North, Winterfell
AC 296 (After Conquest)
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Eddard Stark stepped out from the towering stone halls of Winterfell, the crisp northern air greeting him as he descended the steps of the Great Keep. The sky above was a pale gray, the sun peeking through sparse clouds, casting long shadows over the courtyard. The scent of freshly fallen snow and the distant aroma of roasting meat from the kitchens filled his senses—a reminder of home, of duty, of the North.
His gaze drifted towards the training yard, where the rhythmic clatter of wooden swords meeting echoed through the morning stillness. There, his children sparred under the watchful eye of Ser Rodrik Cassel. Robb, his eldest, stood with the confidence of a young lord, his movements precise and deliberate, his natural leadership evident even in a friendly match. Jon Snow, ever the brooding yet fiercely determined boy, met him strike for strike, his expression set in quiet focus, always fighting as if he had something to prove.
Ned felt a swell of quiet pride. Robb, the heir of Winterfell, already bore the markings of a true Stark, exuding both charisma and skill. Jon, though not his trueborn son, fought with an intensity that spoke of his unyielding will, his every move a reflection of his inner struggles. The boy had trained hard, his resilience never wavering despite his status as a bastard.
Off to the side, Bran and Rickon watched in awe, their young eyes wide with admiration, while Sansa and Arya stood nearby. Sansa, ever proper, barely paid attention, while Arya gripped an old wooden sword, her expression one of eager longing to join the fight.
A deep chuckle rumbled in Ned's chest. This was how he wished to see them—strong, determined, and full of life. More than that, it meant an opportunity had presented itself.
This was the perfect day to take Robb and Jon hunting.
Catelyn, he knew, often voiced her disapproval when Jon was involved in such matters, but with the boys occupied in training, she would have little reason to object. He could already imagine her resigned sigh, followed by a knowing look that told him she understood, even if she did not approve. But today, there would be no argument, no protest. Today, he would take his sons into the woods, teach them the patience of the hunt, the way to track prey through the snow, and the importance of a swift, clean kill.
He stepped forward, making his way toward the yard. As he approached, Robb and Jon ceased their sparring, turning to face him. Both boys were breathing hard, sweat glistening on their brows, yet there was an unspoken question in their eyes.
Ned allowed himself a rare smile. "Come, you two. The day is still young, and the woods call for hunters."
Robb grinned, his excitement barely contained, ever eager to prove himself, while Jon nodded with a quiet, reserved determination, as if preparing himself for yet another test. They needed no further encouragement.
Before they could leave, Arya stepped forward, eyes bright with excitement. "I want to come too!" she declared, gripping her wooden sword tightly.
Ned raised an eyebrow. "Hunting is no game, Arya."
"But I can keep up! I'm faster than Bran!" she protested, determination flashing in her gray eyes.
Bran, not wanting to be left out, piped up, "Then I want to come too!"
Ned sighed, knowing the argument was already lost. He glanced at Robb and Jon, who shared an amused look. "Very well," he relented. "But you will listen to my every word, and you will not wander off."
Arya beamed, victorious, and turned to Sansa. "Are you coming?"
Sansa wrinkled her nose, glancing at her dress and shaking her head. "Why would I want to go hunting? That's for boys." She turned on her heel and strode back toward the castle, her posture as regal as ever.
With their group set, they made their way to the stables. The horses were saddled quickly, and soon, with Ned leading the way, they rode out of Winterfell's gates and into the vast forest beyond. The towering trees of the Wolfswood stretched endlessly before them, their branches laden with frost, the ground covered in a soft, undisturbed blanket of snow. The air was thick with the scent of pine and damp earth, the occasional rustle of unseen creatures breaking the quiet.
As they rode deeper, the sounds of Winterfell faded behind them, replaced by the whispers of the wind through the trees. The children's excitement was palpable—Robb eager to prove himself, Jon determined to match him, Arya filled with restless energy, and Bran soaking in the adventure with wide-eyed wonder.
Finally, Ned pulled his horse to a stop, dismounting with practiced ease. The others followed suit, their boots crunching against the snow-covered ground. Soldiers who had accompanied them remained at a distance, their presence a silent reassurance.
Ned turned to his children, his expression calm but firm. "Hunting is more than just a test of skill," he began. "It is patience, precision, and respect for the land. A true hunter does not take more than he needs, nor does he act without thought. The woods will teach you more than any sword can, if you are willing to listen."
Robb straightened, absorbing his father's words with a serious nod. Jon, ever observant, listened intently. Arya, restless as ever, shifted on her feet but remained silent, determined to prove herself. Even Bran, wide-eyed with curiosity, nodded along.
Ned taught them how to track their prey, pointing out the faint traces in the snow, the broken twigs, and the disturbed earth. He showed them how to move quietly, to observe the wind's direction, and to be patient. Soon, they found the tracks of a deer, and Ned motioned for them to follow.
Arya, her curiosity getting the better of her, strayed from the group, her small steps crunching in the snow as she wandered off in search of something new. Her mind was always restless, craving adventure, and the woods, with all its mysteries, beckoned her. She wasn't too far, but far enough to slip out of sight.
