The snowflakes began as a hesitant dusting, but soon transformed into a relentless white shroud that engulfed the Riverlands. Winter had roared down from the North, crossing the Neck to claim the Trident. Across the fertile valleys, fields were buried under a pristine, suffocating layer of white. Commoners rushed from their hovels into the simple village septs, kneeling in the freezing mud to pray to the Mother and the Smith.
They prayed that the Seven would halt the frost, that the winter wheat, already half a leg high might still find the sun and ripen. Eddard Karstark, watching the snow from his saddle, knew their prayers were whispers against a hurricane. This winter would not leave. It was the "Wizard's Winter," heralded by the blood-red comet that still scratched the sky. It would linger until the Others claimed the world, or until the world broke them.
Harrenhal loomed through the mist like a jagged, black fist striking at the heavens. As the column of cavalry approached the massive gates, Eddard noted a rare sight: the courtyard was alive with laughter. Children, the offspring of Free Folk refugees and native Riverland servants were playing together in the ankle-deep snow. Red-faced and breathless, they exhaled puffs of white mist as they hurled snowballs at one another. At this moment, the blood-feuds of their parents were forgotten. For Eddard, this unity was a better fortification than any stone wall.
Wreaths of cooking smoke drifted from the renovated towers. At the inner gate, a row of knights stood like silver statues in the drift. Sansa Stark waited at the center, wrapped in a heavy black wool cloak lined with white fox fur. Behind her stood Brienne of Tarth and Matthew Mooton. Matthew, once a common Northern soldier, had successfully navigated the politics of Maidenpool after marrying into the house, earning the respect of his father-in-law's grumpy vassals.
Eddard dismounted, handing his reins to Matthew. "Congratulations on holding the castle, Matthew."
"The Lannisters didn't dare test us while the Sunburst flew, My Lord," Matthew replied with a joyful grin.
Eddard walked to Sansa, pulling the Queen of the Trident into a firm embrace. He kissed her forehead in full view of the garrison, a public declaration of his devotion. "Is all well at home?"
Sansa's face was flushed like a winter apple. "It is, Ned. We harvested the last of the grain before the heavy drifts started. Uncle Brynden also returned from the Westerlands; he brought ten thousand head of cattle and sheep. Our granaries and pens are full."
"Good," Eddard said, leading her inside. As he passed Brienne, he felt a prickle of irritation. The Lady of Tarth was staring at him with her large, innocent blue eyes, her expression a mix of suspicion and a strangely protective anger.
Did I provoke her? he wondered, then shrugged it off. Brienne was Sansa's shield; as long as she was loyal to the Queen, her glares didn't matter.
They retreated to their residence in the Sunstone Tower, formerly the Wailing Tower, renamed by Scholar Bennett to strip it of its Lannister gloom. A peat fire blazed in the hearth, chasing the damp from the stones.
"Ned, letters from Bran and Jon," Sansa said, refilling a bowl of hot potato and bacon broth.
Eddard took a long, appreciative sip. "How is Jon handling the Wall? Has the 'Little Devil' made his life a misery yet?"
"Quite the opposite," Sansa smiled. "Tyrion Lannister spent his first week in a wine barrel, but Jon took him to the summit. He showed Tyrion what was waiting in the Ghost Shadow Forest. Tyrion sobered up instantly. He's currently at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, using his Lannister mind to manage the grain imports from Essos."
"Capable man, Tyrion," Eddard mused. "Jon was smart to use him."
"Jon also hanged Janos Slynt," Sansa added, her voice turning somber. "Slynt defied a direct order in front of the officers. Tyrion suggested exile, but Jon felt his authority wouldn't survive the insult. Alliser Thorne was luckier; he was sent to garrison Greyguard."
"A leader must know when to swing the sword," Eddard noted. "What of the North? What does Bran say?"
Sansa's expression clouded. "The Boltons want to talk. Roose has offered to re-pledge his allegiance to Winterfell if we lift the siege of the Dreadfort. He offers gold, grain, and his newborn daughter,
'Arya' Bolton, as Bran's cupbearer."
"Arya?" Eddard choked slightly on his broth. "Fat Walda delivered, then?"
