The courtyard of Winterfell hummed with life, the crisp northern wind softened by a rare hint of warmth that teased the edges of my cloak. I stood with the rest of my family, hands clasped behind my back, eyes fixed on the gate. Arya fidgeted beside me, her excitement a restless spark I could feel without looking, while Sansa stood poised, her auburn hair gleaming in the sunlight like a banner. Theon lingered nearby, his familiar smirk curling his lips, though his eyes darted with something unsettled. Jon stood to my right, tense and silent as a shadow. Mother had urged me to keep him out of sight when our guests arrived, but I'd brushed her words aside. He belonged here—not just to stand with us, but because I had plans stirring in my mind. Dacey Mormont's arrival might be the thread to weave him into something greater, and I'd not let that chance slip through my fingers.
Beyond the gate, hooves clattered on stone, and three riders emerged, flanked by guards bearing the banners of Manderly, Mormont, and Umber. A smile tugged at my lips, sharp and fleeting. This was no mere visit—it was the first step toward a stronger North, one forged under my hand. These fosterlings were the cornerstones of a foundation I meant to raise, proof that my presence was already shifting the tale I knew too well.
Father stepped forward as the riders swung down from their mounts, his voice ringing out, steady and warm. "Winterfell welcomes you. Your presence honors us, and this keep is yours for as long as you stay."
A maid scurried over with salt and bread, the old ritual of guest right. Smalljon Umber snatched the loaf, ripped off a hunk, dipped it in salt, and stuffed it into his mouth. "By the old gods," he said, chewing with a grin, "Father wasn't lying—Winterfell's a bloody marvel. Hold it with a handful of men, I'd wager. Though I don't see much here to test an Umber's mettle."
I opened my mouth to answer, a challenge rising in my throat, but he barreled on. "Are there any Starks worth sparring with? My father claims you can swing a sword decently, but I've yet to meet a wolf who could topple a giant. Though he also said no mere fighter could best the Sword of the Morning—I'd like to hear that tale, milord." His eyes flicked to Father, and I caught the shift in Father's face, a solemn shadow passing over it, heavy with memory.
Before I could speak, Dacey Mormont cut in, her voice sharp as a blade and laced with mischief. "The Starks were kings here for a reason, Umber. I'd bet even the half-Stark could knock you flat." The guards chuckled, a low rumble, and Smalljon's grin widened, unbothered. Jon shifted beside me, his discomfort plain as day, though I felt a spark of gratitude for Dacey's jab—it hit closer to my hopes than she knew.
Wynafryd Manderly stepped up next, dipping a curtsey to Mother. "Your castle is beautiful, Lady Stark." She turned to Sansa, her smile bright as polished silver. "And your dress is lovely—did you embroider it? Grandfather sent me with cloth and trimmings. Maybe we could sew it together?" Mother's face softened, a rare crack in her armor, and I hid a smile.
Sansa beamed, smoothing her skirts with pride. "I'd like that."
Father laughed, a warm sound, as Arya tugged at his sleeve, her patience fraying like a worn rope. "Alright, Arya," he said, indulgent as ever. "Show Dacey to her rooms—they're ready. Winterfell will treat you all well, and I trust you'll settle in." His gaze slid to Smalljon, firm but kind. "The guards will be eager to spar with you, Umber, once you've rested."
Jory Cassel, lingering near the stables, grinned wide. "Aye, the men could use a real test."
Smalljon's grin stretched broader, but my attention had already shifted. I nudged Jon, keeping my voice low. "See how Dacey looked at you? Go with Arya—help her show Dacey around."
Jon's face flushed, his eyes darting to Dacey, who was already trading jests with Arya as they headed inside. "I don't—"
"Go," I said, firm but quiet, a brother's command. "She's sharp, like Arya. You'll get along."
He nodded, stiff as a bowstring, and followed. Watching him go, a flicker of triumph warmed my chest. If I could bind Jon to Dacey—with Arya as the knot—I might keep him from the Wall's cold embrace. He was too vital to lose, not just as my brother, but for what he might mean to the North's fate. A wild thought darted through my mind then—those half-mad tales I'd once scoffed at, whispers of dragon eggs hidden in the crypts beside Lyanna's statue. What if there was truth buried there? If so, Jon's place here might matter more than anyone guessed. I tucked the notion away, turning my focus back to the present.
As the group moved toward the Great Hall, I fell into step with Theon, who'd been quiet as a ghost. "You're thinking hard," I said, keeping my tone light, though I could sense the storm brewing in him.