As they crept closer to the deer's trail, Arya suddenly came rushing back, her breath quick, eyes wide with urgency.
"Father! I saw someone—an injured man—by the stream!" she exclaimed.
Ned immediately stiffened, his years of experience warning him of potential danger. He turned to his soldiers. "Stay close to the children. Guard them well."
He then looked at Robb and Jon, his expression firm. "Stay on guard. If this is a trap, I'll need you both ready."
They nodded, gripping their weapons tightly. Robb's hand instinctively rested on the hilt of his sword, while Jon adjusted his grip on his dagger.
Ned turned back to Arya. "Show us where you saw him."
Without hesitation, Arya spun on her heels and led them deeper into the forest. They moved quickly yet cautiously, their footsteps muffled by the thick foliage. After a short walk, they arrived at the stream where a man lay on his stomach, his body covered in blood and dirt.
Ned took in the scene, his sharp eyes scanning the area for signs of an ambush. The man's outfit was strange, unlike anything Ned had seen before. A large shield was strapped to his back, along with a bow and a spear. A sword rested on his left side, while a small axe lay at his right.
Ned held out a hand, signaling his men to stop. He then turned to Arya and placed a firm hand on her shoulder. "Wait here," he instructed.
"But—"
"Arya," Ned said in a tone that brooked no argument. "Stay."
She huffed but obeyed, stepping back as Ned and his men approached the wounded stranger. The scent of blood was thick in the air. One of his soldiers, a seasoned tracker, knelt beside the man.
"He's breathing, but it's weak," the soldier murmured.
Ned crouched down and placed two fingers against the man's neck, feeling for a pulse. It was faint but present. He glanced at the fresh blood pooling beneath the man's torn tunic and the deep gash along his side.
"Who do you think he is, Father?" Robb asked, stepping closer.
"I don't know," Ned admitted, his brow furrowed. "But his weapons… his armor… they're not from the North."
Jon peered over Ned's shoulder. "Could he be an Ironborn? Or a sellsword?"
"Perhaps," Ned muttered. "Or something else entirely."
The man suddenly groaned, shifting slightly, though his eyes remained closed. Arya gasped, stepping forward despite her father's command. "He's alive!"
"Yes, but barely," Ned said, standing. He turned to his men. "Take him to Winterfell. We need to tend to his wounds and find out who he is."
His soldiers moved quickly, constructing a makeshift stretcher with spare cloaks and sturdy branches. As they carefully lifted the injured man onto it, a small, intricately carved pendant slipped from his belt. Jon bent down and picked it up, examining the strange runes etched into its surface.
"What do you make of this?" he asked, handing it to Ned.
Ned studied the pendant for a moment, his expression unreadable. "I don't know," he admitted. "But I intend to find out."
As they made their way back to Winterfell, Arya kept glancing over at the unconscious man, her curiosity barely contained. "Do you think he's dangerous?"
"Anyone who carries that many weapons is dangerous, Arya," Ned said. "The question is whether he is a threat to us."
When they arrived at the gates of Winterfell, Maester Luwin was already waiting, alerted by a rider who had gone ahead. Ned dismounted and gestured toward the injured man. "See to his wounds," he ordered. "I want to know if he'll survive the night."
Luwin nodded, signaling for a few stable hands to help carry the man inside. As they disappeared into the keep, Ned turned to his children.
"Go inside. The hunt is over."
Robb and Jon nodded, though both cast lingering glances at the mysterious stranger before heading inside. Bran followed after them, though his wide eyes showed his wonder. Arya, however, remained rooted to the spot.
"Arya," Ned said firmly.
"I just want to see—"
"No."
She scowled but finally relented, trudging after her brothers.
Ned made his way to Maester Luwin's chambers, where the older man was already tending to the stranger. The injured man lay on a wooden table, stripped of his strange, tattered garments. His torso was covered in bruises and cuts, some deep enough to require immediate stitching.
Luwin glanced up as Ned entered. "He's in bad shape, but he'll live if we can stop the bleeding. His wounds were not made by wild animals—these are sword cuts, deliberate. Someone tried to kill him."
Ned stepped forward, his eyes narrowing as he observed the man's gear laid out beside him. The weapons were like nothing he had seen before—crafted with expert precision, but foreign in design. A thick, metallic bracer adorned each of the man's wrists, with strange symbols glowing faintly along their edges.
Ned reached out to remove one, but it wouldn't budge.
"It won't come off," Luwin observed, running his fingers over the surface.
"What in the Seven Hells is this?" Ned muttered, gripping the bracer firmly, but it didn't move.
"Perhaps it is a form of armor?" Luwin suggested. "But I have never seen anything like it."
Ned exhaled slowly, stepping back. "Neither have I. And that troubles me."
They both turned to the unconscious man, whose face, though battered, held a look of quiet resolve even in slumber.
"When he wakes, we will have answers," Ned murmured. "Until then, keep him alive."
Luwin nodded. "I'll do my best."
As Ned turned to leave, his mind swirled with unease. Whoever this man was, he was no ordinary wanderer. And that meant trouble was coming to Winterfell.
