The yard was alive with the sounds of hoofbeats, shouted commands, and the heavy creak of laden wagons. Winterfell's banners fluttered against the morning sky, the direwolf of Stark beside the smaller sigils of accompanying houses. The air smelled of damp earth and horse sweat. The great host of the North was preparing to ride south for the greatest tourney Westeros had seen in a generation.
Benjen adjusted the saddle of his destrier, his young face caught between excitement and responsibility. Lyanna, astride her gray mare, wore a thick cloak embroidered with a pack of wolves running, a nod to her house. Brandon, ever the bold Stark heir, looked every bit the highborn noble with his riding leathers and flowing dark fur cloak.
Wulfric stood nearby, his arms at his side watching as they mounted.
Benjen turned toward him and dismounted for a moment. His tone was lighter than usual, but behind his grin was something more serious.
"You sure you'll be fine without us, brother?" Benjen said, the thought of wulfric as anything other than a younger brother just didn't click with him. "I'd take you if I could. Gods know I'd rather have you at my back than half these men Father's sending. Atleast i know you distract a direwolf long enough for us to kill it," a snicker of chuckles escaping his wolfish grin.
Lyanna atop her mare looked down with a mischievous face." Last I remember, you were knocked out cold while I slayed the direwolf." Her puffed up chest and mocking smirk halting any laughing from benjen.
Wulfric allowed himself a small smile.
"Winterfell still stands. And I'll keep it standing while you're gone."
Lyanna rode up closer beside them, a teasing glint in her eye.
"Don't let Rodrik run you ragged. Or Maester Walys bore you to death."
Her voice dipped softer as she looked down at him.
"I'll bring you something back," she promised. "Something southern, strange, and foolish. Like you!" her grin spreading as if she had gotten the last laugh.
Wulfric's throat tightened for a moment. He simply nodded.
Brandon approached last, his gaze falling on Wulfric with the mixture of affection and responsibility he had long carried.
"Listen to Grandfather. Watch the lands. Keep training. You're Stark blood, no matter what some may whisper. You're my blood.."
Wulfric looked up at him, his jaw tightening. His chest was tightening as his father looked down at him. Brandon dismounted before grabbing wulfric by the back of his head and kissed his forehead before ruffling his hair. His steps retreated a moment later and his feet in the air as he sat atop his mount again coughing into his fist.
"I will." Wulfrics words carried and Brandon nodded looking off into the road ahead.
Brandon leaned into his saddle and spoke loud enough wulfric could hear.
"Before you know it, we'll be back with stories and prizes."
With that, Brandon cracked the reins and trotted forward. Lord Rickard raised his hand, and the column began to move. One by one, the banners passed through Winterfell's gates, the last sight Wulfric had of his family was Lyanna glancing back over her shoulder, her horse's mane streaming in the wind.
And then he was alone.
As the echoes of departure faded, Winterfell felt larger somehow, emptier. The castle's pulse had slowed.
Rodrik Cassel approached from the side, watching Wulfric with the quiet understanding of a man who had seen many men left behind before.
"It's not so bad, lad," Rodrik said. "Plenty of work to be done while they chase their banners down south."
Wulfric gave a faint nod. Half acknowledging the reassurance given, "I know."
"There'll be patrols to oversee. Training to continue. Grand Maester Walys already has plans for your studies."
Rodrik's mustache twitched. "And I wager your little company of misfits will keep you busy enough."
Wulfric glanced toward the training yard where several boys, Torrhen Locke, Cregan Norrey, and other several boys he barely knew had already begun to gather. His companions some, His strange little pack, began to form and shift every day that passed.
"They will."
Rodrik gave him a pat on the shoulder. "Good. Then let's get to it lad."
The solar was quiet, save for the faint crackle of the hearth fire and the ghost of quill on parchment. Lord Rickard Stark stood before the tall window slit, gazing southward. The banners of his departing host had long since vanished over the distant hills, leaving only the restless winds to stir the courtyard below.
His fingers were clasped behind his back, his eyes distant, sharp as a hunting hawk.
The South.
It pulled like a dangerous current, drawing even the most steadfast into its endless intrigues. And yet, Rickard knew better than to pretend the North could afford to stand aloof forever. Isolation had kept the North cold, poor, and dependent. Trade, power, and safety all flowed through bonds. And bonds were made with marriages, oaths, and sharpened blades.
