The wind had teeth that day.
Snow drifted lazily from a sky choked with grey, the flakes small and sharp like ash from an old fire. The courtyard of Winterfell was silent, lined with watchful eyes, men, women, and children standing in reverent stillness. There were no cheers for the returning Lord. No horn call, no feast. Just the creak of old wood and the soft crunch of boots on frostbitten stone.
Eddard Stark rode at the head of the procession, his eyes sunken and distant, his face marked not by glory but by something quieter, exhaustion and grief. His cloak was heavy with travel and soot, his sword at his side still stained from war. Behind him, a line of weary men, some wounded, all changed through their time south.. And at the center of them all was a simple cart pulled by two dun-colored horses.
Its cargo was shrouded in a dark grey cloak embroidered with white, Stark colors. The cloth moved only with the wind. There was no question what lay beneath it.
Benjen stood at the edge of the steps, lips parted, expression hollow. He didn't move. Didn't breathe.
Wulfric stood beside him, taller now, broader across the shoulders, the edges of boyhood carved away by effort and pain. A child's innocence robbed far too young. He said nothing, only watched. His fists clenched beneath the thick black gloves he wore. The cold had long stopped biting him.
Eddard's gaze lifted and locked onto them. He said no words as he dismounted. The reins fell to the ground as he walked slowly to the back of the cart. No one moved to help him. He reached up, unfastened the edge of the cloak, and pulled it back.
Lyanna Stark looked as if she were sleeping.
Her lips were pale, her skin bone-white, but her dark lashes still touched her cheeks. Her long brown hair had been brushed and braided in the Northern style. A woven crown of winter roses, withered and blue, rested beside her head. Someone had placed her hands over her chest. She held a small, carved direwolf, worn smooth by time.
A sound broke the silence. Not a cry. A choking sound. Benjen staggered forward but stopped halfway to the cart, trembling.
"No…" he whispered, shaking his head. "No, no, we were going to get her back. She wasn't supposed to die."
Wulfric turned his head slightly but didn't step forward. His eyes remained on Lyanna's face, but his voice cut through the stillness. His eyes red and beginning to puff as his eyes glazed with tears unshed.
"She's gone," he said. His voice did not break. But it was softer than the wind and far weaker.
Benjen looked at him, jaw clenched. "This wasn't how it was supposed to end…."
Wulfric didn't answer. The words needed no reply.
Behind the Stark men, the procession split slightly as a woman emerged from a pulled carriage.
She wore a long cloak of pale blue trimmed in silver and fur. Her red hair was braided with care, her blue eyes alert and sharp beneath her hood. She moved with practiced grace, Catelyn Stark, née Tully. Her gaze swept the courtyard once, noting the stillness, the silence, the cold. She stood out here, somehow too warm in the wrong way.
Her eyes found Wulfric. She studied him longer than the others, this tall, grim young man who bore no Tully softness, no southern polish. She said nothing. But her face tightened, just slightly.
Wulfric did not return the look. His attention was fixed on Lyanna.
Rickard Stark's voice would have filled this courtyard in times past. Brandon might've stepped forward to carry their sister's body himself. But both were ash and bone now. It fell to Eddard.
"Bring her to the crypts," he said quietly. His men moved with reverence.
As they passed, the snow began to fall harder, no longer drifting, but pouring down in thin, fast sheets. Like the sky was weeping, but not warm enough to mourn properly.
Wulfric turned away last. He did not follow the body.
He turned toward the godswood.
Benjen wasn't at the crypt.
After the procession ended, after the snow was swept from stone steps and the fires lit across Winterfell's walls, he vanished.
Wulfric found him near the back of the old stables, sitting on the low stone wall overlooking the training yard. His elbows were on his knees, his hands dirty with earth and pine needles. A half-empty skin of wine sat beside him, forgotten in the frost.
Wulfric hesitated before approaching. Benjen didn't look up.
For a while, neither spoke. The only sound was the wind hissing through the straw thatch and the quiet, distant clang of hammers from the forge.
"I thought we'd be in time," Benjen muttered finally. "That if we just moved faster, that father's and Brandon's deaths wouldn't be in vain…."
Wulfric sat down on the other end of the stone wall, careful not to break the quiet too harshly. He didn't know what to say, what could you say?
"I didn't even get to say goodbye," Benjen continued, voice flat. "She died far from home. Surrounded by strangers."
A longer silence now. Wulfric looked down at his hands, fingers calloused and bruised from training and cold work. Hands too weathered for a mere boy.
