---
The sea wind bit harder the farther north they sailed.
Ned stood alone at the prow, cloak wrapped around him, one hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. Beneath his feet, the wood creaked with each wave, but his balance was perfect. The crew kept their distance. The Stark lord had not spoken since departing King's Landing, and no one aboard felt inclined to break that silence.
He did not look back.
For days he had kept his mind rooted in the present—council debates, southern tricks, Tywin's glances, Robert's drunken attempts at friendship—but now, with nothing before him but grey water and gulls, his thoughts slipped into deeper channels.
He had been a king once. A real king, with a crown of bronze and blood and silence. Leonidas. The name sat like a ghost at the edge of his memory. He had shed it like a second skin, grown into Ned Stark so thoroughly that even the sound of "Leonidas" felt foreign now. Yet here, at the edge of the world, it returned.
He remembered the mountain pass. The choking dust. The wall of shields. He remembered the final clash, the moment when death felt like purpose fulfilled. No flame. No magic. Just the crack of broken spear and the weight of bodies falling beside him.
That man had died. But his soul had not been finished.
He had opened his eyes again in the snows of the North.
Eddard Stark. Son. Brother. Lord. Husband. Father.
Westeros had not given him a throne—but it had given him time.
And now, time had given him purpose.
The North was not Sparta. Its people were hard, but scattered. Its lords proud, but divided. Its customs steeped in old gods and forgotten blood, not honed into doctrine and discipline. But the heart of it—the will to endure—was there.
He would not try to turn the North into Sparta.
He would make it something greater.
Discipline would begin with the young. Children trained in shieldwalls, in survival, in reading as much as in killing. A culture of strength that did not come from conquest but from cohesion. Not imperial Sparta, but unbreakable unity.
He would need architects. Philosophers. Not just smiths and swordsmen. The wisdom of Sparta had been lost not on the battlefield but in the mouths of softer kings who remembered only glory and not why it had been earned.
In the North, he would restore that balance.
He would build a place where no Stark child would be offered southward for peace. Where no Northern army would march unless it chose to. Where banners meant more than tribute.
And no one—not the maesters, not the septons, not the Crown—would see it coming until the walls had already risen.
A gull cried overhead, and Ned turned his gaze back to the sea.
Seagard waited.
So did a newborn son who had never seen his mother's face. So did grief unspoken. Duty yet fulfilled.
He let the salt wind sting his eyes.
Then he turned and walked back toward the heart of the ship.
Seagard rose against the grey horizon like a fortress carved from the tide.
Its square towers and thick walls had once watched for raiders, Ironborn sails looming across the western sea. Now they stood silent, veiled in mourning. The city didn't bustle as it should've. The docks were quieter. The air itself seemed to move more softly.
As Ned disembarked, the crew stepped aside. He did not look back toward the ship. His boots hit the stone dock with the weight of a man returning to the consequences of both war and peace.
Jason Mallister waited at the pier, dressed in muted blue and black, silver hair tied back, his swordbelt tight, though it was clear the blade hadn't been drawn in some time.
"Lord Stark," Jason said, offering his arm in a warrior's clasp. "You have Seagard's protection."
"I thank you, Lord Mallister." Ned took his arm. "Your welcome honors my house."
Mallister gave a quiet nod, and together they ascended the steps leading toward the keep that overlooked the sea. The climb was steep but orderly, flanked by stone statues of winged hounds and weather-beaten shields.
As they entered the keep, Ned's gaze briefly touched the stained glass above the doors—light filtering through the red and gold of House Tully's sigil. Inside, the hall was hushed, lined with black cloth and tall candles that burned low and silent.
Hoster Tully waited in the hall's inner chamber.
Age had not been kind to him. Grief less so. He sat in a tall-backed chair, wrapped in furs, a goblet untouched in one hand. His face was gaunter than Ned remembered, and the fire in his eye was a flickering thing now.
But the pride remained. The lord who had raised three children and held a river together through rebellion and ambition still sat in his spine.
He did not rise.
Ned bowed his head, a slow, respectful motion. "My lord."
"Eddard," Hoster said, voice hoarse. "Come and meet your son."
A nursemaid stepped from the shadows, cradling the child.
Ned moved forward. The boy was quiet, bundled in grey and blue. His hair was dark, like the rest of the Stark line, but his nose carried something softer, finer—Tully blood. The child looked nothing like Catelyn yet. But Ned had seen too many faces born in grief not to recognize the weight they carried.
"He has no name?" Ned asked.
"No," Hoster replied. "She passed too quickly. Fever. And she would not speak of names in the moons before."
Jason Mallister stood by the wall, silent.
Ned took the boy in his arms without hesitation. He was light. Warm. Alive.
He said nothing for a long time.
Then he turned to Hoster.
"He is my heir."
Hoster looked up. "Even if you remarry?"
"Yes."
"Even if the new wife is noble, and gives you more sons?"
"Yes."
Hoster nodded, and the breath he let out trembled slightly.
"I've buried a daughter," he said. "And now I will not bury her legacy."
Ned gave a short nod. "You won't have to."
He shifted the child gently in his arms. "He will be called Theron."
Jason raised his eyebrows slightly. "A northern name?"
"An old one," Ned said quietly. "It means predator."
Hoster blinked. "That's what you'll raise him to be?"
"No," Ned replied. "That's what I'll raise him to survive."
The silence after that wasn't heavy—it was honest. Hoster stared at the fire a long while, then spoke again.
"Catelyn... she feared you at first."
Ned didn't answer.
"She told Lysa she thought you were a northern savage come to take her away from her home, yet the wedding and fee days you spent together gave her hopnof a future of shared strength and happiness."
