The winds howled across the white plains of the North as if the Old Gods themselves sought to hide a secret beneath Winterfell's ancient stones. Deep within the crypts, far from prying eyes and suspicious ears, Eddard Stark stood vigil over his sister.
Lyanna was pale, her features drained by the harrowing events of the last year. Her child — a boy with a crown of dark hair and the same haunted eyes as his mother — slept quietly in a makeshift cradle built of old Stark timber and wolf pelts. Only a few trusted servants knew of the boy's presence, and even they had not been told who he truly was.
Eddard knelt before the child, placing a calloused hand on the boy's small head. "You will have no crown," he whispered. "No songs. No stories. Just a name, and a quiet life. That's all I can offer."
Lyanna stirred on her cot. "Is it done?" she asked faintly.
Eddard nodded. "Yes. I got you out. Arthur Dayne let me through. Rhaegar stood aside. He could have fought me, but he didn't."
Lyanna looked at him, confusion and relief mingling in her eyes. "He let me go?"
"He said it was no longer his war to win," Eddard murmured. "He saw the fire consuming the realm and chose not to feed it with your life or the boy's. Arthur escorted me as far as the edge of the Vale. Then he vanished."
She tried to smile, but her face twisted in pain. "Swear it, Ned. Swear to me."
"I swear it."
Outside, the snow continued to fall. In the North, the war felt distant, like a nightmare one could wake from. But in truth, the fire of war raged stronger than ever in the South.
Far from the quiet and secrecy of Winterfell, Robert Baratheon's voice thundered through the stone hall of Riverrun.
"I haven't heard from Ned in weeks!" he bellowed, slamming his tankard down on the war table. "We march through blood and fire, while he sits warm in Winterfell with his godsdamned honor!"
Jon Arryn, aged and wearied from years of service and recent battles, met Robert's glare calmly. "Eddard is a man of principle. He has his reasons."
"Principle?" Robert growled. "Principle won't win us this war. We need the North. We need their swords. Their numbers. And where the bloody hell are they?"
Hoster Tully, Lord of Riverrun, leaned forward. "The North is not a region to be roused lightly. They follow Eddard, and Eddard follows his conscience. If he believes his lands are best defended, he'll wait until the moment is right."
"Damn his conscience," Robert snapped. "I've bled for this rebellion. Rhaegar burned my kin, and now his mad father dreams of burning the realm. We stand here, ready to bring fire to the dragon's gates, and Eddard Stark sits silent."
Jon Arryn interjected, measured and firm. "He'll come. The war has already stretched longer than anyone believed possible. The Vale, the Riverlands, even the Stormlands have paid a high price. But I will send ravens, Robert. If that will ease your wrath, I'll demand the banners of the North answer the call."
Robert leaned back, breathing heavily, frustration thick on his brow. "I want this war ended, Jon. I want the Targaryens burned, their name erased. And if Eddard Stark has forgotten why we fight, then remind him."
A long silence stretched between the two men as the flames of the hearth crackled.
Finally, Robert's voice softened, and he added, "And what of Gulltown? What of Edward Grafton?"
Jon's expression turned unreadable. "He plays a dangerous game."
"Aye," Robert muttered. "Too dangerous. No one rises so far, so fast, without foul play."
"He is clever," Jon said. "Dangerous, yes. But so far, he's been… useful. He keeps the Vale stable, provides supplies to both sides, and grows more powerful by the day."
Robert spat on the stone floor. "Supplying both sides of a war is not useful, it's treason."
"Is it?" Jon asked. "Or is it survival? Gulltown prospers while the rest of Westeros burns. And every ship he sends to Essos brings back wealth that strengthens the Vale. If we win, and Edward Grafton survives, he may be the most powerful man in the East. More powerful than even the Royces, perhaps."
Robert was silent, then let out a dark laugh. "I don't trust him."
"Nor do I," Jon said quietly. "But I understand him. And for now, we need him."
"You think he'll choose our side in the end?" Robert asked.
Jon gave a half-smile. "I think Edward Grafton will choose the winning side. And make damn sure it's the one he's already standing on."
Outside, horns blew in the chill morning air. Another scouting party returned from the Crownlands, reporting on the thinning numbers of Targaryen loyalists. The city of King's Landing loomed on the horizon like a viper's nest waiting to be cracked.
Robert Baratheon's fury was the war's fire, and it burned hotter each day. But in Winterfell, hidden beneath layers of snow and silence, a secret child grew — a quiet ember, waiting for the storm to pass.
And across the sea, in Gulltown, Edward Grafton sharpened his knives, built his fleets, and waited.
The winds of war howled louder. And neither fire nor ice would escape unchanged.