Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North, and his sons—Robb, Bran, Jon—and the rest of their party—just finished a grim execution of a deserter when they came across a dead direwolf and her pups, killed by a stag.
He sees the direwolf as a symbol of their house and recognizes the dire consequences of the death. Or the grim symbolism it represented…
Ultimately, Eddard allowed his children to keep the pups, signifying a bond to their Stark heritage. Now, they were preparing to start riding once again.
Eddard's gaze was drawn to the horizon, where the sun was setting when he heard the rustling of leaves and the crunch of twigs underfoot. He turned to see a figure emerging from the trees, walking slowly and with an air of uncertainty. His hand went to the hilt of his great sword, Ice, as he slowly walked towards the figure.
The young man had fiery red hair and was dressed in what looked like a set of strange clothes, utterly unsuitable for the harsh winter that was already nipping at their heels.
As he approached, the young lad's eyes widened with wariness and hope, his grip tightening on a wooden branch he held as if it were a sword.
Eddard studied him, noticing the fine stitching on his garments, the fabric unblemished by the dirt and grime of the North.
This was no commoner, nor was he one of the Night's Watch deserters they had been hunting.
"Who are you?" Eddard called out, his voice carrying over the stillness of the woods.
The others in his party had drawn closer, noticing the stranger as well, their swords at the ready.
The lad, this stranger with the untamed hair of fire, which reminded him of his sweet daughter, Sansa, took a tentative step forward.
"Ron—...Ronald Weasley," he replied, his voice tinged with an accent that Eddard couldn't quite place.
His eyes darted around the group, as if searching for a friendly face, or perhaps a way to escape.
"I don't suppose any of you have seen a...a giant, three-headed dog around here?"
The question—that sounded like a bad jape—was met with a mix of confusion and suspicion.
Eddard had heard many strange tales from the Free Folk beyond the Wall, but nothing of a creature that sounded quite so fantastical. His boys looked at each other, their expressions a mirror of his own. The young man before them was clearly out of place, and not just because of his attire.
"What is your business in the Wolfswood, stranger?" Robb, his eldest son, spoke up, his voice strong despite his youth. The lad looked at his young heir with a complicated gaze.
"I'm...I'm lost," Ronald managed to say, his voice shaking slightly. "I've got to get to... to a place called Britain. Do any of you know where that is?"
This was no deserter from the Wall. His speech was not that of the wildlings, nor did he have the stoicism of the Night's Watch. His eyes searched the group, and something in the desperation in the lad's eyes spoke to the father in him.
He stepped closer, his hand still resting on the hilt of his sword.
"Your name is Ronald Weasley, and you speak of a place called Britain," Eddard said, his voice measured and firm. "Tell me, what brings you to the North, so far from your home?"
"North? North from where exactly?" Ron asked, seemingly dazed for a moment.
"From the Wall, where else? We're in the lands of the Starks, the North of Westeros. Far from this Britain you speak of," Theon Greyjoy, Eddard's ward, quipped with a sarcastic tone behind him.
Eddard raised a hand to silence his ward, his eyes never leaving the stranger. Theon had a sharp tongue and was too eager to prove himself, but this was no time for jests. The North was no place for the lost, especially one dressed as this lad was. He was a leaf blown from a distant tree, out of place in the stark world of swords and snow.
"I am Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell," he announced, his voice carrying the weight of his title. "These are my lands you have stumbled upon, and these are my sons, my ward, and my people."
After his introduction, the young lad—this Ronald Weasley, looked as though he might crumble to dust at any moment.
How did he survive for this long?
Eddard studied him once more with a furrowed brow, his gaze unwavering. "Your age, lad?" he inquired, his voice firm yet gentle. The stranger took a deep breath, his eyes darting around the group of stern-faced Northmen.
"Fifteen," Ron murmured.
From the corner of his vision, he saw Brandon tilting his head. "What's that?" he asked, his voice as innocent as the snow that kissed the ground around them.
Ronald looked at the boy, his expression showing bewilderment and mild irritation. He held up his hand, spreading out his fingers. "It's how old I am," he said—like it was clear as day—touching his thumb to his fingers in succession. "One...five."
Bran's eyes grew wide with wonder, as if he'd never seen such a gesture before. Bless him.
"Your years are counted with digits?" he asked, his voice filled with childlike awe. The rest of the party remained silent, watching the exchange with the same curiosity.
Ronald's frown deepened. "Yes, with digits. I'm fifteen years old," he said, seemingly feeling a sense of disconnect from the conversation with each passing moment. It was like speaking a different language, yet they understood his words. Or the other way around.
"Oh, so you mean to say that you're five and ten," Bran nodded, looking proud that he understood.
"How did you come to be here, Ronald Weasley of Britain?" Eddard asked, his curiosity growing. The boy looked around, his eyes lingering on the direwolf pups.
"I-I don't know. There was a battle, and I...I jumped in front of a curse, and then everything went...strange," Ron stammered.
The Northmen exchanged glances, unaccustomed to such a tale.
But Eddard's gaze softened a fraction. This lad was around the same age as his own sons, Robb and Jon. He could not imagine either of them so lost and alone. The thought of their innocent faces marred by confusion and fear brought a gentle paternal instinct to the forefront of his stoic demeanor. The lad could be lying, yes. But whether it was true or not, Eddard decided to believe in the boy for now.
He approached Ron even closer, his steps deliberate and even. "You are far from home and ill-prepared for our lands. The North is not kind to those unaccustomed to its harsh embrace, especially one dressed so... lightly."
His eyes took in the unblemished fabric of Ron's robes, the stark contrast to the furs and armor that clad his own party. "Come with us. You shall have shelter and warmth in Winterfell until we understand more of your situation."
The offer was not one of charity, but of practicality. A boy alone in the Wolfswood would not last the night, let alone the winter. His own sons, Bran and Rickon, would be lost without the warmth of their mother's care, the protection of their ancestral home. The thought of them wandering, hungry and cold, brought a pang of protectiveness to Eddard's chest. This Ronald Weasley was a puzzle, but one that could not be solved with haste.
He watched as the boy's eyes searched his face, looking for any sign of deception. Eddard offered his hand, palm up, a gesture of peace. "Take my hand, lad. We shall escort you to Winterfell. There you will find warmth and safety, and perhaps some answers to your questions."
The boy hesitated, his hand hovering over Eddard's for a moment before finally taking it. The grip was firm, the calloused skin a stark reminder of the harsh life of the North. The boy's eyes searched his, and Eddard saw a flicker of hope in their depths. The Stark lord knew he could not in good conscience leave a boy to fend for himself in the merciless embrace of the Wolfswood.