The North must change, or it will remain as it was: strong, but vulnerable. Proud, but isolated.
He turned to the heavy oaken desk behind him, his board of stone, wood, parchment, and careful symbols.
A pale stone carved with the trout of Tully.
Hoster Tully had been... practical. A man with daughters and few sons. His ambitions tied neatly to Rickard's own. Brandon's betrothal to Catelyn had secured that bridge to the Riverlands even if he had to deal with such a greedy man. The first anchor was placed.
Beside it sat a polished stag of darkwood.
The Stormlands. Robert Baratheon, bold, brash, strong-blooded. Steffon Baratheon was a man of vision, and if the gods favored it, Lyanna would soon become his daughter-in-law. That match would tie the North to one of the great rising powers of the realm though farther away. Having a tether to the stormlands could provide reprieve from the westerlands, reach, and westerlands evem if it only offered some fleeting moments of indecision. Another stone laid.
Two great southern rivers now flow into the North's lakes.
His gaze shifted to a smooth, cold bit of blue stone, the Vale.
Jon Arryn... cautious, but steady. And his influence over Ned has grown strong these past years. While he wished his second son could learn more of what a northman was, having someone belonging to the North as honorable and righteous was good in a way too. Plus as he saw it, it was a good decision in the end.
Rickard permitted himself a rare flicker of pride. Eddard's fostering had given House Stark not just education in southern politics, but standing among southern lords. Ned was respected, his presence among the southern nobility quietly strengthening House Stark's standing without sacrificing its honor.
A third branch was secured. A third gate opened.
And yet, Rickard's eyes slowly traveled west, to the painted map laid across the desk. The ragged coastline of Flint's Finger, Bear Island, the stony ridges of Deepwood Motte... and beyond, the Iron Islands. Cold, dangerous men. The krakens still dreamed of raiding these shores again.
The western coast remains brittle. The Ironborn do not forget. Nor should we.
A second branch of Stark blood could anchor that frontier. One son to hold the Riverlands' bridge. Another for the western shore. But who?
Benjen was young still, but sharp. He could serve as a lord along the western marches, binding himself to the coastal lords, sealing Bear Island, the Flints, the Ryswells, or even the Dustins in stronger bonds.
And then there was Wulfric.
Rickard's eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
The boy is growing well, quiet, watchful, resilient.
Born of an old wound, Brandon's mistake and the Umber girl, yet already proving valuable. While many dismissed him as merely a bastard, Rickard had begun to see something more. The blood of the First Men ran deep in him. His mind was sharp; his will, steady. The wolf's hunger was there, but leashed.
If he continues as he has, there may be a place for him beyond Winterfell's shadows.
Not merely a tool to wield unseen, but perhaps a beginning. A new branch, another castle to raise Stark banners where none stood before. The Moat, perhaps, if its long-dead stones could be restored. Or even the western coastline itself, guarding the shore against kraken raids while Bejnen takes the moat.
His eyes drifted to a crude iron carving resting at the edge of his map, the kraken of House Greyjoy.
The Iron Islands will not sit idle forever. Balon Greyjoy grows more restless each passing year behind his fathers new policy's. But even wolves may make use of krakens if handled carefully.
Rickard considered the thought, cold calculation sliding behind his pale grey eyes.
Balon had children. A young daughter, Asha, he recalled. Not yet of age, but with time she would become a piece on the board. If properly managed, if properly wed, even an Ironborn daughter could serve to pacify the Iron Islands, or at least hold one of their own closer to the North's leash.a way for the North to open trade and benefit off of the Iron Reavers. They pillage southern shores while buying timber and what supplies the North could trade. A dangerous gamble. But then, power often demanded dangerous gambles.
Wulfric, if he rises high enough, if his loyalty is unwavering, perhaps he will be fit for such a match.
Rickard could see it now. He'd open the pathway for Benjen and make the Western coast safe for a generation at least. It was a possibility. Two new branches. Benjen to the western coast. Wulfric to the Moat or the Iron Islands. Stark banners flying where none had flown before. Pillars of the North, binding it tighter, shoring its weaknesses against southern storms to come.
When war comes, and it will come, one day, the North will be ready.
The fire cracked softly behind him.
Rickard allowed himself a rare, quiet breath of satisfaction. The southern lords played their games with honeyed words and poisoned cups. Let them, in the North, he would build something that would endure long after southern courts collapsed beneath their own weight of lies, deceit, and crumbling machinations.