Chapter Text
Winterfell loomed like a foreboding fortress of memory; an everlasting reminder of the history held inside the ancient stone walls. The castle, built by Brandon the Builder thousands of years ago, had weathered countless storms, sieges, and tragedies, standing tall as the ancestral home of House Stark. Its battlements, thick with snow, appeared both imposing and serene, as if they held the very essence of the North itself—a land of harsh winters, unwavering loyalty, and unyielding honour.
Snow fell softly from the leaden sky, blanketing the courtyard in a serene white, muting the sound of boots crunching against the ground and the chatter of those preparing for the evening’s festivities. The scene almost distracted from the underlying tension the Northerners felt today. It was the anniversary of the Battle of Winterfell, where armies led by the powerful houses of the North fought and defeated the Army of the Dead as they marched south of The Wall. On this day, the North remembered those who had perished in the nightmarish struggle—family, friends, and comrades who had given their lives to protect the living. The air hung heavy as many recalled the faces of loved ones they had lost, their memories intertwined with the very stones of Winterfell.
Despite the sombre undertones, the castle was alive with activity. Servants bustled about, preparing for the grand feast that Lady Sansa Stark, the Warden of the North, held every anniversary for the great houses of Westeros. Torches were lit, casting a warm glow against the cold stone walls, and tables were set with the finest foods the North could offer. Meat pies, roasted venison, honeyed bread, and flagons of spiced wine awaited the guests, who had travelled from all corners of the realm to pay their respects and honour the fallen. The Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, now united under Queen Daenerys and Jon Snow—officially and forever known as Aegon Targaryen—had known nothing but peace since that fateful day, but in Westeros, peace had always been a fragile thing, easily shattered by the ambitions of men.
Eddard "Ned" Stark II, the eldest son of Lady Sansa and Lord Larence Hornwood—formerly Larence Snow, a legitimised bastard who had proved his worth during the Long Night—stood at the gates of Winterfell, watching the wheelhouses approach. His breath formed visible wisps in the frigid air as he stared out at the procession. The banners of various noble houses fluttered in the breeze: the golden lion of Lannister, the blue falcon of Arryn, the white sunburst of Karstark. The sight of these sigils, once enemies and now allies, filled Ned with a mixture of pride and unease.
Ned had inherited his mother’s sharp, blue eyes and the undeniably dark hair and olive skin of a Stark, traits that made him the very image of his namesake, the late Eddard Stark, who had been both a father figure and a legend in the North. Though his mother had prepared him well for the day he would inherit her position, educating him under the finest maesters and allowing him to observe her in the courts, Ned couldn’t shake the overwhelming anxiety that gnawed at him. The weight of his future responsibilities was a constant presence, like the cold of the North itself, ever present and inescapable. The pressure to maintain the peace that the North had enjoyed since the Battle of Winterfell turned his stomach, and he found himself questioning whether he would be able to live up to the expectations placed upon him.
As he watched the last wheelhouse enter the gates, its livery displaying the familiar sigil of House Tully, he felt a tap on his shoulder.
“Are you nervous, brother?” a voice asked from behind him.
Ned spun around to see his younger brother, Rickon Stark, standing there with a knowing grin. Named after their late uncle, Rickon carried a strong resemblance to their father. His dark hair, common among the Northern families, framed a round face that seemed to perpetually carry a look of determination. But it was his eyes—grey and piercing—that truly marked him as a Stark. Despite being only seventeen, Rickon exuded a quiet confidence, a strength that Ned sometimes envied. He had the same determination and loyalty that Ned had heard from stories of their ancestors, not to mention his impressive ability to wield a sword, though such skills were rarely needed in these peaceful times.
“A bit,” Ned admitted, taking a step towards the castle of Winterfell. The snow crunched under his feet as he admired the procession of wheelhouses and their sigils, each one a symbol of the alliances and rivalries that had shaped the history of Westeros. “You never know how the others will act today,” he added, remembering an incident from a few years back when a Greyjoy and a Lannister had nearly come to blows over a careless remark. The tension had been palpable, a reminder that old grudges still lingered beneath the surface.
