Year: 283 AC
The sky was pale and open, snow drifting down in slow, lazy flakes. It wasn't a heavy snow, just enough to dust the stones and cling to cloaks. I stood in the yard near the stables, watching breath steam from horses and men alike. Somewhere off to the side, one of the guards cursed at a stubborn wheel axle. Life went on, even as I prepared to leave.
Departure didn't feel like it should. No fire in the belly. No dread. Just a quiet ache in the chest and a sense that something was changing whether I liked it or not.
I glanced toward the rookery, where Maester Luwin was speaking with one of the stewards. He'd arrived two weeks ago, younger than Walys was, capable, and kind enough in his way. But every time I saw the maester's chain around someone else's neck, it twisted something in me.
Walys should still be here.
The old man had taught me my letters, stitched half my wounds, argued with me in the cold hours of the night, and listened even when I had nothing worth saying. I hadn't spoken much of his passing. Didn't need to. His absence said enough.
Eddard approached with a pair of guards at his side, a dusting of snow caught in his hair. He carried a small ledger and nodded to the wagons being loaded behind me, three of them, each creaking under the weight of trunks, tools, and supplies. He stopped a few feet away.
"I meant what I said before," he told me. "You'll have gold, tools, men. Enough to set a proper foundation."
I nodded, though it still felt strange. "You trust me with all this?"
"I trust the North needs strength," he said simply. "And that you've already begun to build it."
He handed me the ledger. I flipped it open. Inventories of axes, hammers, chisels. Trunks of grain and iron. Two full wagons of gold, Robert's gold, granted at Eddard's request. Names of stonemasons, blacksmiths, carpenters, laborers. A few guards, too, mostly apprentices and laborers to the trade. No true masters but that was to be expected.
"You'll still need to make it yours," he added. "But this should help."
I closed the ledger and nodded. "It will."
He looked like he wanted to say more. Maybe something along the lines of advice. Maybe not. But he left it unsaid, and I didn't press.
Catelyn came next. Her eyes lingered on the wagons more than me. When she finally looked up, her expression was polite, distant. She offered a nod, nothing more.
That was fine. We weren't strangers, but we weren't family either. Whatever thoughts she held, she kept them sealed. Just as I had for the most part, something about her pricked at my comfort everytime I saw her judging eyes.
I turned away from them both, letting my gaze fall on a small cluster by the steps of the Great Keep. A maid stood holding a bundled infant, white furs wrapped tight, only a pale face peeking through. Another girl stood beside her with a second babe. Robb, and Jon.
They were small things, too young to walk or even sit upright, but already distinct. Robb fussed a little and kicked. Jon was still, blinking at the sky with calm, curious eyes.
I took a few steps closer. Just enough to look and say my goodbyes.
Jon's features were soft with youth, but there was something in them, some echo I couldn't place. Not Eddard, not entirely.
Strange… he looks like someone I've seen before.
I stared a second longer. But the thought slipped away before it ever settled.
But I couldn't stay in that memory.
"Mount up," I called over my shoulder.
The words felt real now.
Torrhen Locke responded first, already securing the last strap on his saddle. Brandon Crowl checked the tension of his bowstring and adjusted his spiked mace so it was secured and wouldn't cause any unwanted poking. Domund Snow helped Cregan up onto his gelding with an exaggerated grunt and a grin at the smaller boy's size before mounting up himself. The four of them had grown with me, fought alongside me in training yards and wilderness, and stood beside me when others had turned their backs.
They were my foundation.
Before I climbed into the saddle, I reached into my tunic and pulled out the steel medallion hanging around my neck. It was shaped like a wolf's head, sharp-jawed, lean, the metal aged with a blackened patina that made the eyes gleam red in certain light.
Benjen had given it to me the night before he left for the Wall.
"A symbol of your blood," he'd said. "Stark or not. If you ever forget where you came from, this'll remind you."
I hadn't taken it off since.