"I keep thinking," Benjen said after a time, "what if I'd done something? Convinced her not to run. Warned Brandon faster, anything! Maybe it would've changed something…"
Wulfric shifted uncomfortably. "You're not the only one thinking like that."
Benjen glanced at him, just briefly.
Wulfric's voice was quieter now. "I don't know what I'm supposed to feel. She was… she was always kind to me. She remembered my name before most did. Never looked at me the way some of the others did. You and her were my first friends even when I tried to drift away."
Benjen nodded slowly.
Wulfric continued, awkward in his own words. "I didn't fight for her. I wasn't there. But it still hurts. It… it feels like the world's gone colder."
Benjen didn't respond at first. Then, "It has."
Another pause. The wind gusted through, pulling at their cloaks and making Wulfric's eyes water.
Benjen picked up the half-frozen wine and took a slow drink, then passed it over. Wulfric hesitated, then took it, tasting the bitter taste.
When he handed it back, Benjen said, "Lyanna would love to see this, the both of us with teary eyes..."
"And I'd love to see that smile of hers." Wulfric replied.
A ghost of a smile flickered across Benjen's face. "Yeah, just like back then… when times were simplier.."
The godswood was quiet at dusk.
Twilight painted the snow in shades of blue and iron. The weirwood stood like an old sentinel, its red leaves barely rustling in the still air. Its carved face wept slowly, sap thick and crimson in the growing cold.
Wulfric stepped into the clearing, the crunch of snow beneath his boots the only sound. He kept his cloak drawn tight, the wool brushing the back of his heels as he approached the heart tree.
He didn't kneel right away. Didn't bow his head like he'd seen others do. He simply stood there for a long while, hands at his sides, staring up at the face carved into the white bark. The eyes weren't looking at him. They never really did. They looked through him, beyond him.
His breath ghosted the air. Finally, he spoke.
"I don't know if you're listening," he said, not to the tree, but to something beyond it. "I don't even know if this is how it's supposed to be done."
The weirwood said nothing.
"I keep thinking you're going to walk around the corner again," he whispered. "Like you've just come back from riding, smiling. Asking if I've trained today. If I've eaten."
He let the silence hang between them.
"You were the first person to tell me I mattered. Even just a little. Not because I was Brandon's, not because of blood. Just because I was here. You laughed with me. Protected me from my own thoughts."
A lump caught in his throat, but he didn't let it climb higher.
"I don't know how to mourn properly. I wasn't raised for that. But I hope this is enough. Talking to a tree, with your name in my chest. Though… I hope I never have to feel this way again.."
He reached into his cloak and pulled something small from the inner lining. The bracelet. Faded now. One of the threads had snapped and been tied again with clumsy fingers months ago. He turned it over in his hand, then stepped forward and laid it at the base of the weirwood, tucked beneath a root dusted with snow.
"I'll make them pay… even if i know you wouldn't truly want that, someone did this to you and i… I can't live without knowing they receive the same treatment. "
He stepped back with tears in his eyes angrily wiping them away as he sucked the snot back in.
And for a while, he just stood there and cried till his forehead settled on the tree like a cold embrace.
Letting the cold settle into him. Letting the quiet press against the parts of him that still ached. There were no visions. No winds whispering secrets. Just the sound of snow falling through leaves, and the pulse of his heart reminding him he was still here.
Eventually, he turned and left the clearing, the bracelet left behind in silence as the flecks of snowfall slowly covered it like a blanket.
-
The old solar was quieter than it should have been.
A fire crackled low in the hearth, casting long, flickering shadows across the table where Lord Rickard had once dispensed judgment. His seal no longer rested there. Now the ledgers bore newer ink, and the weight of the room had shifted to younger shoulders.
Eddard Stark stood near the hearth, staring into the flames. He didn't look up when Wulfric entered.
The boy's footfalls were soft, but there was a presence to him now, one that didn't belong to boys. He moved with a stillness that wasn't hesitance, but control.
"You've grown," Eddard said, still not accustomed. " Soon you'll catch up to Benjen."
"I've had time," Wulfric said. He stood at the edge of the firelight. "You were gone a while."
Eddard turned then, and studied him.
Not just his height or the faint grey streaks threading his dark hair. Not just the paleness of his skin or the way he held himself with quiet, unblinking calm. It was the eyes.
Pale Northern grey, yes, but threaded faintly with red and green, like veins beneath the surface of frozen lakewater. Strange and distinct. The kind of thing men would whisper about after enough cups of ale.
"You've changed," Eddard said finally.
"So has everything else."