He glanced at me, shrugging one shoulder. "Just wondering about my place. You're gathering new allies, making moves. I'm feeling a bit adrift from the Ironborn—my roots. Grandfather had big ideas; he nearly made us more than raiders. I want to do something of my own, something significant, while still staying tied to the Ironborn, even if my father's all but disavowed me. I wrote to him last week, first time in years, but there's been no reply—just like all the others." His voice dripped with venom, bitter as winter frost.
I liked that edge in him, the way my plans could twist it—letting him hate his father while still honoring his grandfather's vision. It felt right for Theon this time. If all went as I intended, he might one day claim a title by storming Casterly Rock, though that lay years ahead.
I clapped his shoulder, firm and familiar. "You're still my brother, Theon. The North's changing, and we'll change with it. You'll carve out something worth bragging about."
He smirked, nodding slightly. "Maybe so."
The feast filled the hall with warmth—roast fowl, fresh bread, mutton stew, the scents thick and rich. Smalljon piled his plate high, Dacey traded barbs with Arya like they'd known each other forever, and Wynafryd charmed Sansa with talk of needlework. I sat by Father, my mind churning beneath the noise. These fosterlings were allies to win: Smalljon's raw strength, Dacey's quick wit, Wynafryd's subtle ambition. They'd shape what was to come, if I played this right.
Later, I slipped away to the godswood. The weirwoods stood silent, their red leaves stark against the grey dusk, rustling faintly in the wind. I knelt by the heart tree, its carved face staring back, unblinking. I wasn't one for prayers, but the stillness steadied me, clearing the clutter from my thoughts. Bonds—with these fosterlings, with the North—were my aim. The Old Tongue was a beginning, but there was more to unearth: the old magic, the warging dreams that tugged at the edges of my sleep.
Jon joined me, his footsteps soft on the moss, his face thoughtful. "You were right about Dacey. She's… not what I expected. Doesn't treat me like a bastard."
I smiled, glancing at him. "She sees the Stark in you, name or not."
He frowned, brow creasing. "I'm not sure what I am."
"You're my brother," I said, my voice hard with certainty. "You belong here."
He nodded, though doubt lingered in his eyes like mist. I stood, clapping his back. "Let's see if Smalljon's all talk."
In the courtyard, Smalljon hefted a practice sword, grinning as I approached. "Thought you'd chickened out."
I grabbed a blade, spinning it in my hand, the weight familiar. "Let's see."
Steel clashed, ringing sharp in the air, the crowd buzzing as we traded blows. Smalljon was strong, his strikes landing like hammerfalls, but I was faster, ducking low to land a hit on his side. He grunted, stepping back, still grinning through the sting.
"Not bad," he said, rubbing the spot. "But I'm not finished."
We clashed again, and with a twist of my wrist, I sent his sword spinning to the dirt. The courtyard roared, and Smalljon laughed, loud and honest, slapping my shoulder hard enough to jolt me. "You're a wolf, alright."
I grinned back. "You'll do fine yourself."
Wynafryd approached as the crowd thinned, her smile warm and measured. "That was impressive, my lord. You wield a sword well."
I inclined my head, polite but guarded. "Thank you, Lady Manderly. Glad you think so."
"Winterfell's lord interests me," she said, her eyes bright with something I couldn't quite place. "I'd love to hear more."
I chuckled, deflecting lightly. "I'll show you around sometime."
Night fell, and I climbed to the battlements, the Wolfswood sprawling dark and endless below. Laughter drifted up from the hall—the fosterlings were settling in, their voices weaving into the keep's pulse. It was a start, fragile as new ice, but real. Theon joined me, leaning against the stone, his presence easy.
"You're turning into a proper lord," he said, his tone casual but his eyes sharp. "Me, I'm still puzzling out my bit. The Ironborn stuff—Grandfather's dreams, Father's messes. I want something big, something mine, but still tied to home."
I smiled faintly, the wind tugging at my hair. "You're like a brother to me, Theon. You always will be. The North will change, and winter will come. You'll find your place—or I'll find some feat for you to earn the Ironborn's respect."
He smirked, a glint of his old self sparking. "Aye, we'll see."
He wandered off, boots scuffing the stone, and I turned back to the horizon. The game was new, the threads mine to knot or cut. But a shadow lingered in my thoughts: Ramsay Bolton. His threat was growing, a poison creeping closer, and it was time I set a plan to root him out.