I tucked it back beneath the leather and furs. The weight of it always settled just over my heart.
One last look at Winterfell. No fanfare. No trumpets. None of what you'd probably expect from a southern departure. Just the wind whispering through bare branches and the sound of boots crunching snow behind me.
The gates opened. The road south waited.
I gave the signal.
And we rode.
The first thing I noticed was the quiet.
Moat Cailin didn't hum like Winterfell, or breathe like the Wolfswood. It sat. Old, still, and half-sunken, like it had been waiting all this time, too proud to call out for help.
We stopped short of the causeway, where thick marshwater lapped against crooked stones and reeds whispered to themselves. The towers ahead jutted from the mire like broken fingers, layered with rot and moss. Half of them leaned, half of them crumbled, but they hadn't fallen. Not yet.
"Smells like a drowned bear's ass," Torrhen muttered, wrinkling his nose.
I huffed a dry laugh. "That means it's strong."
Brandon shook his head beside him. "Or cursed. Gods, it looks like it eats men in their sleep."
"It won't eat us," I said. "It'll become ours."
The horses were restless. Even they seemed unsure about the land beneath them. We led them across the old causeway by hand, boots half-sinking into soaked moss and slick stone. The wagons groaned but held thankfully.
By the time we reached what remained of the inner yard, we were wet to the knees and coated in mire. A wide patch of broken stone surrounded us, with chunks of old wall and towers rising crookedly to either side. But even through the decay, the bones were still good. Still Northern and still usable as a foundation no matter how much it had fallen into disrepair.
The others wandered a bit, pacing around the open spaces, checking where the stone still held.
"It's not just a ruin," I told them. "There's strength buried here. We just have to wake it."
Cregan knelt beside a thick vine that had split through a paving stone. "This is where the runes you talked about go? The ones to bind stone to stone again?"
I nodded. "Not here but nearby. I marked them in a vision last month, a ring of them around the central tower, carved deep and wide. They'll connect the old defenses."
Domund leaned his arms against a large stick he had picked up. "You sure it wasn't just a dream?"
I gave him a look, but it was friendly. "I stopped trying to tell the difference two years ago. Doesn't matter if it's dream, memory, or vision. It shows me what to look for. And what matters is when I look, it's there."
They all knew better than to mock it now. Maybe once, when we were younger. But after enough dreams turned up valuables, sealed passages, and workable stone where no map said there should be any... they listened.
Over time, I had shared more. Not everything, not the godswood visions or the taste of old voices carried in water. But enough. Enough that the five of us had come to see Moat Cailin differently than most would.
To others, it was a ruin.
To us, it was potential waiting beneath the mire.
We gathered in the main hall, if it could still be called that. It had a roof over half its span and stone thick enough to stop wind. I laid the maps out across a low block of stone while the others stood around, brushing off mud and shaking out cloaks.
"First, we clear the old forgeyard," I said. "That rise over there, it's built over a deposit of ironroot ore. Not much at first but go deep enough and it'll turn out to be the largest deposit in all the Neck."
Torrhen gave a sharp nod. "The dark green stuff. From the veins you mapped two winters ago."
"Exactly. Harder than common steel. Lighter too, and it holds shape in heat and cold both. We build our forge on that, and we make something no other lord can match."
Brandon raised an eyebrow. "So how?"
"With marshflame," I said. "It's one of the only fuels hot enough to work ironroot. It burns hotter, cleaner, and binds into the metal."
I smiled. "Domund and Cregan already know where it seeps. Pockets under the waterline, burns without smoke. Dangerous, yes, but stable if we direct it properly. That becomes our fuel."
Cregan grinned. "You said it makes the steel hold its black-green shade, like armor grown out of the swamp."
"That it does," I said. "And once it sets, not even saltwater will eat it."
"That's why you had us marking the gas vents," Domund said, nodding slowly. "Not just for light."
