---
The cliffs of Starfall came into view at dusk, white stone towers burning orange in the setting sun. Below, the Torentine River glimmered in silver threads as it wound through the dry canyons of western Dorne.
The Stark procession rode in silence.
Six coffins moved with them. Five Northern warriors, wrapped in linen, marked with black direwolf sigils. And one more—smaller, marked with a wolf ,sealed with resin and cold iron bands.
No questions were asked.
They reached the outer gate before nightfall. No horns blew. No men shouted welcome. Only the creak of winches and the hush of sand carried on desert wind.
Ned Stark rode at the head of the column. Behind him rode Howland Reed and a dozen grim-faced veterans. A handful of attendants followed on foot—one of them a veiled woman in healer's robes, who never raised her head and never spoke.
The gates of Starfall opened without ceremony.
Waiting within was Ashara Dayne.
She stood alone beneath the main archway, violet eyes unreadable, wrapped in flowing garments of dark indigo and grey. Her hair was unbound, drifting across her shoulders in the breeze. She did not move as they dismounted.
Ned stepped forward and unslung the long, cloth-wrapped object from his back.
He did not offer it.
Instead, he laid it on a stone plinth before her. Slowly, deliberately, he removed the wrappings and revealed Dawn—milk-white, flawless, gleaming with the last light of day.
The air grew still.
Ashara's throat moved. "You've brought him home."
"I've brought his blade," Ned said.
Ashara looked up at him.
"You came all this way to return it?"
"No."
Ned's voice was colder than stone. "I came to make a trade."
She frowned.
"You want coin?"
"I want a deal," Ned said. "One thousand gold dragons, and two shiploads of Starfall sand sent to White Harbor every moon. Free of charge. For three years."
Ashara blinked. "Sand?"
Ned said nothing.
The other Daynes behind her—silent until now—began to shift. One of the elder knights stepped forward. "You think to ransom our ancestral sword?"
"I think to balance the scales," Ned replied.
He stepped toward them, voice low, steady, cutting.
"Arthur Dayne was called the Sword of the Morning. But in the end, he stood watch in a tower while my sister was raped and imprisoned. He raised Dawn in service of silence. For that, five Northmen died retrieving her."
He nodded back toward the coffins.
"One of those coffins bears my sister's name. She never returned. But this sword—this blade—is still whole. Why should it come back for free, when she never did?"
Ashara stared at him. Her face didn't change, but her hands trembled where they gripped her cloak.
"You bring us death, and ask payment in return?"
"I bring you truth," Ned said. "And the cost of it."
The wind howled through the arches.
"How do we know you won't sell the sand?"
"You don't," Ned said. "You only know that for three years, my ships will dock and expect two holds' worth, no questions asked. After that, we renegotiate."
Ashara studied him a moment longer. Then she turned.
"Leave the blade."
"I'll leave it when the coin and deal are in writing."
Her lips curled. "Of course. The Stark way."
"The surviving way."
A pause.
Then Ashara nodded once, stiffly. "You'll have it by morning."
Ned gave a single nod in return.
He turned, and without another word, led his men back through the gates.
No one stopped the silent woman who followed behind him, her robes grey and unmarked, the bundle in her arms swaddled in wool.
No one asked who she was.
No one looked too closely at the coffin marked Lyanna.
That night, in a private tent pitched beyond Starfall's walls, Ned sat with Howland in silence. The woman sat in the corner, rocking the child gently in her arms, the firelight casting her veil in amber shadows.
"They'll keep their word?" Howland asked.
"They will," Ned said. "Dorne understands the debt. And legacy of the 'honorable sword of the morning'
"And the sword?"
"They'll weep over it. Mount it. Lie about how it was earned."
Howland glanced at the woman, then back to Ned.
"And what of her?"
"She'll stay veiled. In Dorne. Once we are past the Neck. Or far enough that no one dares knock twice we can discuss the future
"And the boy?"
"He'll be raised as one of brandons for the time. With his blood.
"And when he asks?"
Ned's didn't hesitate
"Then I'll tell him the truth once he turns one and ten, lyanna will be around, I will place her in charge of the construction of his seat with Benjen, queenscrown is as far enough away as possible for her, give her the time, space and family to recover."
