The Shivering Sea lived up to its name. It didn't just shiver; it convulsed, tossing the small fishing skiff around like a piece of driftwood in a washing machine.
Ned sat in the prow, wrapped in his salt-crusted cloak, staring at the grey horizon. His horse, the poor shaggy garron that had survived the Mountains of the Moon, was currently miserable in the center of the boat, tied securely and looking green around the gills.
"Almost there, girl," Ned muttered, patting the horse's flank. "Just think of solid ground. And grass. Lots of grass."
The old fisherman at the tiller looked at Ned with a mixture of awe and fear. He hadn't said a word since they left the Fingers, probably terrified of him.
Ned didn't mind the silence. It gave him time to practice.
He held his hand over the gunwale, watching the spray kick up as the bow smashed into a wave.
Focus, he told himself. The water is just energy. Cold, wet energy.
He narrowed his eyes. A droplet of water flew upward. Ned caught it with his mind. It wasn't a firm grip—more like trying to catch a greased pig—but he held it. He stopped it in mid-air, suspended against the grey sky.
Freeze.
He pushed his will into the droplet, imagining the molecules slowing down, vibrating less. The 10x multiplier hummed in his veins, amplifying his intent.
The droplet turned white. Then solid. A tiny, perfect hailstone hovered for a second before gravity reclaimed it and it plinked into the sea.
"One drop," Ned sighed, wiping the salt from his face. "Only about a trillion more to go before I can freeze a lake."
Ahead, the coastline of the North began to take shape. It wasn't welcoming. It was a jagged line of cliffs and scrub, grey and brown and white. To anyone else, it looked like a wasteland.
To Ned Stark, it looked like the best thing he had ever seen.
The skiff scraped onto the pebble beach of a nameless cove south of White Harbor. Ned hopped out, his boots crunching on the stones. He helped the fisherman guide the horse off the boat, the animal snorting and shaking itself violently the moment its hooves touched land.
Ned reached into his pouch and pulled out three gold dragons. It was a small fortune for a fisherman—enough to buy a new boat, a house, and probably retire comfortably.
He tossed the coins to the old man.
"For the ride," Ned said. "And for the silence."
The fisherman caught them, his eyes bulging. "My Lord... this is... this is too much."
"It's fair," Ned corrected, mounting the garron. He looked down at the man. "If anyone asks, you never saw me. You were just fishing for crabs and caught a good haul."
The old man bowed so low his nose nearly touched the pebbles. "I saw nothing, Lord Stark. Just the mist."
"Good man."
Ned turned the horse north. He didn't look back at the sea. The tutorial level was officially over. Now he was in the open world.
And the map was huge.
The journey to Winterfell was a blur of exhausting riding and freezing nights.
Ned didn't stop at White Harbor. He didn't stop at Castle Cerwyn. He avoided the holdfasts and the inns. Stopping meant talking. Talking meant explaining. Explaining meant delay.
And Ned Stark was done with delays.
He rode hard, pushing the garron to its limit and then using the Force to push it a little further. He poured his own energy into the beast, a technique he'd dubbed "Force Stamina Sharing." It kept the horse moving when it should have collapsed, but it left Ned drained, his head pounding with a constant, dull ache.
The Wiki in his head kept him company, analyzing soil samples he didn't care about and pointing out edible berries he didn't have time to pick.
The nights were the hardest. He camped in the open, huddled under his cloak with no fire to give away his position. He slept in short bursts—two hours here, three hours there—always with one ear open, his "Force Radar" humming in the background.
It was during these lonely nights that the reality of his situation really hit him.
He was the Lord of Winterfell.
Not the heir. Not the second son. The Lord.
Father was gone. Brandon was gone. The weight of thousands of years of history, of a kingdom the size of the other six combined, was resting squarely on his shoulders.
"No pressure," Ned whispered to the stars. "Just have to win a civil war, industrialize a medieval society, stop the ice zombies, and raise a family without getting beheaded. Easy."
He closed his eyes and meditated, letting the cold of the North seep into his bones. Unlike the Vale, the energy here was welcoming. It felt… familiar. Like coming home to a house you hadn't realized you missed. The Old Gods were strong here. The trees felt awake.