"I spoke when I could," Ned said. "And I heard her, always, we may have spent very little time together but I cared for her"
Hoster's hand gripped the side of his chair. "The child carries Tully blood. If you take him north, you carry our name with you. Do not forget that."
"I won't."
"And the South?" Hoster asked. "Have they truly accepted your terms?"
"They accepted the cost of ignoring them," Ned said.
Jason finally spoke. "It was clean. Cold. Robert never expected you to be the man who came back from that war."
"I didn't."
Ned passed Theron back to the nursemaid. The child didn't stir.
Hoster stood slowly, and the room shifted with the effort. His steps were slow, but he crossed to the child's side and rested one hand gently on the boy's head.
"When he is grown, I will tell him of her. You tell him of the North."
"I will."
Outside, bells tolled once—long and low.
Winter was still a season away. But some endings came early.
---
Morning broke quietly over Seagard. A thin mist lingered above the city's walls, the pale sun filtering through low, grey clouds. Inside the castle's small council chamber, a hearth crackled softly, barely driving back the persistent chill that clung to the stone.
Ned stood at the window, hands clasped behind his back, watching seabirds wheel lazily over the distant waves. Jason Mallister stood quietly near the hearth, while Hoster Tully sat wrapped in heavy furs, his fingers curled loosely around the stem of an untouched goblet. Grief had etched itself deeply into his features, but his gaze remained steady.
Finally, Hoster spoke, breaking the room's silence. "Eddard, my daughter brought our houses together. Her loss does not change that bond—it deepens it."
Ned turned from the window, his expression respectful, controlled. "I agree. Her memory deserves more than words alone."
Hoster nodded slowly. "Then let us ensure her legacy is honored through deeds. Through something lasting."
Ned inclined his head. "Exactly my thought."
Hoster gestured slightly to Jason Mallister, who stepped forward. Jason's voice carried the quiet calm of a man accustomed to weighing words carefully. "We have spoken briefly of trade before. Seagard has long stood guard over the western coasts—but defense alone is not enough to sustain prosperity."
Ned listened without interruption, offering no unnecessary response. This meeting was about clarity and mutual benefit, not lofty promises or distant ambition.
Hoster took up the thread. "Our lands produce grain and fish in abundance. Your North provides timber, iron, salt, and furs—goods the Riverlands often lack. A steady exchange would strengthen us both, without needing to constantly negotiate through King's Landing."
"A trade route directly from Seagard to Barrowton," Ned said simply, stating plainly what they had all considered privately. "Northern ships, Riverland goods. A permanent sea link between our people."
Jason nodded, satisfied. "Such a route would open markets for both our realms. The Riverlands would gain reliable access to northern timber and ores, and your North would no longer depend on southern markets for food during harsh winters."
Hoster's voice carried quiet urgency. "It would also honor Catelyn. Our houses remain joined through your son, but her legacy must reach beyond lineage. It should feed our people and bind our lands for generations."
Ned met Hoster's eyes directly, his voice firm but not unkind. "I agree entirely. Catelyn was not just my wife; she was the mother of my heir, the future Lord of Winterfell. I will see her honored with deeds that sustain lives and build friendships, not merely memorials that fade."
Jason leaned slightly forward. "We should clarify details. Construction of the docks at Barrowton—who bears that cost?"
"The North will fund it," Ned answered plainly. "We have resources, and I will not burden Seagard or the Riverlords with expenses beyond their duty."
Hoster exhaled quietly. "And the ships? The manpower?"
"We have capable shipwrights in White Harbor," Ned replied. "If Riverland shipbuilders and sailors join us, we could construct vessels suited to both our needs. Shared construction. Shared crews."
Hoster seemed reassured by this offer of cooperation. "And tariffs, taxes—"
"Set them jointly," Ned interrupted gently. "This is not charity or conquest. It's partnership. We will both prosper, or neither will."
Jason Mallister spoke again, softly but clearly. "Agreements like this risk drawing the attention of the Crown. Robert may worry over alliances forged without his input."
Ned answered calmly, without hint of resentment or challenge. "Robert has been my friend and brother-in-arms. This arrangement doesn't undermine him—it eases his burdens. Stable trade means fewer hungry mouths, fewer complaints at court. It aids him as much as us."
Hoster appeared satisfied, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "Then we are agreed. The details can be finalized formally, but the heart of it is clear."
"Agreed," Ned said simply.
Hoster gestured slightly, and Jason Mallister brought forward ink and parchment. Jason spoke as he spread the parchment upon the table. "I took the liberty of outlining preliminary terms last night. I trust they reflect this conversation?"
Ned read carefully, then nodded. "They do."
He took up the quill, signing simply, clearly: Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North.
Jason signed next, followed by Hoster, whose fingers trembled only slightly as he set down the quill.
When finished, Jason sealed the parchment with wax bearing both the Tully trout and the Stark direwolf. The silence after felt respectful rather than tense.
Hoster cleared his throat softly, breaking the quiet.
"Theron is both Stark and Tully. He will carry our names forward. Raise him to know that."
"He will," Ned promised quietly. "I swear it."
Hoster nodded once, satisfied. "Then we are finished here. Go with our gratitude, Eddard. May this route serve our people well."
Ned inclined his head respectfully. "Thank you, my lord."
He turned and left the chamber quietly, without fanfare or boasting. His steps were firm and sure, a lord leaving a hall after conducting careful business, nothing more.
There had been no talk of rebellion, no whispered plans against the Crown—only a measured agreement, built on practicality, mutual respect, and family loyalty.
Catelyn would be honored. His people would benefit. And no one in King's Landing would have cause to question his loyalty or intent.
Outside, Ned paused briefly on the steps, watching as the morning mist burned away slowly beneath the pale sun.
It was time to go home.