Howland nodded.
---
The morning sun cast pale gold over the cliffs of Starfall as the Northern party split.
A single ship, flagged in grey and black, waited at the mouth of the Torentine. Aboard were seventeen Northern guards, one sealed coffin bearing the name Lyanna Stark, and two silent passengers: a hooded healer holding a child and a lean man of the Neck.
No one on the docks asked who they were. No one looked too closely.
Ned watched from horseback as the gangplank was raised and the sails caught wind. He said nothing. Howland nodded once before turning away, and the ship disappeared eastward, bound for White Harbor.
Ned turned south, his cloak stirring behind him.
He rode with eight men now—five swordsmen, three bowman-swordsmen. They crossed Dorne under silence and sun, escorted by Martell riders through scrubland and dusty roads where old stones jutted from the sand like broken bones.
They reached Sunspear by dusk.
The palace gates opened with neither flourish nor fanfare. Guards watched with unreadable eyes as Northerners entered their dry and salted court. The Hall of Rain stood still and cool, water running through channels at the edges, catching the torchlight.
Doran Martell sat at the far end, his cane resting across his knees. His face was heavy, his eyes calm and sharp as flint.
Beside him stood Oberyn Martell, lean and tightly coiled.
Ned entered alone.
Oberyn stepped forward.
"You dare show your face here? Have you come to offer terms from your Drunken usurper cunt of a king?! he raged.
Ned's voice was cold and calm. "I came to make clear what others won't."
"And what is that, Stark?" Oberyn's jaw tensed. "That we should forgive and forget the rape and murder of a child of Dorne?
Ned met his eyes.
"I wasn't there when it happened. Tywin's men did the butchery. Robert laughed when they showed the bodies. And Jamie Lannister was the Kingsguard on duty, he failed it and sat on the throne as his father's pets committed the crime.
The room fell silent.
Oberyn's expression cracked. His hand twitched toward his hip.
Doran lifted a single finger.
Oberyn stepped back.
Ned continued.
"I do not speak to excuse it. Or to forgive it. Only to say: I saw the bodies. I saw what Robert called victory."
He paused.
"Elia's death was not war. It was rot. And the realm applauded it."
Doran inclined his head slightly. "And what now?"
"The North will kneel," Ned said. "Not for loyalty. For survival. We will rebuild, and we will remember. When the realm forgets—when it grows fat, and careless, and drunk—we may rise, you should do the same, let them forget about you, see you weak and compliant. Rebuild invest and when the time is right strike."
"And would the North support us?" Doran asked quietly.
"We have waited longer than you have for this opportunity, both our lands have chaffed under Targaryen rule and wished to be independent in truth, let us rebuild quietly and when the time is right we will discuss the terms of alliance.
Oberyn studied him in silence.
"I came to offer more than this though," Ned said. "I propose trade—fur, iron, smoked meats and more if my ideas work out. You send citrus, sand,horses to breed with ours and in the future some of your best spears to help train my men."
Doran nodded slowly. "A quiet exchange."
"A shared strength. While the Crown grows distracted."
"The terms?"
Ned stepped closer. "It holds until either of us ends it. Not by war. By choice."
Doran looked at his brother, then back at Ned. "Agreed."
From behind Oberyn's legs, a small girl stepped into view. She held a black kitten in her arms and stared at Ned with wide violet eyes. She said nothing.
Oberyn didn't flinch. Didn't stop her.
Ned looked at the child, then said to Doran—not loud, not performative:
"So long as I am Lord of Winterfell, no child of Elia Martell will be turned away. That is sworn, they will be protected and honored" This is swear on the stones of Winterfell itself.
The girl blinked. The kitten purred.
Doran's reply was quiet. "Thankyou Lord Stark."
That night, beneath flickering lamps and the scent of lemon and salt, the pact was sealed, wine was drunk and terms were discussed. They spoke of how rhaenys was smuggled out with the help of Varys, but they did not have time to exchange Elia, they spoke of how Aegon was a dragonseed from dragonstone, how Elia's health prevented her from having another child after Rhaenys and that Rhaella helped her hide the faked pregnancy. At the end of the night the pact was signed and the two realms at the opposite end of westeros entered into an alliance.