They stood in silence for a breath as reality crashed over both.
"You've been… busy," Eddard said, gesturing toward the table behind him. "Salt trade. Restored mines. Curatives being shipped from Winter Town to White Harbor. Done without lordship. Without title. I hear walys has been run ragged trying to help you keep it all under order and proper documentation. "
"I didn't need a title to see that the North needed help, and Walys has been a great help though I think he might be helping too much. His health is failing him more than naught as his frequent naps show. " Wulfric said. "Food stores were running low. Trade was breaking down. The healers didn't have enough. So I found ways to fix it even if others helped. "
Eddard turned to face him fully. "You acted in my absence."
"No one else was acting," Wulfric said, bluntly. "And Winterfell couldn't afford to wait."
The fire popped.
"I don't blame you for what you did," Eddard said. "But it has consequences. The men talk. So do the lords."
Wulfric's face didn't change, but his voice lost some of its earlier calm. "I didn't do it for glory. Or for some claim. I just… I was restless and I had to do something to help." He stopped himself. "I just did what I was raised to do. Serve House Stark." The words bit at his own soul.
"And now they speak your name as if you might wear it."
That hit the air like a thrown axe.
Eddard didn't raise his voice. He didn't accuse. He simply stated a fact. And Wulfric, still only a boy, didn't deny it.
"I've heard the talk," Wulfric said quietly. "I didn't start it. But I won't pretend I don't know why it's happening."
"You're Brandon's son," Eddard said. "Even if born on the wrong side of a marriage bed. And with him gone, and our father gone, there are some who would see that bloodline continue through you."
"And others who wouldn't," Wulfric said, his voice tightening seeing the edge at Eddard's voice. "I know I'm a complication. What I don't know is what to do. Whether I do anything or nothing, I still can't make everyone happy.."
"No," Eddard said. "You are a reality. One that must be faced. One the North can not ignore if only so to sate the what if on many a lord's mind. It doesn't matter who's happy, just that we're unified and under clear direction. "
Wulfric stepped forward, firelight glinting in his strange eyes.
"I didn't build anything to prove a point. I built it because people needed something solid. I won't claim what isn't mine. But I won't let others pretend I haven't stood for this house when no one else did."
Eddard studied him in silence. The weight of legacy filled the room like smoke.
"There's duty to consider," Eddard said at last. "Robert has named me Lord of Winterfell. The Vale wishes for that claim. The Riverlands gave me a bride to which they assume I have the north to bind. I owe them all something."
Wulfric's jaw twitched. "And what do you owe the North?"
Eddard didn't answer.
A beat passed. Then he said, "This cannot be decided between just us. It must be faced openly. With Benjen and with clarity."
Wulfric nodded once. "Fine..."
He turned for the door, but before he reached it, he stopped for a moment before turning his head to glare at Eddard.
"I was here when you weren't... I've grown with the North while you pranced with the southron nobles. I'm not saying you'd be a bad lord but I don't think Winterfell or the North needs complacency or stagnation at this time either."
Then he stepped out into the hall, the cold closing behind him.
-
The crypts of Winterfell breathed cold, deeper than the snow above.
Wulfric moved alone, the torch in his hand casting tall, crooked shadows across the stone walls. The air smelled of damp earth and old stone, of silence, dust, and the faintest traces of iron and ash. Each step echoed behind him, like ghosts walking just out of sight.
He didn't speak at first. He didn't need to.
Lyanna's tomb was near the far end, not yet sealed entirely. The stone lid had been laid, but not yet marked. It still looked like a mistake, like someone had placed her in the wrong place, too soon.
Wulfric stood in front of it, staring at the smooth, cold surface.
He could still remember her laugh. Not perfectly, but enough to know he'd never hear one like it again.
"I don't know if you can hear me," he said quietly. "Or if the old gods care to listen to boys talking to dead girls."
His voice didn't echo. The crypts swallowed everything.
"I just… I thought we'd have more time."
He knelt, not for prayer, but because his legs didn't want to hold him anymore. The torchlight trembled beside him.
"I'm doing what I can up there," he muttered. "The others… they think I'm trying to take something. That I want more than I deserve."
His fingers rested on the edge of the tomb.
"I never wanted more. I just wanted to be enough."
A silence stretched between stone and skin.
"I miss you," he said finally. "And not in the way they say when someone dies. I miss the way you made things feel simple. Even if it never really was. God's lyanna.. when did things become so messed up.. I wish you were here to tell me what made sense. "
The torch flickered low.
Wulfric stood slower now. Like the world weighed him down.
