The horns of Winterfell sang through the cold air, low and solemn. Their call echoed off the ancient stone walls, carried by the wind across frost-laced fields. Lord Eddard Stark stood at the castle gates, his face carved from stone, the mask of a Warden of the North awaiting a king.
The royal procession rolled toward them, a glittering serpent of gold and crimson stretching down the Kingsroad. The banners of House Baratheon and House Lannister flew side by side—crowned stag and golden lion—fluttering in the breeze like a warning. Gilded knights led the way, lances glinting in the midday sun, their armor too polished for real war.
At the head of the retinue rode Robert Baratheon, the King of the Seven Kingdoms—though few would have recognized the man who had shattered Prince Rhaegar on the Trident. His belly strained against his tunic, and his jowls had softened the hard lines of the rebel warrior. Yet his presence still commanded respect. A hammer might rust, but it remained dangerous in the right hands.
When Robert dismounted, Ned knelt with measured grace.
"You've gotten fat," Robert said, the old grin tugging at his mouth.
Ned glanced up. "And you've gotten old."
The king barked a laugh and hauled Ned to his feet with a bear's embrace. The years melted for a heartbeat.
Behind them, the Queen and her court descended. Cersei rode with the elegance of a woman born to command, her golden hair cascading like a crown more fitting than the one atop her husband's brow. Her smile, cool and shallow, barely reached her eyes. Ser Jaime, resplendent in the white and gold of the Kingsguard, watched the Starks with idle disdain, as if this frozen land bored him before he'd even stepped foot inside.
Then came the royal children. Joffrey rode ahead, chin high, eyes narrow with practiced arrogance. Myrcella and Tommen followed behind, still unspoiled by the venom of court.
Robert's eyes scanned the Stark children lined along the steps. "Where is the boy?" he asked.
Ned raised a brow. "Which one?"
"The one who rides like the wind."
Jon Snow tensed nearby. Ned hesitated, then gestured to Robb, who stepped forward with a bow.
Robert studied him. "You've your father's eyes. Let's hope not his temper."
With formalities complete, the royal party entered Winterfell. The Great Hall awaited—long tables, roasted meats, casks of ale, and fires burning high—but politics simmered beneath every gesture, every glance exchanged across bread and salt.
The Crypts
Later, under the weight of stone and silence, Ned led Robert into the crypts. The air was colder here, ancient. Dust clung to carved names and faded faces, and the weight of history pressed in on all sides.
They stopped before Lyanna Stark's tomb.
Robert's laughter was gone, his shoulders drawn inward. He reached out, tracing the stone likeness of the woman he could never forget.
"She should be here," he murmured. "With me. As my queen."
Ned said nothing. He had heard these words before, had watched the fantasy hollow Robert from the inside. The truth was buried deeper than any tomb—too deep for the king to bear.
"I've come to ask something of you," Robert said, turning at last. "No… not ask. I've come to tell you."
Ned met his eyes.
"I want you in King's Landing. I need you as my Hand."
The words dropped like a sword into the quiet, and though the crypt was still, a storm had begun to rise.
Wylis Manderly's Chambers
Firelight danced across the walls of the modest guest chambers granted to Wylis Manderly. Compared to the marble halls of White Harbor, the stone room was austere, but it suited him well enough. The table before him was littered with scrolls, letters, and a detailed map of the Wall and the lands beyond.
He stared at it in silence, a goblet of White Fire untouched beside him.
"What's our move, Odin?" he murmured out of habit.
No answer. There hadn't been one in years.
Since Valyria.
Since the cursed ruins had swallowed Odin's voice, leaving Wylis truly alone in his mind for the first time since awakening in this world.
He had returned with treasures—gold, relics, even Valyrian steel—but he had left behind something greater. Arrogance had cost him Odin. And now, every decision was his alone.
And yet the work had not faltered. It could not.
White Harbor had become more than a port. It was the pulse of the North's new strength. Its fleet ruled the Bite and beyond, unmatched in speed and firepower. Its wealth eclipsed most southern cities, and its influence reached even Essos.
His ships brought grain, spirits, and arms. His men trained in foreign wars. His coin funded the Watch. His hands shaped the North's future.
And still, it wasn't enough.
He rose, stepping toward the sword resting on a stand—dark Valyrian steel, won with blood and fire. "We're ready for war," he said softly, "but the wrong one."
What loomed wasn't rebellion or throne games.
It was death.
An enemy without mercy. Without end.
No crown could save them. Only preparation.
The Game Begins
His audience with Lord Stark had gone well. Cautious, but promising. The lords of the North—Karstark, Umber, Glover—supported the expedition beyond the Wall. Even House Bolton had not opposed it, though their silence was always its own message.
But Stark was not a man to act on fear or faith alone. He needed cause.
Robert's arrival, however, offered a different lever.
The king was impulsive, hungry for action, nostalgic for the thrill of conquest. Wylis could offer him that—an expedition framed as a hunt, a spectacle. A chance to reclaim lost vigor and paint glory over his fading legend.
If Robert gave the word, the realm would listen.
And with the expedition underway, Wylis could begin his true work.
The South Draws Near
But the greater danger lay not beyond the Wall, but within the very walls of Winterfell.
The Queen. The Kingslayer. The heir.
Where Lannisters walked, chaos followed.
And if Eddard Stark accepted the role of Hand, then the game of thrones would begin in earnest. The War of Five Kings—its embers already kindled—would soon blaze.
Wylis would not be caught unaware. He would not be outmaneuvered.
Tomorrow, he would act.
Not with steel. Not yet.
But with words, whispers, and carefully placed truths.
First Winterfell. Then the Wall.
And after that… whatever remained of Westeros.