Two seals: one wolf, one sun and spear. No banners. No witnesses beyond the men who would one day reshape the bones of the realm.
At dawn, Ned rode north again, to King's Landing, he had a king to extort in return for kneeling and an army to return home.
The road to King's Landing was quieter than when they had left it.
No parades of banners. No cheers. Just dust kicked up by tired hooves and the occasional crow perched on a broken milepost. Ned Stark rode ahead of the column, flanked by his five swordsmen and three bowman-swordsmen, the rest of his company already bound for the North. His cloak was weighted with road dust and silence.
The land here was dry and cracked, grass burnt out from early summer heat. Trees leaned thinly along the roadside, and no one came out to greet them when they passed farms. The war had broken something in the South. Pride, maybe.
Or memory.
The closer they came to the capital, the more the silence thickened. The city loomed ahead, still girded in smoke and the stink of too many corpses burned too quickly. The charred wreckage of carts, homes, and men's ambitions littered the road like bones. Vultures wheeled in the sky and picked through abandoned siege lines.
No trumpets sounded for the North's return. No herald called their names. Only the wind and the occasional creak of leather and armor.
At the city gates, gold cloaks eyed them with suspicion before recognizing the wolf banner stitched in small thread on Ned's saddlecloth. They let them through without a word.
Inside, the city reeked.
Rot and ash. The perfume of too many candles burned in too few shrines. The stink of soot-covered beggars and corpses hastily buried in lime. King's Landing had always stunk, but now it carried the foul breath of something that had killed too much too quickly and hadn't finished dying yet.
Ned said nothing.
The city's people parted around them. Some with lowered eyes. Some muttering. A few spat in the street—though never too near. Even Southern peasants could sense danger, and the North wore it plainly.
He rode past the street where the butcher's son had been cut down, past the alleys where children with half a face begged for coin. He did not speak, and he did not stop.
The Red Keep sat high on Aegon's Hill, redstone and steel wrapped in banners now faded and weather-stained. Where once there had been royal guards in bright armor, now there stood tired men in mismatched mail, half of them reeking of last night's wine.
Ned did not go straight to the throne.
He veered west, through an older section of the keep, until they reached a villa that had been seized for the Northern host. Stark men stood watch at the door—men with tired eyes, short tempers, and clean blades.
Rickard Karstark was waiting inside.
He stood when Ned entered, his broad frame casting a long shadow against the stone floor. He hadn't changed—still bearded, still iron-backed—but his expression carried the strain of too many days bearing someone else's watch.
"Lord Stark," Rickard said.
"Rickard." Ned unclasped his cloak, letting it fall onto a waiting hook. "Status?"
"The city's been quiet, too quiet" Rickard began. "But it's a quiet like frost on a roof—thin, cold, and bound to break. The gold cloaks answer to Jon Arry, mostly, but they look at us like we're a foreign host. Some smallfolk whisper about executions. Some whisper about revenge, we had 15 executions 3 of our own were dealt with as you asked."
"Who's been stirring them?"
"Mostly wine and fear." He paused. "Though Varys never leaves the shadows he's too weak in position right now and Tywin had been trying to discredit us. I don't trust either."
"Nor should you."
Rickard gestured toward the window. "They've started rebuilding already. The Crown's poured coin into taverns and market rows, trying to make people forget."
"They won't."
"No." Rickard turned to face him. "What happened in that throne room won't be forgotten."
Ned's jaw clenched.
"It wasn't us," he said, voice low. "It wasn't the North."
"I know that."
"Tywin's men did the butchery. The bodies were brought in like trophies. Robert laughed, and Jaime Lannister sat the throne and said nothing."
Rickard didn't respond right away. He didn't need to.
"We held our line," Ned added. "We showed restraint."
"And now they expect us to kneel."
"Aye."
Rickard folded his arms. "The men have questions, my lord. So do the lords. They came south to see justice done, not to watch butchers get crowned."
"They'll get their answers soon enough."
Rickard studied him for a long moment. "And Lyanna?"
Ned didn't flinch. "She died in Dorne. Too late for saving. We've brought her body north."
A pause.
"I'm sorry."
"So am I."
Neither man spoke for a while. Only the sound of wind through open shutters and the faint din of the waking city beyond.