On the fifth day, the Wolfswood began to thin. The trees gave way to rolling hills of heather and stone. And there, in the distance, rising like a granite fist from the earth, was Winterfell.
It was massive. Two huge walls of grey granite, towers that scraped the sky, steam rising from the hot springs that ran through the walls like veins.
Ned felt a lump form in his throat. In his old life, he had seen it on TV. He had built it in Minecraft. He had read about it in books.
But seeing it? Feeling it?
It was overwhelming.
He spurred the exhausted horse into a final canter.
As he approached the Hunter's Gate, the guards on duty stiffened. They saw a lone rider, covered in mud, riding a horse that looked half-dead, wearing a cloak that looked like it had been chewed by rats.
"Halt!" one of the guards shouted, lowering a spear. "State your business! No beggars allowed!"
Ned didn't slow down. He just pulled back his hood.
"Open the gate, Jory," Ned rasped, his voice rough from days of silence.
The guard blinked. He squinted. Then, his face went pale.
"Lord Eddard?" Jory Cassel stammered, nearly dropping his spear. "Open the gate! It's Lord Stark! He's back!"
The heavy timber gates groaned open. Ned rode through, the hooves of his horse clattering loudly on the courtyard stones.
Life in the castle seemed to freeze. Servants stopped carrying baskets. Soldiers stopped sparring. Stableboys dropped their buckets. Everyone turned to stare at the ghost who had ridden in from the south.
In the center of the courtyard, two men were sparring. One was an older man with distinct mutton-chop whiskers—Ser Rodrik Cassel. The other was a boy, lean and long-faced, moving with the quick, nervous energy of a pup.
Benjen.
Ned brought his horse to a halt and slid out of the saddle. His legs felt like jelly. He stumbled slightly, catching himself on the horse's flank.
"Ned?"
Benjen dropped his training sword. He stood there, frozen, his grey eyes wide with disbelief. He looked so young. Just a kid, really. A kid who had lost his father and his brother in the span of a single raven scroll.
"I'm home, Ben," Ned said softly.
Benjen broke. He ran across the courtyard, ignoring decorum, ignoring the mud, and slammed into Ned with a hug that nearly knocked the wind out of him.
"You're alive," Benjen sobbed into his shoulder. "They said... the raven said Aerys wanted your head. We thought..."
"I'm keeping my head," Ned said, hugging his brother back tightly. He felt the grief rolling off Benjen in waves—a dark, suffocating cloud in the Force. Ned pushed back against it, projecting warmth, projecting stability. I am here. We are the Pack.
"I'm here," Ned repeated.
Ser Rodrik approached, sheathing his sword. The old knight looked relieved, though he kept his composure better than Benjen.
"My Lord," Rodrik said, bowing his head. "We had feared the worst. The North is... restless."
"The North remembers," Ned said, releasing Benjen but keeping a hand on the boy's shoulder. "And so do I."
He looked around the courtyard. He saw the fear in the eyes of the servants. They needed reassurance. They needed a Lord.
"Rodrik," Ned commanded, his voice gaining strength. "Have the maester send ravens to every holdfast. Tell them the Wolf is home."
"At once, my Lord," Rodrik said, a fierce grin breaking through his whiskers.
Ned turned to a stableboy who was staring at him with his mouth open. "You. Take my horse. Oats, warm mash, and a thorough brushing. Treat her like a princess. She saved my life."
"Yes, m-milord!" the boy squeaked, rushing to grab the reins.
Ned looked at Benjen, who was wiping his eyes, trying to look brave.
"Ben," Ned said gently. "I need an hour. I smell like a goat and I think I have moss growing in my boots. I need a bath, food, and a bed that doesn't move."
"Of course," Benjen nodded, sniffing. "I'll have the kitchens prepare a feast—"
"No feast," Ned cut in. "Just food. In my room. We'll talk tonight. When my head stops spinning."
The Great Keep of Winterfell was warm. That was the first thing Ned noticed. The walls were piped with hot water from the springs, radiating a gentle, constant heat that defied the northern chill.
The bath was heaven. It wasn't just hot water; it was Winterfell water. It smelled of earth and iron. Ned scrubbed the grime of the Mountains and the road from his skin, watching the water turn grey.
