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CaveLeather
Winterfell, the North.
In the cold gray dawn, Eddard Stark stood wrapped in a heavy bearskin cloak on a guard tower along the outer walls, watching the approaching army draw closer.
The tower held Eddard, his wife Catelyn, the maester, his eldest son Robb, and his bastard son Jon.
Robb was a sturdy, red-haired boy with fair skin and lively energy. Jon was lean and long-faced, brown hair falling over gray eyes that carried the quiet sullenness only bastards seemed to wear.
Many lords across the Seven Kingdoms kept bastards. They owed them at least food, shelter, and a chance to grow up healthy. But raising one under the same roof as trueborn children? Rare as summer snow.
Eddard Stark was the exception. His treatment of Jon set the gold standard in the Seven Kingdoms—right up there with old Walder Frey when it came to looking after blood, legitimate or not.
Robert's bastards had it worst. Whores turned whores. Donkey drivers drove donkeys. Some simply vanished.
Even though the realm was sliding into another long summer, the North still carried thin snow on the wind.
Lord Rickard Karstark had brought three hundred riders and three hundred foot from Karhold. Spearpoints glittered like ice in the pale sunlight. Their banner—a black field with a white sunburst—snapped above them.
A drummer marched at the front, pounding a drum bigger than himself. Thump. Thump. Thump. The rhythm rolled across the yard like distant thunder.
The Karstark men were tall, bearded, wild-haired, cloaked in bear, seal, and wolf pelts. They looked every inch the northern wolves they were.
In the short time since the raven arrived, northern lords had already poured into Winterfell with sons, cavalry, and sworn swords. Rickard was one of the later arrivals.
"This mobilization might be the fastest in Winterfell's history," the old maester muttered.
"Winterfell answers the king's call," Eddard said. "But we're hunting krakens in their own den. We don't need half the North for that."
This wasn't the Trident all over again—no massive pitched battle, no frantic call for every able-bodied man. This was a sharp, professional strike. Lords raised only their best cavalry and trained infantry. Recruitment moved fast.
"Tonight I'll feast them," Eddard continued. "Then we ride south together. The war's already burning across the sea."
He turned to his wife. "Once I march, everything here falls to you, Cat. Winterfell. The children."
"I know, Ned." Catelyn's voice was steady, but her eyes were not. "The battlefield has no mercy."
"Relax. We're riding with the finest knights in the Seven Kingdoms. Balon lost this war the moment he started it." Eddard's confidence was iron. The gap was too wide to close.
Catelyn understood Jon would ride with them. She had no choice. The boy looked more Stark than her own sons—that truth still burned.
Their marriage had begun in duty during dark times, but real affection had grown between them. Still, two ghosts walked between their beds: Brandon Stark, the wild wolf who should have been lord, and the nameless woman who had given Eddard his bastard.
"Will the Dark Knight ride with us?" Robb asked, eyes bright with excitement. "They say he's the finest young knight in the Riverlands—bat-wing helm, black armor, sword like lightning. He killed the kraken's heir with his own hand."
"He will," Eddard promised. "King Robert named Arthur Whent vanguard of the entire Riverlands host. He's your cousin. And Ser Barristan the Bold rides with us too."
Northerners didn't use the word knight the way southerners did—except the Manderlys—but they still respected men who could kill.
"Arthur," Catelyn repeated softly.
When she had come north as a bride, Arthur Whent had still been a boy. Now that summer-raised child had become a dangerous man of the Trident.
Was this truly a blessing?
Her mother had been Walter Whent's sister. After her death and Robert's Rebellion, the two houses had drifted far apart.
"Come," Eddard said. "Let's greet Lord Rickard together."
He led his family and retainers down to the yard.
---
Sunspear, the Old Palace, the Tower of the Sun.
The round throne room beneath the golden dome glowed with colored glass and pale marble. Two high seats stood on the dais—one carved with House Martell's golden spear, the other with Queen Nymeria's sunburst.
Prince Doran Martell sat on the Golden Spear Throne, gripping a fresh raven scroll so tightly the parchment creaked.
News from King's Landing had arrived. Doran had expected the Iron Throne to crush Balon quickly, but the speed still shocked him.
Balon had struck like a tiger at first—burning Lannisport in a surprise raid. Then he had charged straight into disaster at Seagard and lost both his eldest and second sons. Unacceptable losses.
"Balon misread everything," Doran said quietly. "The entire realm united under Robert's call. Lords and knights are arming ships and horses. Some may hate the king, but they hate the ironborn more. Balon dreamed of allies. He got none."
The Red Viper's mouth twisted. "So Balon's rebellion actually strengthened Robert's grip."
"Yes," Doran answered. "He succeeded at Lannisport, then threw away two heirs at Seagard. His captains will doubt him now. And the Iron Throne's fleets are untouched. Robert has summoned every banner. Stannis is preparing to sail past Dorne and link with the Redwyne fleet. Once that happens, Balon is finished."
Oberyn's eyes narrowed. "And that boy—Arthur Whent. Vicious as a cornered wolf. He doesn't fight like any Riverlands knight I've ever seen. Darkstar lost fairly after all. He fell to the brightest rising star in the Seven Kingdoms."
Doran's voice stayed cold. "Talk changes nothing. Robert favors him. He named him vanguard. The boy will rise far. What matters now is Stannis' fleet passing our waters. Dorne must show goodwill."
"No Dornishman wants to cross the sea and bleed for the Iron Throne," Oberyn said flatly.
"I know. But fresh water, food, and a few reliable guides to speed them through the Dornish Sea—that costs us little and buys us breathing room." Doran's fingers tapped the scroll. "That is enough."
Oberyn nodded once, bitter acceptance in his eyes.
Vengeance would have to wait again.