Finally, Ned straightened. "Call the Northern lords. I want them gathered before nightfall."
Rickard nodded. "They'll come."
Ned looked once more out the window, toward the towers of the Red Keep. The sun hung low, casting the stone in hues of rust and blood.
"They'll come with demands," Rickard said quietly.
Ned didn't look at him. "Good, that's what I want"
---
The stone chamber beneath the Red Keep was sparse and cold, lit by four torches set into iron sconces. The long table bore no cloth. The benches were plain wood, scraped by years of wear. No servants were present. No wine poured. This was no feast, and none of the Northmen expected comfort.
Ned sat quietly at the head, he raised his hand and the idle chatter ceased. "As you all know the South will expect us to fall to our knees and pledge loyalty to the New King, some of you may have heard he was my friend or seen like a brother to me, let me tell you know. That is false. The man I grew fond of in the Vale died sometime across this war and now sits on the throne as a man who would laugh at the murder of children. We are here now to determine what we want in return for our part in this shit show and to remain part of the realm. Some of you may beg for independence, I say this now and directly. We are not ready. I say we bleed the south dry, we take our rewards and we return north. The borders will be closed to the south, I will be relying on house Reed to guard the Neck and speaking to our family in Essos in regards to sending someone to help route out all of the spiders webs across the North. I say this now, let us rebuild quietly, better and stronger and by the time your children sit at a table like this again discussing the future I will ensure independence is a option."
The silence was palpable. Everyone single Lord was in agreement, they would take as much as possible and follow the plan.
Rickard Karstark stood at the table's far end, arms folded. "They expect us to kneel," he said. "Fine. But if the North bends, the South had better bleed coin. we will use it to rebuild the moat as our first line of defence."
Lord Glover also leaned forward. We should also get Gift restored. All land south of the Wall, from Queenscrown to Oakenshield, back under Northern rule. The Watch will get reduced rates of grain but it will should go back to original owners, that bitch Alysanne had no right taking our land!"
The murmers of agreement rose.
"Agreed," said Lord Hornwood.
Wyman Manderly cleared his throat. "White Harbor is our main trading port, I say we make them pay for our losses . 1.5 million gold dragons. Not over ten years. Not in promises. Sent before snow falls, we use half a million to build a new fleet it can be stationed at White harbour, Bear Island, Karhold and Barrow town
"Aye," growled Greatjon Umber, "we rebuild our fleet on southern coin, let the next time the greyjoys try to raid us they be met by a fleet that dwarfs them"
Harwood Flint of the mountains drummed a thick finger on the wood. "We bring furs, smoked meat, obsidian. The Crown taxes every barrel. Enough. No more tariffs on Northern exports. What we trade, we keep, we only pay the base rate of taxes'
Glover nodded. "If we want to grow to the point we can stand alone again we need every house to be strong, no carries mean we can expand what we trade, especially with essos"
Rickard leaned over the table. "And our dead? The vaults below the Red Keep hold heirlooms stolen in conquest and war, I say they return all Northern property that can be found in the royal vault, the winter crown should be returned for future use.
"They'll say they're Crown property," said Hornwood.
"This isnt a negotiation its a demand" ned murmured quieyly
A few lords gave short nods. None smiled.
"Let's speak plainly," said Greatjon. "They kneel to septs. We kneel to trees. And yet we're the heretics? No. I want a royal decree—Old Gods and Seven, equal under law. No conversions, no burning of the weirwoods, the crime should be equal to burning a sept."
Manderly glanced toward Ned, who had remained quiet and icy "And what of the court itself? Will we have a voice?"
"We should, if only for information said Rickard. "We want a permanent Northern seat on the Small Council—Master of Coin or Law. And we name who fills it. Not them."
"Then we need someone to go," Glover said. "Someone who won't get fat or drunk."
"I've heard you," he said. "And you've spoken true. Each demand will be taken to the throne—each one weighed, clearly."
He moved to the edge of the table, standing beneath the torchlight.
The words hung in the stone.
He nodded once to Karstark, then turned for the door.
And as the North's lords watched him go, not one doubted they would rise again.
---
The Red Keep had never felt more like a cage.
