The solar of Winterfell was a sanctuary of quiet, its thick stone walls muffling the distant bustle of the castle. Eddard Stark sat at his oaken desk, the soft scrape of quill on parchment the only sound as he pressed his seal into warm wax. The ravens would soon carry his replies to the lords of the North. He set the quill aside and leaned back, his grey eyes falling on three letters stacked before him—responses from Houses Manderly, Mormont, and Umber. Each was a pledge of loyalty, sealed in wax and ink, answering Robb's bold proposal to foster their children at Winterfell.
It had been two weeks since Robb, at fifteen, suggested the plan. The idea had startled Ned with its foresight, its wisdom clear as ice. The North was vast, its houses scattered and fiercely independent—wards would bind them closer, forging ties not just of duty but of shared hearths. That it came from Robb, not him, warmed Ned's chest with a steady pride, bright as the fire crackling nearby. He reached for the first letter, its wax seal already cracked, and unfolded House Manderly's elegant script. "Wynafryd will be honored to join your Sansa," Lord Wyman wrote, his tone polished. "Our house stands ever loyal to Winterfell." Ned's lip twitched. The Manderlys kept the Seven, a rarity here, but their devotion to the Starks held firm. Catelyn would welcome Wynafryd—and perhaps her gods.
A memory stirred—his own fostering in the Vale with Jon Arryn, a boy of eight sent south by his father's will. It had shaped him, tying him to Robert in bonds time had strained but not broken. Robb, though, had chosen this path himself, weaving the North tighter with a lord's instinct. Ned's mind turned briefly to Bran, his second son, growing fast and full of dreams. Perhaps the Karstarks could foster him—Karhold was near, Rickard's sons close in age. It would harden Bran, root him in the North's ways beyond these walls. A dreamer needs strength, Ned mused, stacking the letter. He'd mull it further, speak to Catelyn when the moment ripened.
The second letter bore House Mormont's bear seal, pressed deep. Lady Maege's hand was blunt: "Dacey'll come. She's strong enough for your Arya—might tame her or join her mischief. Bear Island's with you." Ned's mouth curved faintly. Robb had chosen well—Arya needed a spirit as wild as hers, and the Mormonts bred warriors, not soft maids. Dacey would fit Winterfell's rugged heart. Again, Bran flickered in his thoughts—Karhold might temper his gentler edges, ready him for a North that demanded more than dreams. Ned tapped the desk, the idea taking root.
The last letter, from Greatjon Umber, bore a giant seal split jaggedly. "Smalljon's yours, but he's a tempest not easily reined. If your Robb can handle him, I'll kneel twice over." Ned chuckled, a rare, low sound. The Umbers' loyalty roared as loud as their pride—Smalljon would test Robb, but the bond was struck. Ned stacked the letters, his gaze lingering. Robb's plan was knitting the North's future; fostering Bran with the Karstarks could bolster it further. Robb leads, but Bran must follow strong, he thought, resolving to weigh it fully later.
His mind returned to Robb. A month had passed since the fall, the blow that left him dazed and abed. Ned had seen head wounds break men in Robert's Rebellion—soldiers undone, their light snuffed. He'd feared the worst, but Robb emerged stronger, his vigor honed into something steady, sharp as steel. His laughter rang less now, traded for a quiet weight, a mind like a blade's edge. Pride swelled in Ned, though curiosity nipped at its heels—Robb's new interest in the Old Tongue was a riddle he couldn't yet solve.
The clang of steel snapped Ned from his reverie. He rose, crossing to the solar's slit window, and peered into the courtyard. Robb sparred with Theon and Jon, their practice swords ringing, breaths puffing white in the crisp air. The trio moved in a tight circle, boots scuffing dirt, blades flashing in the pale sun. Theon lunged with a brash flourish, but Robb parried smoothly, sidestepping. Jon struck low and sharp, only for Robb to block and push him back with calm force.
Ned leaned on the cold sill, watching. Robb had grown taller, his frame firming, his motions blending grace with purpose. He guided the sparring subtly—tilting his head to fix Theon's stance, tapping Jon's foot to adjust his balance. Theon's flair dulled, his strikes sharpening under Robb's gaze. Jon's precision grew, spurred to match Robb's pace. Pride bloomed deep in Ned's chest—Robb wasn't just honing himself; he was a whetstone, refining those around him. Theon shed show, Jon burned brighter. They rose to Robb's quiet measure, and Ned lingered, the steel's song a hymn of growth, until their laughter drifted up with sheathed blades.
The great hall hummed as Ned descended for midday, servants bearing bread and stew. He paused at the threshold, catching two maids—Hilde and Marta—whispering as they folded linens by the hearth.
"—the Old Gods spared young Robb," Hilde murmured. "A fall like that should've cracked his skull."
Marta nodded, hands swift. "Aye, they watch the Starks. He's back sharper—like they blessed him."
Ned's boot scuffed, and the maids spun, freezing mid-word. They curtsied, eyes wide, but he raised a hand, his face softening. "The Old Gods guard the North," he said evenly. "And the Starks. Let that suffice."
They mumbled apologies and scurried off, leaving their words to echo. The North's faith ran deep, the Old Gods in its marrow. Robb's survival was already folklore—a sign of favor. Ned's pride mixed with faint unease; the gods' will was murky, but if they spared Robb, he'd not probe it.
Dusk cloaked Winterfell as Ned found Jory Cassel by the stables, sharpening his sword with steady strokes. The captain grinned, cutting the chill.
"Lord Stark," Jory said, pausing. "Watching the boys again?"
Ned's eyes drifted to the yard, where Robb, Jon, and Theon stowed gear, voices low. "They're growing into themselves," he replied. "Robb most of all."
Jory nodded, blade on his knees. "He's keener now—drills the guards hard, and they're better for it, though they mutter when he's not near."
Ned's lip quirked. "Skill's always been his, but now it's got a lord's purpose."
"Aye," Jory said, thoughtful. "Quieter, though. Carries himself older—like a weight's settled."
Ned felt it true—Robb's silences deepened, his gaze distant at times. "The North demands much," he said firmly. "He's meeting it."
Jory's stone rasped again. "He'll lead well, my lord. Already does."
Ned stayed silent, pride swelling, tinged with a father's bittersweet ache as his son marched toward a stern fate.
Night fell, the sky a rich indigo. Ned sought the godswood, boots crunching snow to the heart tree. Its white branches loomed, red leaves vivid. He knelt, laying Ice across his knees, the blade glinting faintly.
The stillness enfolded him, wind whispering through leaves. Ned thought of Robb—his steady hands in the yard, his calm with Theon and Jon, the fostering plan binding the North. He recalled the maids' faith, the Old Gods sparing Robb for a reason. The rebellion flashed—men lost to lesser blows—yet Robb rose stronger, a leader forged. His curiosity about the Old Tongue hinted at ancient roots, a lord's vision beyond his years. He's ready, Ned thought, proud and grave.
His fingers brushed Ice's hilt, eyes on the carved face. "Old Gods," he murmured, breath misting, "guide him. Keep them all."
The wind stirred the leaves, and Ned stood, sheathing Ice. Robb was becoming the North's need, and Ned would stand with him—as long as the gods allowed.