He didn't cry. But something in him hollowed out as he turned to go.
The dead didn't speak.
But the silence said enough.
-
The fire was low, the room dim with late light. No servants and no stewards. Only family.
Eddard sat at the head of the table, back straight but eyes shadowed. Benjen leaned against the far wall, arms folded. Wulfric sat across from his uncle, not slouched, but not quite sure how to sit either.
The silence lasted longer than anyone liked.
Eddard finally spoke. "We need to settle this. The North is waiting."
Benjen said nothing. Just watched.
Wulfric looked down at his hands. "I know im an obstacle."
"It's not about naming you or passing you over," Eddard replied. "It's about giving you what's yours… and protecting what's left of House Stark."
Benjen stepped forward. "There's no keeping it quiet now. Lords are already talking. If Eddard names you head of House Stark, some will cheer. Others will plot and start to form factions."
"I never tbought about that," Wulfric said. "i don't want to be a burden..."
Eddard's face softened. "You won't be. You're my brother's only child. I won't dishonor him by treating you like something to be hidden or discarded."
He leaned forward. "But Winterfell must remain in my line. For the sake of the realm. For Robert and all the southern politics. For the lords who wouldn't understand."
Wulfric nodded slowly, not in agreement, but in recognition of something painful and true.
"That's why I've spoken to Robert," Eddard continued. "Before we left the Trident, I requested compensation for what the North gave, men, arms, food. Gold was offered... a lot of gold.."
Benjen raised an eyebrow. "You never mentioned that."
"Because I hadn't decided what to do with it." Eddard looked at Wulfric. "Until now."
He pulled a folded map from the table's side drawer and spread it across the wood.
"The gold will be used for this."
Wulfric leaned in.
"The Neck. Southernmost edge of the North. Swamp and stone. And at its heart, Moat Cailin."
Wulfric stared at it like it was a mold covered piece of dirt. "It's a ruin."
"It's a gate," Eddard said. "The only land route from the South into the North. Once, it was a bastion for ancient kings who ruled during war time. Now it's forgotten. But it's still the most strategic point in the entire North."
Benjen added, "Anyone who wants to invade us on foot must pass through that bottleneck. Even with just a few towers, it held back southern hosts for a thousand years."
"And now," Eddard said, "it will be yours."
Wulfric blinked surprised but also curious. "You're giving me the Moat?"
"I'm giving you more than that. I'm giving you a seat no one can question, ecause no House holds it. No bannermen contest it. And no one else would be mad enough to take it… except you."
Benjen smirked. "He means that kindly."
Eddard's face remained serious. "You'll have gold. Men. Stone. I'll send builders from Barrowton, and masons from Winter Town. You'll have full command to rebuild it as you see fit, defensible, self-sufficient, and in your name."
Wulfric was quiet. The thought felt heavy. "I don't know what to say."
Benjen pulled up a chair. "Then don't say anything. Start thinking. What do you want to build?"
Wulfric looked down at the map. He wasnt sure if this was what he wanted but he accepted it.. "Walls first, strong ones. Something the marsh can't eat."
Eddard nodded. "Stone from the North. Timber from the wolfswood. I've already spoken to House Reed, they'll guide your builders through the swamps. They respect the old ways. And they respect you."
Wulfric's mind raced. "If I could raise the towers again… connect them. With causeways. Defensive lines. Maybe even a water channel system to flood sections during sieges."
Benjen leaned back. "And when peace holds?"
"Then I turn it into more than a fortress." Wulfric traced the map with his finger. "Control the Neck… and I can tax trade flowing between North and South. Build granaries. Inns for merchants. Salt sheds and fish docks along the western streams."
Eddard raised an eyebrow. "And the land?"
Wulfric's eyes lit, just slightly. "The soil is soft, but it can grow, roots, mosses, and herbs. I know what to plant. I've already started it here. The marsh lands would be perfect for increasing my medicinal herbs. More can come with time and the right plan"
Benjen smiled. "You'd make Moat Cailin green again?"
Wulfric nodded. "And strong. A gate no one crosses without my leave. "
Eddard smiled faintly for the first time. "That's what Brandon would've wanted."
Wulfric's throat felt tight. "Then I'll make it happen."
Benjen stood. "Then it's settled."
Eddard folded the map and passed it to Wulfric. "We'll ride south in spring. With builders. And your men."
Wulfric took the map carefully, his fingers brushing the worn edges.
"I'll make it more than stone," he said. "I'll make it mine."
Eddard placed a hand on his shoulder. "You already have."