Stone corridors stretched under Ned Stark's boots as he passed the halls where Mad kings once screamed and golden lions now whispered. His cloak trailed silence. The guards stepped aside without a word.
He entered the council chamber alone.
A servant followed at his heels, bowing nervously. "Shall I summon the council, Lord Stark?"
"Yes," Ned said simply. "Tell them i have returned and demand a meeting of the small council to discuss terms for the swearing of the North.
The man fled.
Ned stood for a moment in the empty chamber, eyes scanning the familiar faces carved in stone along the lintels. Old Kingsguard sigils. Targaryen flames etched into the marble floor. Everything old, everything charred.
He moved to the head of the table and waited.
One by one, they came.
Jon Arryn arrived first, robes grey, eyes tired, mouth already half-prepared with soft words. Then Stannis Baratheon, jaw set, arms folded. Lord Redwyne entered next, muttering to himself about tariffs and docks. Grand Maester Pycelle shuffled in behind him, puffing like a mule.
And then Tywin Lannister walked in, calm as ever, despite not having a chair. He stood just behind the Small Council's seats, as if he were already lord of them all.
Ned didn't greet any of them.
Robert Baratheon entered last, his hair damp, his eyes slightly bloodshot. His gaze swept the room until it found Ned.
"Gods, Stark," he said, smiling weakly. "You're finally back. Where the hell have you—" His grin faltered. "Where's Lyanna?"
Ned didn't move. "She died in Dorne."
The words were like an axe splitting the air.
Robert took half a step back, mouth parting slightly. No rage. No tears. Just confusion—and the sudden realization that the man before him was no longer the boyhood friend he remembered.
Jon Arryn cleared his throat quickly. "We've all bled, Lord Stark. You most of all. But perhaps now we can speak as one realm again. Heal. Mend. Come together—"
Ned looked at him once, and Jon stopped speaking.
He remained standing, hands behind his back.
"You asked what the North would accept in return for peace. These are our terms."
He didn't pause.
"First. The return of the Gift—every inch of land south of the Wall previously granted to the Night's Watch is to be restored to its original Northern stewards. The Watch may occupy it, but the land will fall under the governance of the North. Further, no land may ever again be stripped from a noble house without the permission of the Lord Paramount of that region."
The council shifted.
"Second. One and a half million gold dragons. Shipped to White Harbor by the end of the year to be distrubuted as i see fit. This is reimbursement for the North's armies, dead, and grain lost."
Pycelle made a choking sound. Lord Redwyne visibly flinched.
"Third. All tariffs on Northern goods are to be abolished. The North will pay only the base tax rate to the crown. This rate may not be raised for ten years. After that, it may increase only by three percent, once every five years there after for a period of 50 years."
Stannis narrowed his eyes.
"Fourth. The Reach supplied grain during the war to both sides. The North will not pay inflated rates for it now. A fixed, reduced grain price will be established for shipments from the Reach to White Harbor and Barrowton, lasting no fewer than seven years."
Redwyne opened his mouth to protest. Ned continued.
"Fifth. The Old Gods are to be recognized as legally equal to the Faith of the Seven. No septs will be built north of the Neck without direct invitation from the ruling House of that region. Any act of burning or defiling a godswood is to be punished by royal decree with the same severity as an attack on a sept."
The room grew colder.
"Sixth. All Northern heirlooms, artifacts, or ancestral items currently held within the vaults or armories of the Red Keep are to be returned. A council of Northern lords will be permitted to inspect all royal collections and make formal claims, which are to be honored without obstruction."
"Seventh, the North will have a permanent member on the Small Council to be determined by us, this member will either occupy the seat od master of Laws or Master of Coin, they will be permitted to bring 100 personal guards as part of their household, we all saw what happened when my Father entered kings Landing with a small force."
Tywin Lannister's gaze sharpened. He said nothing.
"Eighth" Ned said, voice never rising. "Three fossilized dragon eggs. Removed from the Crown vaults and sent to Winterfell. They will be displayed in the great hall of Winterfell as proof that Winter Came for House Targaryen."
The room exploded.
Pycelle nearly fell from his chair, beard flying. Redwyne began to shout. Robert slammed a goblet onto the table. Jon Arryn looked stunned. Even Stannis's jaw clenched, as if the sheer gall of it offended his sense of order.
