In the great hall of Winterfell's main castle, Lord Eddard Stark stepped out from a side passageway and immediately caught sight of his wife, Catelyn Tully. She was standing at the center of the bustling hall, directing a group of servants and household guards with practiced efficiency.
At this moment, the Lord of Winterfell looked far more presentable than usual. His beard, normally thick and rugged, had been trimmed short, and his long hair—washed with hot water and combed carefully with essential oil—rested neatly behind his shoulders. The faint sheen in it made him appear younger than his years. He was dressed in a well-fitted set of brown leather armor, supple from long use but still impeccably maintained. A long sword hung at his waist, and over his shoulders draped a heavy northern cloak, its collar fashioned from the fur of a single grey direwolf, lined with black velvet and soft silk. It was both warm and dignified—perfect attire for greeting a king.
Lady Catelyn Tully of Winterfell was also dressed in her finest garments for the occasion. Although she did not wear a cloak, she had chosen a gown appropriate for receiving royalty. However, despite her elegant appearance, a trace of exhaustion softened her features. She had been occupied for many days, overseeing every expense, managing the distribution of supplies, and ensuring that Winterfell would be ready to host the king and his retinue. The latest raven had reported that the royal party was very close—if the pace held, they would likely arrive today.
And so, Catelyn had been forced to run through every last detail again to make sure nothing had been overlooked. Winterfell could not afford even the slightest display of disrespect toward the Crown.
"Kate," Ned called as he approached her, his deep voice carrying lightly across the hall. "Have you seen Bran?"
His eyes searched the crowd almost instinctively, scanning the hall for the small, energetic figure of his young son. But after a moment, seeing no sign of him, Ned exhaled in mild frustration. Shaking his head, he lowered his gaze to his wife and added with a rueful shrug:
"I can't find him anywhere. And Arya has disappeared as well. Septa Mordane came to tell me she hasn't seen her since breakfast."
A faint throb pulsed behind his temples. Both Bran and Arya—two children with seemingly boundless energy and boundless capacity for trouble—had chosen the worst possible day to vanish.
Catelyn paused in her instructions to a servant and looked at Ned with concern. "Seven Gods above," she sighed. "Have you sent people to look for them?"
Her Riverlands heritage showed in her reflexive invocation of the Seven. After uttering the brief prayer, she caught the helpless expression on her husband's face and straightened slightly, her tone firming as she continued:
"We cannot appear disrespectful to the King and Queen. They must be found quickly."
"I know…" Ned murmured, pinching the bridge of his nose. He nodded once. There was nothing else for it—he would have to send more men to search the keep, the yard, even the battlements if necessary.
He leaned in to kiss Catelyn gently on the forehead before turning to leave. But just as he stepped away, movement from the far side of the hall drew his attention. Two figures were making their way through the busy crowd—one short and robed, the other tall and encased in armor.
Maester Luwin approached without hesitation, weaving through servants who gave way at the sight of him. Behind him came a striking knight whom many of the castle folk had never seen before. Luwin did not bother to hide the familiarity between himself and the lord of the castle; in his eyes, rank mattered little when weighed against purpose.
He stopped before Ned, bowed politely, and announced in a clear, calm voice:
"My lord, the banner of the Crowned Stag has been sighted at Winterfell's gates. It is the King's vanguard."
A wave of murmurs rippled among the servants and retainers nearby. Many craned their necks to catch a glimpse of the armored man behind the maester.
Maester Luwin turned slightly and gestured to the knight who now stepped forward. "Allow me to introduce Sir Carl Stone, commander of the King's vanguard."
Whether intentionally or otherwise, Luwin emphasized the name "Carl Stone" when he spoke, making sure Lord Stark heard it clearly.
Karl, hearing his name, removed his helmet. His charcoal-black hair spilled out slightly, and he stepped forward to bow deeply before the Lord of Winterfell.
"Greetings, Lord Stark," he declared formally. "I come on behalf of His Majesty the King."
Ned's expression shifted instantly. As the words "King's vanguard" reached him, his posture straightened in solemnity. But the moment he processed the name "Carl Stone," the solemnity flickered—replaced by surprise.
"Karl?" Ned breathed. "It's you?"
The shock in his voice was unmistakable. As Karl lifted his head, their eyes met—deep grey meeting clear blue.
Ned did not hesitate. He stepped forward quickly, placing a firm hand on Karl's shoulder as if greeting an old friend. His eyes scanned Karl's face—his features, his hair, his expression—searching for the familiar hints of someone long gone.
Karl stiffened slightly, caught off guard by such unexpected enthusiasm from a man he was meeting—or rather, should have been meeting—for the first time. He glanced up with faint uncertainty.
Eddard Stark's gaze, steady and burdened with years of memory, drifted from Karl's eyes to the dark strands of his hair, then to the shape of his face—features that resembled another man's far too closely. Something inside him stilled, and a shadow of emotion flickered across his expression.
Seeing his lord suddenly fall silent, Maester Luwin cleared his throat delicately. "Ahem… my lord, Sir Carl Stone is here to ensure we are prepared for the King's arrival."
The reminder snapped Ned back to the present. Realizing he had overstepped, he let out an awkward breath, withdrawing his hand from Karl's shoulder and stepping back. But even then, his eyes lingered, unable to look away.
From beside him, Catelyn watched with mild curiosity. Her husband was not a man prone to public displays of emotion. For him to lose composure—if only for a moment—was remarkable. Her mind sifted through possibilities, searching for any memory that might explain such a reaction.
And then the name struck her as well.
Karl… Karl Stone… she had seen that name once before.
Ned finally spoke again, offering Karl an apologetic smile. "Forgive my rudeness."
He paused, steadying himself. "Karl, I never expected Robert to knight you. I heard what happened at the Crossroads Inn."
Karl blinked, visibly confused. And Ned, seeing the uncertainty in his expression, realized painfully that the young man did not remember him. Of course he wouldn't.
So he offered the explanation himself.
"You would not know me," Ned said gently. "But I am not unfamiliar with you. I held you when you were very small."
The hall quieted slightly around them, as if the moment itself asked for silence.
"It was in the Eyrie," Ned continued softly. "Back when we were still in the Vale…"
A shadow of sadness passed over his face—an old wound reopening for just an instant.
Beside him, Catelyn felt the memory return with clarity. She, too, remembered the raven that Maester Luwin had received days earlier—the one that mentioned a certain vanguard knight accompanying the king northward.
And now, seeing him here, she understood fully.
Karl Stone was not merely a knight in the royal party.
He was a living fragment of a past that Eddard Stark rarely spoke of—one tied to a friend he had loved like a brother, a man lost to rebellion and tragedy.
And in the young knight's face stood the echoes of that man.
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