Rickon stifled a chuckle, likely recalling the same event. “I suppose so, but everyone will be on their best behaviour while the Queen is here,” he replied, nodding towards the wheelhouse that bore the three-headed dragon on its sigil. The symbol of House Targaryen, once a sign of fear and conquest, now represented unity and power. Yet, even now, it carried an air of mystery and danger, much like the woman who bore it.
Ned glanced towards the wheelhouse as the door opened, revealing Lyanna Targaryen, the only child of Queen Daenerys and Jon Snow. Princess of Dragonstone and heir to the Seven Kingdoms, Lyanna was a vision of her mother’s house. Her long, silvery hair caught the light as it flowed in the harsh winds of the North, and her almost violet eyes, a rare Targaryen trait, seemed to take in everything at once. Yet, despite her striking Targaryen appearance, there was a fierceness in her that reminded Ned of his uncle, her father. Though born a Targaryen, Jon Snow would always be a Stark, and that fierce loyalty and sense of honour had been passed down to his daughter.
“Cousins!” she cried in excitement as her eyes found the Stark boys. She jumped from the wheelhouse; her movements graceful despite the heavy furs she wore to ward off the Northern chill. She embraced both boys with vigour, her warmth cutting through the cold air, and then turned to admire the grounds she so seldom had the chance to visit.
“It’s so good to be home,” she said, her Southern accent, a melodic blend of Dragonstone’s refined tones and King’s Landing’s courtly cadence, sounding ironically foreign to the rugged North. Her words carried a warmth that contrasted sharply with the biting cold. “There truly is no place like the North,” she added, her eyes sweeping over the snow-covered courtyard, taking in the sight of the ancient walls and the familiar scent of pine and frost that seemed to define Winterfell.
Rickon grinned, his usual sternness melting away like ice at her warm, fiery presence, “We’ve missed you Lyanna, The North isn’t the same without a Targaryen to stir things up.”
Lyanna laughed, the sound bright and musical, cutting through the solemn tension of the day like a warm breeze in winter. “And I’ve missed you both,” she said, her eyes sparkling with genuine affection. “It’s been far too long since my last visit, but Mother has been keeping me busy with lessons on ruling, no matter how much I long to be out on dragon back or training with Father.” She sighed, a hint of frustration creeping into her voice, as if the weight of her royal duties clashed with the wild, adventurous spirit she had inherited from both sides of her lineage.
Rickon grinned, his grey eyes glinting with understanding. “You always were more interested in swords and dragons than in sitting on a throne,” he teased, nudging her playfully. “But I suppose that’s what makes you a true Stark, despite all that Targaryen blood.” His tone was light, but there was a deeper truth beneath his words. Lyanna had always been torn between the fierce independence of the North and the expectations placed on her as the heir to the Iron Throne. It was a burden they all understood too well—the struggle between duty and desire, legacy and freedom.
Ned watched the exchange, a small smile tugging at his lips, but his mind was already elsewhere. The responsibilities they all faced were daunting, and while Rickon and Lyanna could find solace in their shared humor and lighthearted banter, he felt the weight of the future pressing down on him more heavily than ever. The laughter was a brief respite, but it couldn’t dispel the undercurrent of unease that had settled over Winterfell, a reminder that their paths were already set, and there was no turning back.
“Mother has been anxious to see you; I fear she loves you more than her own sons,” Ned joked lightly as the three of them weaved through the throng of guests arriving for the feast. The main hall of Winterfell welcomed them with a wave of warmth, the inviting aromas of the feast in preparation filling the air—roasted meats, spiced wine, and freshly baked bread, all mingling together.
Ned’s gaze fell on his mother, Lady Sansa Stark, as she directed a servant carrying a stack of plates. “If you would just put them on that table over there, they should be well within reach for the feast,” Sansa instructed, her voice carrying both authority and kindness. The years since the battle had left their mark on her; her once smooth face now bore the creases of time and responsibility. Her greying auburn hair was tightly braided and pinned up, and she wore a simple black dress trimmed with fur. Ned knew this wasn’t her finest gown—she would change into something more regal when it came time to greet the visitors properly.