Only Tywin remained silent, his mind racing in a way to ensure the demands were not met and thinking of a way to get Cersei to be the next queen as lyanna Stark had died.
Ned didn't move.
He waited.
Let them shout. Let them rage. Let them hear each other's voices before they heard his again.
And when it finally fell still, when Robert leaned forward and Jon began to ask—
Ned spoke.
"This is not a negotiation," he said. "This is what the North demands… for bending the knee."
And then he turned, and left.
---
Two days passed in silence.
Behind the red walls of the Keep, the Small Council argued, bickered, counted coin, measured grain, and cursed Northern bluntness. Tywin Lannister did not speak in council but lingered in the halls, like a shadow with golden eyes. Robert drank too much, Jon Arryn walked with quieter steps, and Pycelle coughed behind parchment.
Ned did not attend.
He stayed in the villa the North had been assigned, speaking little, writing less, his thoughts already halfway home.
When the summons came, he did not dress for ceremony. Just his leather cloak, clean tunic, sword at his side. A Stark did not need silk to speak.
He found them waiting — Jon at the table, Pycelle nodding sleepily, Redwyne avoiding his eyes. Robert sat slouched, one boot on the edge of the table. Stannis stood as he had always stood: rigid, resentful, unreadable.
Jon Arryn cleared his throat. "The council has accepted the terms in full."
There was a long pause. Ned said nothing.
"There was debate," Jon continued. "But in the end, the cost of war weighed heavier than the weight of pride."
"They'll pay," Robert muttered. "It's coin, not blood. Let the North have what it asked."
Jon hesitated. "The Crown would… appreciate a gesture. A statement. Something for the record—some recognition that, in this time of rebuilding, all have committed wrongs. That unity requires humility."
Ned looked at him.
"You want an apology."
Jon shook his head. "A confession. In form only. Words of peace to mark the page."
"No."
The word came flat and final.
Robert stirred. "Ned…"
"No," Ned said again.
The silence hung, thick as smoke.
"You asked what the North needed," he said. "We answered. You accepted. I'll not stain the memory of the men I buried to ease the pride of men who never bled. I will not place the name of the North next to others regaridng the crimes that happened in these halls"
Jon Arryn bowed his head.
Robert stood slowly. "You mean to carry this between us? Even now?"
Ned looked him full in the eyes.
"Until justice is done for Elia Martell. For Rhaenys. For Aegon."
Robert said nothing.
"I serve peace," Ned said. "Not friendship."
He turned and walked from the chamber without another word.
---
The vault doors opened with the sound of old rust breaking.
Six Northern men entered beneath torchlight—Ned Stark, Rickard Karstark, Lord Glover, Lord Forrester, Wyman Manderly, and Harwood Flint. No southerners joined them, though two guards stood posted beyond the iron doors, glancing in with faint unease. No one had entered this far into the royal vaults in years.
It smelled of parchment, oil, and dust.
Ned said nothing as they descended.
The stone steps led into a broad hall of shelves, racks, and display cases—some sealed in glass, others draped in red velvet. Gold gleamed in the gloom, but none of it drew Northern eyes. They passed Lannister heirlooms, Reachlord regalia, even Dornish sandglass timekeepers.
They went deeper.
Then Rickard stopped.
On a raised stand, rimmed in iron and wrapped in a dull blue cloth, sat a simple circlet of blackened steel—plain, heavy, unpolished.
"The crown of Torrhen Stark," he said, voice low. "The crown the last King in the North laid at Aegon's feet."
Ned approached it slowly.
"No gems," Wyman whispered. "No dragonfire needed to melt it."
Ned didn't touch it. He only nodded once, and Rickard took it carefully, wrapping it in linen and placing it in the crate they had brought.
Lord Glover whistled softly from across the hall. "Here."
He held up a rolled parchment, sealed in wax so old it flaked when disturbed.
The wax bore the imprint of a direwolf and a three-headed dragon entwined.
Ned took it, breaking the seal with care.
He read it once, slowly. Then again.
"It's the Pact," he said. "The original treaty. The pact of Ice and Fire."
They all stepped forward.
"This proves the alliance was deeper than they admit," Flint murmured. "Not just surrender. Legacy."