"Exactly. The lantern towers will run on marshflame too, but the forges come first. We channel the flame through carved vents and stone-lined channels. Controlled and supported by Ritual-marked pathways."
Cregan grinned. "So we light the swamp and make it our strength."
"That we do, while marshflame isn't normally dangerous as long as it's controlled, we can combine other mosses and plantlife making any army stupid enough to march on us regret the decision when they start seeing doubles of every pebble in their path using our scouts to tamper the lanterns." I said.
We moved on. I tapped the southern wall of the map. "Here, we rebuild the curtain wall. Layer ironroot in the cracks, bind with bone-set mortar. Then I etch runes, not just to strengthen, but to ward off hostile intent and malicious thoughts. Obscure paths and ward against collapse."
Domund shifted forward. "And the canal project? Still going ahead?"
I nodded. "More than ever. We carve a trade canal from the Fever River to the Bite. A full arc from west to east. Toll towers here, here, and here," I said, pointing along the projected route. "They'll be lined with outposts and signal fires, or rune-lit lanterns. No southern trader comes through without paying while Northern ships are discounted."
Brandon scratched at his chin. "Won't that leave the north open?"
"Not if we hold the canal ends and reinforce patrols, two separate garrisons supporting both sides will help too. The true danger comes from the south. The Neck and the causeway are our choke points. We keep the Bite guarded with water patrols and marsh sentries."
Torrhen traced the route with a finger. "So Moat Cailin becomes a gate. Trade above. Teeth below."
"Exactly."
Then came the lizardlions.
I turned to a separate scroll. It showed the surrounding swamplands. "We track the oldest ones. They live long lives. Slow-moving, wide-jawed. Their scales, when they die naturally, can turn steel. We harvest them, preserve their hides."
Cregan nodded. "You said their hides can shrug off blades."
"They can. Armor for the order and my sworn guard. We use younger lizardlions too, their scales are lighter, better for scouts and the marsh sentries."
"And you mentioned their blood before?" Domund asked.
"Acidic," I said. "We bottle it with Bonewhite clay, it's special as it wont dissolve. Small vials, sealed tight. As a weapon or deterrent, it burns through iron and flesh. Can also be used in a few of our experiments."
Brandon let out a low whistle. "That's more than a stronghold. That's a fortress of the old world."
I nodded. "That's the idea."
We spent hours at the stone table, drawing plans, arguing over tower placements, debating water redirection and soil drainage. We mapped the high marshes where salves and herbs could be farmed. Marked where reed beds would rise for drying tinctures. Scheduled patrol paths, lizardlion tracking grounds, and lantern routes.
Torrhen suggested a large central bell tower that echoed down the canal if danger came. Domund offered the idea of placing runes along the outposts and towers. Cregan began drawing up designs for segmented armor using overlapping lizardlion scales, light but strong.
There would be no waste here. No weakness. Even decay would be folded into strength.
"This place will be more than strong," I said quietly. "It'll be ours. A heart for the North and bastion of a new life."
They didn't speak right away. But I saw it in their eyes, the buy-in. The belief that their decision to stick with me was the right decision.
Domund finally broke the silence with a grin. "Alright, then. Do we rest first, or dive straight into the mess?"
I met his gaze. "What do you think?"
Torrhen groaned. "Knew you'd say that. Guess I'll start delegating tasks and appointments."
Cregan was already heading off toward the rubble with a shovel.
Brandon followed him, muttering something about lunatics and swamps.
I rolled up the map and watched them go.
We would work through the night. Sleep in shifts. Mark every stone that held and every timber we could salvage. Moat Cailin wouldn't rise in a day. But it would rise.
And when I looked up again, the year was 288 AC.
Now, standing atop the highest tower in Moat Cailin, the wind dragging through my silver hair and the marshlight flickering around me, I cast a longer shadow. One shaped not by name or birthright, but by work, will, and something I didn't want to call luck.
Five long years and still so much work to do.
And the fortress had risen.