him, his red-brown hair whipping in the wind. For a moment, the crown of bronze and iron seemed to vanish, and he was just a young man welcoming a brother. Beside him rode Harrion Karstark and a one-armed Smalljon Umber.
"You've had a long journey, Ned," Robb said, reigning in his horse. His face was etched with the lines of a man who hadn't slept in weeks.
"A year in the South makes a man forget the bite of the Northern wind," Eddard replied, offering a genuine smile. "It's good to be home, even if the home is freezing."
"The cold is just the beginning," Robb said, his expression darkening. "Winter is coming, and the house is full of rats. I need your eyes on this mess, Ned. I need a wizard's touch."
The army settled into a camp near the Eastwatch of the castle, but Eddard followed Robb through the massive gates of Winterfell. As they crossed the drawbridge, Eddard spotted the massive figure of Hodor standing by the road. Bran looked down from his basket, his expression guarded.
"Bran," Eddard said, nodding respectfully. He felt a pang of pity for the boy. In his former life, he'd read about Bran's fate, but seeing the broken child in the flesh was different.
Bran didn't answer. He turned his head away, his hands tightening on the wicker of his basket. Suddenly, a streak of silver-grey fur blurred across the courtyard. Summer stood between Eddard's horse and Bran, his hackles raised, a low, guttural growl vibrating in his chest.
The horses in the vanguard began to panic. They rolled their eyes, whinnying and rearing as the scent of the direwolf hit them. Eddard felt his own mount tremble beneath him.
Eddard's gaze met Summer's. He didn't reach for a sword. He simply narrowed his eyes, focusing his will.
[Active Skill: Intimidation (Lord's Presence) triggered.]
[Target: Summer (Direwolf).]
A faint, cold pressure seemed to radiate from Eddard. Summer's growl died in his throat. The wolf let out a sudden, sharp whimper, his tail tucking between his legs. He backed away, looking at Eddard with a confusion that bordered on terror.
Grey Wind, who had been watching from the shadows of the Great Hall, let out a mournful howl and trotted over to nudge his brother away, his own amber eyes wary.
"I'm sorry, Ned," Robb said, looking baffled. "The wolves have been... restless lately. It's the weather."
"It's fine, Robb," Eddard said, canceling the pressure. "Wild things know when the seasons are changing."
Inside the solar of the Great Keep, a peat fire blazed in the hearth, but it couldn't quite chase the damp chill from the stones. Eddard stood before a massive table where a map of the North was spread like a flayed skin.
Robb pointed a trembling finger at the western coastline. "The Ironborn are like a plague. We drive them back to the sea, and they simply land twenty miles further up the coast. They're raiding the Stony Shore, Sea Dragon Point, and even Deepwood Motte. Asha Greyjoy holds the Glover children. I can't strike her without killing them."
"And the Dreadfort?" Eddard asked.
"Roose is a mad dog," Robb spat. "I sent Ramsay Snow, your prisoner to offer him the Black. Roose flayed the messenger and hung him from the battlements. He won't talk. He only raids. He's waiting for us to starve or for the Lannisters to arrive."
Eddard looked at the markers. Robb had dispersed his forces, trying to protect every village. It was a strategy of slow death.
"You're bleeding your strength into the snow, Robb," Eddard said. "But that's not why you called me here. You didn't need two thousand men to tell you that Roose is a traitor."
Robb leaned against the table, his face pale in the firelight. He reached into his surcoat and pulled out a crumpled letter with the seal of the Night's Watch.
"Maester Luwin received this from Lord Commander Mormont," Robb whispered. "Tens of thousands of Wildlings are marching on the Wall. Not just raiding parties, a whole nation. Mance Rayder is coming."
He paused, his hand shaking as he handed the letter to Eddard. "And Mormont says the dead are walking. He says the Others have returned. He saw them at the Fist of the First Men."
Eddard took the letter. He already knew what it said, but seeing the terror in Robb's eyes made the threat feel visceral. The political games of the Crossing felt like children's squabbles compared to the darkness rising in the true North.
"He needs reinforcements," Robb said. "Every man I have is tied up with Boltons and Krakens. Ned... what do I do?"
Eddard looked at the map, then at his King. "We stop playing their game, Robb. We finish Roose. We seal the coast. And then we march for the Wall. Because if the Wall falls, it won't matter who sits on the Iron Throne."
[System Notification: Main Quest Updated: The Long Night Approaches.]
[Objective: Neutralize Roose Bolton (0/1).]
[Objective: Relieve the Night's Watch (0/1).]
[Soul Power Gained (Winterfell Reunion): 100 SP.]
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