Ned slid the parchment back into its case and sealed it again.
Lord Forrester called from deeper in. "Books. Gods be good, look at this."
A shelf, half-rotted but intact, housed over two dozen volumes—some bound in leather, some rawhide. Each bore a Northerner's sigil: Manderly, Hornwood, Glover, Ryswell.
"These were thought burned," said Wyman, thumbing through a cracked spine. "The maesters said they were lost during the False Spring."
Ned scanned the titles. Histories. Lineages. Accounts of the Long Night. Notes on the properties of obsidian.
"They weren't lost," Ned said. "They were taken."
And in that moment, they all understood.
The maesters were not keepers. They were editors.
Forrester said nothing, but he packed the books with unusual care.
Flint wandered toward a far alcove and drew back a faded curtain.
Three longbows lay across a rack of bronze supports—white as snow, carved from weirwood, strung in sinew black as pitch.
He lifted one reverently. It creaked like old bone.
Alongside them were three quivers, each filled with black-shafted arrows tipped in dragon glass.
"Winter weapons," Flint said. "Hunting bows. Real ones. Gods know how long they've sat here."
"They come north," Ned said.
Finally, Wyman moved to a long case inlaid with pearl. When he opened it, the room hushed.
Inside lay a three-pronged Valyrian steel trident, the shaft wrapped in sea-green leather, the pommel carved in the shape of a merman.
"The trident of House Manderly," he said, voice low. "Taken from my house when we demanded another Targaryen Princess to honour the betrothal of Theomore Manderly and Viserra Targaryen, we were told that our pride outgrew our station and that nobody demands anything of the dragon.
He didn't weep. But his hand trembled as he closed the case.
---
Before they left, Ned lingered at the back of the vault. Alone, where the shadows were thickest.
He reached beneath a shelf and found a false panel. A flick of his blade, and it popped open.
Inside, hidden beneath old letters and broken chains, lay several items not listed in the council inventories.
He took them without a word.
Three Valyrian steel daggers, clean and razor-edged.
Two sets of table where, cups, spoons,knives forks, etched with dragon wings and Old Valyria's sigils the gleam of valyrian steel evident.
And at the bottom—two tomes.
One bound in red leather with silver clasps: Dragons, Wyrms, and Wyverns by Septon Barth.
The other smaller, darker. No title. No author.
He opened it.
The first line read: "We thought we could train them. We were wrong."
A dragonkeeper's journal.
He closed it, tucked both into his cloak, and walked back to the others.
They sealed the crates. Spoke no oaths. Said no prayers.
The North had come to the vaults.
And the North would leave heavier than it arrived.
---
The North departed two days later by ship.
The docks were quiet. No banners flew. The sun hung low as a dozen longships from White Harbor waited, crewed by men already dreaming of home.
Each lord boarded in turn—Karstark, Glover, Hornwood, Umber. Rickard clasped Ned's hand at the plank. Ned turned and adressed those around him. A year from now we will have a feast at winterfell, a proper letter will be sent but we will discuss the future but for now go home rest and recover. And stay vigilant of the maesters we saw those books in the vault.
The lords all agreed and left to they're ships, the sails unfurled and the bay of kings Landing was filled with the sails of the direwolf.
He turned once at the top of the gangway and looked out across the water, the smell of salt and pine and drifting in the breeze.
He said nothing, but already the Red Keep was behind him.
He was halfway aboard when a courier came running, pale-faced and breathless.
"Lord Stark! My lord—Lord Jon Arryn requests your presence. Briefly. Urgent."
Ned exchanged a glance with the ship's captain. Then turned and followed.
---
Jon Arryn stood alone in a small port-side chamber, a sealed letter in his hand.
"It came this morning," he said, voice low.
Ned took it, broke the wax, and read.
He read it twice.
His hands didn't shake. His face didn't change. But the silence in the room grew deeper than stone.
"Catelyn passed," Jon said gently. "In childbed. A boy. Not yet named."
Ned closed the letter.
"Hoster will meet you in Seagard," Jon added. "To place him in your care."
Ned nodded once.
No more words were needed.
---
He boarded the ship without ceremony. The sails took the wind. And Winterfell waited.