Meanwhile, in the castle, Lady Catelyn sat in the solar with Sansa and her maid, Lysa, discussing Sansa's embroidery. Sunlight streamed through the windows, illuminating the delicate needlework in Sansa's hands. Lysa murmured praises as Sansa delicately stitched a crimson rose onto a piece of fine linen.
Catelyn glanced up as the door creaked open. Arya strode in, her boots tracking a faint trail of dirt across the rug. Catelyn's eyes immediately narrowed.
"Arya," she said, her voice edged with warning. "Why were you out on the hunt? A lady does not do such things."
Sansa frowned, setting her embroidery aside. "And why are you back so early? The hunt should have lasted longer."
Arya crossed her arms, her expression defiant. "We found a man in the forest. He was injured, bleeding. Father and the others brought him back."
Catelyn straightened, her fingers tightening on the armrest of her chair. "A man? Who?"
"I don't know," Arya admitted with a shrug. "He had strange weapons. Father said he wasn't from the North."
Sansa's face paled. "That sounds dangerous. What if he's a criminal? Or a wildling?"
"He wasn't a wildling," Arya insisted, her eyes alight with curiosity. "And he didn't look like a criminal either. He looked like a warrior. You should have seen him, Mother. He had armor unlike anything I've seen before. And his sword—it wasn't like a normal one. It was curved."
Catelyn sighed, rubbing her temples. "Your father will handle it. But I do not want you running into the forest again. Is that understood?"
Arya huffed. "Yes, Mother."
"You should be focusing on your needlework instead of chasing after strange men in the woods," Sansa added primly.
Arya rolled her eyes. "Not everyone wants to sit around and sew all day, Sansa."
"Ladies are supposed to behave a certain way," Sansa countered. "If you ever hope to marry a lord, you must act the part."
"Maybe I don't want to marry a lord," Arya shot back. "Maybe I want to wield a sword and go on adventures."
Catelyn exhaled sharply. "Enough, both of you. This is not the time to argue." She turned back to Arya. "Did your father say anything else about the man?"
Arya hesitated, considering. "Only that he wasn't from here. He looked… foreign. His skin was darker than ours."
Catelyn exchanged a glance with Lysa, who remained silent but attentive. "Then we will wait for your father's judgment on the matter. Until then, Arya, I want no more talk of this stranger. And I expect you to behave."
Arya nodded, but Catelyn knew that look in her daughter's eyes. The mystery of the stranger had already taken root in Arya's mind, and she would not let it go so easily. With a final glance at her mother, Arya turned on her heel and left the solar, her mind clearly still fixated on the events of the day.
Moments later, the heavy wooden door swung open once more. This time, it was Ned Stark who entered, his expression as grave as ever. He removed his gloves and ran a hand through his hair, looking as though he had just come from a long discussion with Maester Luwin.
Catelyn's eyes met his, and she gestured towards Sansa and Lysa. "Sansa, Lysa, leave us. I need to speak with your father."
Sansa hesitated, looking as if she wanted to hear more, but one look from her mother was enough to send her to her feet. Lysa followed without a word, and soon, the room was empty except for Catelyn and Ned.
"You brought a stranger into our home," Catelyn said, her voice low but sharp. "Why?"
Ned sighed, removing his cloak and setting it aside. "He was on the brink of death, Catelyn. We could not leave him there to die. It would not have been honorable."
"Honor will not protect our children if this man brings trouble," she replied, her frustration clear. "Who is he? What do you know of him?"
"Nothing yet," Ned admitted. "He is unconscious. Maester Luwin is tending to his wounds, but they are grave."
Catelyn frowned. "And what if he is dangerous? What if he was left there as a trap? You know how precarious things are even in the North. We cannot afford to take in an unknown man without question."
"I understand your concerns," Ned said, his tone measured. "But this was not a decision I made lightly. His wounds were fresh, his body broken. He had been attacked, that much is clear. But by whom? And why? Those are questions I intend to answer."
Catelyn crossed her arms, watching her husband closely. "And what if we do not like those answers? What if he is an enemy?"
"Then we will deal with it when the time comes," Ned replied simply. "For now, he is under our roof, and we will ensure he recovers. If he is a threat, we will act accordingly."
Catelyn let out a slow breath, rubbing her temple. "I do not like this, Ned. I do not like bringing the unknown into our home."
"Nor do I," he admitted. "But sometimes, duty demands it."
A tense silence stretched between them before Catelyn finally relented with a nod. "Very well. But I want guards posted outside his chamber at all times. And if he so much as looks suspicious when he wakes, I want him gone."
Ned nodded. "That is fair."
Catelyn exhaled, her worry still evident in her gaze. "And what of Arya? She is already too curious for her own good. She spoke of him like he was some fabled warrior from the old stories."
A small smile ghosted Ned's lips. "Arya has always had a keen spirit. But she must learn patience. She will know in time, just as we will."
Catelyn looked away, still uneasy. The presence of an unknown warrior in Winterfell was a risk she was not willing to take lightly. Yet, for now, all they could do was wait—and hope the stranger brought no ill fortune with him.