As if sensing their approach, Sansa looked up from her conversation with the servant. Her expression softened instantly when she saw her sons and niece. “Ah, Lyanna,” she greeted warmly, a smile spreading across her face as she opened her arms to embrace the tall Targaryen girl. “It is always a pleasure to see you.” Sansa held Lyanna in a warm embrace for a moment longer before pulling back, her eyes filled with genuine affection as she looked over the young Targaryen. “You’ve grown even more beautiful since the last time I saw you,” she said, her voice soft but tinged with pride. “Your mother must be proud of you.”
Lyanna smiled, though there was a hint of wistfulness in her expression. “She is, though she keeps me so busy with lessons that I rarely get to enjoy being at home. It’s good to be here with all of you. There’s nothing quite like the North.”
Sansa nodded, her gaze shifting to her sons, who stood beside Lyanna, quietly observing the reunion. “And you two—how have things been while I’ve been preoccupied with the preparations?” she asked, her tone half-motherly, half-mischievous, as if daring them to admit any mischief they might have gotten into.
Ned offered a reassuring smile. “All is well, Mother. Rickon and I have been keeping everything in order. The North is as it should be.”
Rickon nodded in agreement, with a playful grin. “You’ve trained us well Mother,” he added, earning a chuckle from Sansa.
She smiled warmly at her sons, her heart swelling with pride at the sight of them—strong, capable, and so very Stark. But her expression grew more thoughtful as she turned back to Lyanna. “And where is your father, Jon?” Sansa asked, her voice softening with the mention of her brother, though not by blood. “I had hoped he might accompany you this time.”
Lyanna’s smile faltered slightly, and she cast her eyes downward, a small sigh escaping her lips. “Father wished he could be here, but there were pressing matters in the South that required his attention. He sends his love, though, and promises to visit as soon as he can.”
Sansa nodded, though there was a hint of disappointment in her eyes. “He’s always been one to put duty first,” she said, her voice carrying a mixture of understanding and lingering sadness. “Still, it would have been good to see him again. The North misses him… and so do I.”
Lyanna reached out, taking Sansa’s hand in hers. “He misses you too, Aunt Sansa. He talks about Winterfell often, and his childhood here. But you know Father—he can never truly rest when there’s work to be done.”
Sansa squeezed Lyanna’s hand gently, her expression softening as she looked into her niece’s eyes. “I know. He’s always carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. Just like our father did.”
For a moment, the bustling activity of the hall seemed to fade away as the four of them stood together, connected by the shared understanding of the burdens they all bore—burdens of legacy, of duty, and of the past that still haunted them.
But Sansa was not one to dwell on sadness for long. She released Lyanna’s hand and gave her a reassuring smile. “Well, enough of that. You’re here now, and that’s what matters. Come, let’s get you settled. There’s still much to do before the feast begins, and I want to hear everything that’s been happening in the South.”
As they began to move through the hall, Sansa fell into step beside Lyanna, her sons trailing close behind. “So, tell me,” Sansa prompted, her tone lighter now, “what news do you bring from King’s Landing? I am sure I’ll have a moment with your mother this evening, but I want to hear it from you.”
Lyanna’s eyes brightened at the change in subject, and she launched into a lively recounting of the latest events at court, the challenges Daenerys faced, and the delicate balance she maintained in ruling the Seven Kingdoms. Sansa listened intently, nodding thoughtfully at each detail, her mind already turning over the implications of the news Lyanna brought.
Ned and Rickon exchanged glances as they followed behind, both relieved to see their mother’s spirits lifted by the conversation. But even as they walked, Ned couldn’t shake the feeling that Jon’s absence was more than just a matter of duty. There was something unspoken in Lyanna’s words, something that hinted at deeper concerns, both in the South and perhaps even closer to home.
As the four of them moved deeper into the heart of Winterfell, the warmth of the hearths and the chatter of the gathered guests surrounded them, but Ned couldn’t help but feel that a shadow still lingered over the Stark family, one that would need to be faced sooner rather than later.