He leaned his head back against the wooden tub and closed his eyes.
He was safe. For now.
The 10x multiplier had been working overtime on his ride. His body, though exhausted, felt denser. Harder. He could feel the muscle fibers repairing themselves at an accelerated rate. His mind, usually a chaotic storm of modern thoughts and ancient memories, felt organized.
He ate the meal the servants brought—roast beef, turnips swimming in butter, and dark beer—with the voracious appetite of a starving wolf. He didn't even bother with cutlery for the bread; he just tore it apart.
Then, he collapsed onto the bed.
It was a featherbed. It was soft. It smelled of lavender and clean linen.
He was asleep before his head hit the pillow.
He woke up to darkness.
For a second, panic flared—Where am I? The mountains? The boat?—before the warmth of the room and the smell of the hot springs grounded him.
Winterfell. Home.
He sat up, rubbing his face. He felt rested. Incredibly rested.
Multiplier, he thought. Ten hours of recovery in... what? One hour of sleep?
He checked the candle mark. He had slept for four hours. So, effectively, he'd just had a forty-hour coma. He felt fantastic.
He dressed in fresh clothes—simple Stark wools, black and grey. He didn't need the silk anymore. He strapped his sword belt on, feeling the familiar weight.
He found Benjen in the family dining hall. It was a smaller, more intimate room than the Great Hall. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting long, dancing shadows on the stone walls.
Benjen was sitting at the table, picking at a plate of chicken. He looked up when Ned entered, relief washing over his face again.
"I thought you might sleep for a week," Benjen said, managing a small smile.
"I slept enough," Ned said, pulling out a chair and picking up a piece of bread. "Now, we need to talk about the war."
Benjen leaned forward, his eyes eager, the firelight catching the youthful hope in his face. "I've been drilling the garrison. We have five thousand men ready to march within the week. I was thinking I could lead the vanguard, or maybe ride on your flank."
Ned put the bread down and looked his brother in the eye. "You're not marching, Ben. You're staying here."
Benjen recoiled as if slapped. "What? No! I'm a Stark. I can fight! Brandon would have let me come!"
"Brandon is dead," Ned said, his voice hard but not cruel. "And Father is dead. And I am riding into a war that could easily end with my head on a spike."
He reached across the table, covering Benjen's hand with his own. "Father always said it, Ben. Do you remember?"
Benjen bit his lip, his anger warring with memory. He looked away, his jaw tight. "There must always be a Stark in Winterfell," he whispered.
"Exactly," Ned said softly. "Winterfell is the heart of the North. It needs a Stark to beat. If I fall... if Robert falls... you are the last line of defense. You are the one who keeps our House alive. You cannot risk yourself on a southern battlefield."
Benjen looked down at the table, his knuckles white. He hated it. Ned could feel the frustration radiating off him—sharp, jagged spikes in the Force. But beneath the anger, there was duty. The iron core of their upbringing.
"It feels like hiding," Benjen muttered.
"It's not hiding," Ned corrected, squeezing his hand. "It's holding the line. It's the hardest job of all, Ben. Waiting. Ruling. If I die, you are the Stark. You keep the blood alive. Can you do that?"
Benjen took a shaky breath, then looked up, his grey eyes clear. He nodded. "I'll stay. I'll hold the fort. I promise."
"Good lad," Ned smiled, releasing his hand. "Now, finish your chicken. I have a date with the Godswood."
After dinner, Benjen went to inspect the night watch, and Ned walked alone to the Godswood.
The ancient forest was silent, save for the wind rustling the red leaves of the Weirwood tree. The air here was thick with power—heavy, ancient, and watchful.
Ned sat before the Heart Tree, the carved face weeping red sap. He placed his hands on his knees and closed his eyes.
Multiplier active.
He reached out. Here, in the heart of the North, the Force didn't just trickle; it surged. He felt the roots deep in the earth, the sap flowing like blood, the connection to every living thing in the castle.
He lifted a hand. A fallen leaf twitched. Then another. Then a dozen.
They rose into the air, swirling around him in a slow, controlled vortex.
"Okay," Ned whispered, opening his eyes to watch the leaves dance. "Now we're getting somewhere."