"Yes. They named the child Arya, clearly as a pathetic attempt to flatter the Starks," Sansa spat. "Bran is torn. The 'Peace Party', Mother, the Ryswells, and the Dustins want the war ended so the soldiers can go home before the blizzards get worse. They're already losing men to frostbite."
"And the opposition?"
"Lord Manderly, the Greatjon, and your father," Sansa said. "They want the Flayer's head. Especially Manderly, he hasn't forgotten Lady Donella."
Eddard tapped his finger against the table, his mind calculating the trade-offs. "Tell Bran this: it is a choice between the present and the future. Accepting Roose's surrender satisfies the Ryswells and Mother today, and it saves lives in the short term. But it betrays the Karstarks, the Umbers, and the Manderlys, the houses that bled most for Robb. If Bran chooses peace with a traitor, he may find his 'loyal' houses are the ones who stop answering his summons next winter."
Sansa nodded, her eyes sharp. "I'll write it word for word. Bran needs to know that a King's crown is weighted with the blood of his vassals."
She collected the bowl, but before she could move away, Eddard stood and swept her into his arms.
Clang!
The bowl hit the floor.
"AH!" Sansa gasped.
The door was kicked open instantly. Brienne burst in, her silver longsword a blur of light.
"ASSASSIN! PROTECT THE QUEEN!"
Eddard didn't even turn his head. "Out, Brienne."
The lady knight froze, seeing her Queen and the Regent in an intimate embrace. Her face turned a violent shade of red. She bowed her head, sheathing her sword with a metallic
clack, and backed out of the room, closing the door with agonizing care.
"Your shadow is very thorough," Eddard chuckled, kissing his wife's neck.
"Ned... shouldn't you see Scholar Bennett?" Sansa whispered, though she didn't pull away.
"Bennett can wait an hour," Eddard replied, laughing as he carried her toward the bed.
Two hours later, as a purple dusk settled over Harrenhal, Eddard walked toward the laboratory at the base of the tower. He passed Brienne at the door; she refused to meet his eyes, her posture stiff as a pike.
In the center of the Godswood clearing, a rainbow-colored arrow manifested in the air. With a sharp
whoosh
It traced a glowing arc through the falling snow and struck a practice target.
BANG.
The wooden target disintegrated into splinters.
"Lord Eddard! I did it!" Scholar Bennett wiped sweat from his brow, his breath a thick cloud of steam. "I can only manage this much, but the structure... I felt it!"
"Well done, Bennett," Eddard praised.
When he had left Winterfell, Eddard had given Bran a piece of dragonglass inscribed with
Magic Armor. He had done the same for Bennett with
Magic Arrow. The process of "teaching" involved the student focusing their will on the rune until the obsidian shattered, transferring the mental blueprint.
"How is the fatigue?" Eddard asked.
"Severe," Bennett admitted. "I can cast it twice a day. Once in the morning, once after a long rest. By evening, I feel as if I've marched twenty miles. I need twelve hours of sleep just to function."
Eddard nodded. This confirmed his theory: magic for the natives was a matter of mental stamina and soul-capacity. They didn't have his "System" to bypass the physical cost.
"Bennett," Eddard said, his gaze turning serious. "Do you have associates in the Citadel? Men who aren't afraid of the grey rats' rules? Men who want to see the true mysteries?"
Bennett's plump face lit up with a mischievous grin. "There are always those who find the chains too heavy, My Lord. Why?"
"I intend to build a center of learning here," Eddard said. "A 'Knight of the Mind' academy. But the price is steep. They must renounce their vows to Oldtown and pledge absolute, soul-bound fealty to House Karstark."
Bennett hesitated, the weight of the demand sinking in. "That is... high treason against the Citadel, My Lord."
"The Citadel is for the last age, Bennett. I am building the next one. You have seven days to send your ravens. We move for the Westerlands once the snow lets up, and I want the foundation laid before I leave."
Eddard looked at the smoking remains of the target. The North had the steel, the Riverlands had the gold, and now, he would ensure they had the fire.
[System Notification: Magic Spread Progress: 0.5%.]
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