Meanwhile, after parting ways with Aedric, Lord Eddard Stark led his men northward at full speed toward Winterfell.
The journey south months ago had taken more than a month—largely because King Robert had traveled with half his court, countless ladies, and a fondness for hunting and feasting that slowed them at every turn.
This time, though, Ned's party rode like the wind. With no king to delay them and every reason to hurry, they galloped day and night, reaching Winterfell in barely ten days.
They encountered a few bands of roadside brigands along the way, but that proved to be little more than an inconvenience. Nearly everyone in the party was battle-tested, and Arya—much to everyone's awe—proved the fiercest of them all.
Armed with her twin blades, Frost and Moonlight, and wielding the lightning-fast Jade Maiden Sword Art, she cut through nearly half the attackers single-handedly. The others were left wondering whether she was still the same little girl they once knew.
Ned had examined the swords himself. Even as a noble who had seen Valyrian steel, he could not help but marvel at their workmanship. The blades were sharper than anything he had ever seen—keener even than Valyrian steel itself—though, of course, they lacked the same unbreakable resilience. In strength, the two materials were evenly matched: Frost and Moonlight unmatched in edge, Valyrian steel peerless in durability.
When Ned asked Arya where such weapons—and the strange sword forms she used—had come from, she refused to say a word, insisting she had promised Jon (Aedric) to keep the secret.
For a man who prized honor above all else, that was reason enough. Ned let the matter rest, telling himself he would simply ask Jon directly when next they met.
By the time the Starks reached Winterfell, Robb—the Young Wolf—had already summoned the banners, ready to march south to rescue his father. When father and sister rode safely through the gates, the castle erupted with joy.
Upon hearing the full story, the family's gratitude toward Aedric was boundless. Even the lords of the North admitted that without him, none of this might have been possible.
As for Sansa, she was still trapped in King's Landing—but not for long, for Robb's host was nearly ready to march.
Ned, resuming his duties as Warden of the North, immediately resolved to proceed with Robb's plan—to lead his banners south and bring back his remaining children.
But before they could ride, ravens brought fresh news from the south—news that changed everything.
Aedric had, it seemed, done the impossible once again: he had seized Princess Myrcella as a hostage, forced Cersei and her entire court into submission, and escaped King's Landing safely with Sansa.
The great hall of Winterfell roared with cheers at the report. Arya, beside herself with excitement, nearly climbed the rafters.
When the message's authenticity was confirmed, relief washed over everyone—though it lasted only moments before two more ravens arrived, one after another.
The first bore the seal of Dragonstone—Stannis Baratheon's hand.
In his letter, Stannis declared that he knew the truth: Joffrey and his siblings were products of Cersei and Jaime's incest. He would soon claim the Iron Throne by right of law, and he ordered Lord Eddard Stark to come to Dragonstone at once and swear fealty.
More than that, he demanded that Ned bring Aedric to serve as one of his Kingsguard—his personal sword for life.
The hall erupted in outrage before Ned even finished reading.
"By the old gods, he hasn't even crowned himself yet and dares to command the North?" one lord spat.
"Robert himself would've had to ask thrice before we'd march for him," another barked. "And Stannis thinks a letter will do?"
They jeered, cursed, and laughed bitterly.
Ned said nothing, though his face was grim. He had planned to recognize Stannis as the rightful heir—but there was a world of difference between offering loyalty freely and being ordered to bend the knee.
Worse still, Stannis's letter made no mention of reward or alliance—only commands. His sense of justice was ironclad, but his grasp of politics was nonexistent.
And as for handing Aedric over to serve another? Unthinkable. Even without considering Jon's mysterious true nature, his unmatched skill alone made him the North's greatest shield. To lose him would be madness.
Ned tossed the letter aside with a sigh—and opened the second.
This one bore two seals: House Baratheon of Storm's End, and House Tyrell of Highgarden.
It was from Renly Baratheon and the Queen of Thorns, Lady Olenna Tyrell.
They announced that Storm's End and Highgarden had formed an alliance. The Reach would back Renly's claim to the Iron Throne. If the North joined them, Olenna would offer her beloved granddaughter, the famed Rose of Highgarden—Margaery Tyrell—as bride to Robb Stark.
Furthermore, Renly promised to name Ned King in the North, ruling beside him as an equal.
Aedric was mentioned too, obliquely—Renly wrote that he "greatly admired the legendary swordsman of the North" and hoped to witness his unmatched skill for himself.
The offer sent a ripple through the hall. The lords murmured eagerly; some even grinned.
Highgarden was the richest of the Seven Kingdoms. A Tyrell marriage meant gold, grain, and powerful allies. Robb wedded to Margaery would unite two vast realms. And if Ned were crowned King in the North—why, every banner lord's rank and fortune would rise with him.
Only one problem remained: Renly was the younger Baratheon brother. His claim violated centuries of law and tradition.
To support him would mean tearing down the very order that kept their world from chaos—and every noble there knew how dangerous that precedent could be.
Still, Renly's tone was humble, conciliatory—the opposite of Stannis's cold arrogance. His letter promised reward and respect; Stannis's offered commands and burdens.
For the first time, Ned understood why people followed the younger stag so readily.
But to Ned, both brothers were equally maddening.
Stannis had the law, Renly the charm—but neither seemed capable of seeing past their own ambitions.
He folded both letters, rubbing his temples wearily, and muttered under his breath:
"These crowned stags… so eager to wear the crown, they'll gore each other before they ever face the true enemy."
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