More than half a month had passed since the banners of the North were called to war, and Winterfell—usually quiet beneath the cold sky—had transformed beyond recognition.
Within the ancient stone walls, life went on as usual. But outside the city, the world had turned into a sea of movement. From the ramparts, one could look out across the foothills and see countless camps scattered across the snowy landscape. Dozens of banners fluttered in the wind—wolves, bears, mermen, suns, spears, towers—each representing a house that had answered the call of the Lord of Winterfell.
Their armor and equipment varied wildly in quality and style, yet their spirits remained steady. Northern men were used to hardship, and war did not frighten them.
Winter Town, normally half-empty even in warmer months, was now overflowing long before winter's chill arrived. People surged through the streets in noisy waves; horses and wagons clogged every corner; supplies were stacked like miniature mountains. The quiet northern air had been thoroughly displaced by shouts, clanging steel, and the constant rumble of movement.
Brawls broke out frequently—some real, some merely for show. Men boasted loudly, then cursed each other with equal enthusiasm. At least once every hour, someone ended up being chased away after drinking too much, accompanied by laughter, jeers, and angry bellows.
Whether alcohol truly caused these incidents was doubtful. The brothels outside the town were already overwhelmed, with lines forming outside their doors. Even the tavern keeper complained endlessly, short-staffed and irritated. His usually efficient barmaids had long since reached their limits, running back and forth with trays of ale. With nowhere to vent his frustration, he resorted to shouting at the ragged kitchen boys—little scoundrels who spent more time stealing food than working.
But despite the chaos, it was merely superficial. Beneath the noise, Winterfell remained disciplined and ready.
Inside the castle, on the covered wooden bridge overlooking the training grounds, a large figure blocked almost the entire window with his bulk. King Robert Baratheon leaned forward, peering intently at the lively activity below. His presence alone filled the narrow passageway.
Not long after, Lord Eddard Stark approached. His beard was thick and untrimmed, his hair disheveled from sleepless nights, and faint dark circles clung beneath his eyes. He brushed wood shavings from his sleeve—likely from the repairs and preparations he personally oversaw—and stepped beside the King with a sigh of relief.
"Your Majesty," Ned said with urgency, "all preparations are complete. We must depart as soon as possible."
Robert's eyes lit up. With a booming laugh, he clapped Ned hard on the shoulder—hard enough that most men would have staggered.
"Eddard! You've no idea how long I've been waiting to hear those words."
He grinned broadly. "Don't get me wrong, I'm not criticizing your hospitality. But damn it, I've been sitting still for too long."
His excitement only grew as he continued.
"I'm itching to ride south this very moment. I'll crack Tywin's skull myself—smash it into mud and dog shit! Just like Rhaegar once did, I swear it!"
But Ned did not share the King's enthusiasm. His expression remained tense, his brow deeply furrowed.
Seeing this, Robert's booming laughter faded. His movements slowed, and he patted Ned's shoulder again—this time gently.
"I know, Ned. I've received the reports as well." Robert's voice softened, tinged with sincerity. "Believe me, I share your worries."
But the reassurance only made Ned sigh heavily.
"It isn't about you, Your Majesty. No one could have foreseen Tywin Lannister acting with such recklessness. No one predicted he would go this far…"
His tone held genuine fear—not for himself, but for what Tywin's madness might unleash.
The King's smile froze, then vanished. His features darkened.
"That old lion fears I'll take his head," Robert growled. "And the more he fears it, the more I want to rip it off."
His voice hardened into rage.
"I'll mount his head on a spear and set it above the city gate. Let every passerby spit on it!"
Ned had no answer for the King's fury. He simply sighed again, weary.
Hearing that sigh, Robert clenched his jaw and forced himself to calm down. He turned away from the window, steadying his breath.
"How is Catelyn?" he asked.
"She is safe," Ned replied. "Merely distressed. Maester Luwin has seen to her."
Robert struck his fist into his palm.
"Damn Tywin. That bastard dared to strike first! Has he lost his wits entirely?"
"It appears he has more than one intention," Ned said, his voice heavy. "Judging from the direction of his march, we cannot predict his next actions. We can't gamble with a madman's choices. We must move swiftly."
Ned Stark's responsibilities had weighed heavily on him these past weeks, and it showed in every word.
Robert raised an eyebrow.
"Then we leave tomorrow. At the fastest pace possible."
Ned nodded. "Part of the army is already marching today."
Robert snorted. "And yet you insist you're not in a hurry."
"Sigh—"
"Oh, enough with the sighing," Robert grumbled. "You and I both know Tywin isn't a complete fool. He just wants leverage. More bargaining chips."
He waved a hand dismissively, unwilling to dwell on the matter any longer. Looking out the window again, Robert spotted a familiar figure down in the training grounds. A grin crept back onto his face.
"Eddard, you've grown awfully fond of that brat of mine. Look at him—always trailing after you like a pup. Anyone unfamiliar with the situation might think he's one of your own sons."
Ned followed the King's gaze. The boy was practicing with a spear, sweat dripping down his face, focused and determined.
"He saved Bran," Ned said quietly. "Nothing I do will ever fully repay him. Helping him learn is simply what I must do."
He paused, then added, "Besides… I doubt you intend to leave him without land for long. Teaching him to behave like a future lord seems appropriate."
A thought suddenly struck Ned, and he glanced sideways at Robert.
"Unless… you're considering something more? Do you intend to legitimize him? Make him a true Baratheon—your first acknowledged son?"
For a moment, Robert said nothing. He simply rubbed his belly, eyes narrowing in contemplation. His expression shifted—no longer jovial, no longer angry, but serious.
After several seconds, he turned to Ned, his old friend, and asked quietly:
"Tell me, Eddard… what do you think of the idea?"
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