The wind bit deep that morning, cold enough to make the breath in Elias's lungs feel heavy. He kept his back straight in the saddle, gloved fingers wrapped firmly around the reins of the stocky mountain pony beneath him. The journey from the South had been long, the snows growing heavier the farther they came, until the world was little more than white drifts and dark trees.
Now, at last, the walls of Winterfell rose before them, grey stone ancient as the hills, steaming with the heat from the hot springs beneath. The banners of House Stark snapped in the wind, the direwolf sigil rippling as if it sensed its heir's return.
Elias's father, Lord Eddard Stark, rode at the front, his long fur cloak trailing behind him, face as hard and cold as the North itself. To his right rode his uncle, Benjen Stark, who had come south to meet them for the final leg of the journey. And just behind, swaddled in furs and blankets, was a tiny infant cradled by a nursemaid, Jon Snow.
Elias didn't have to ask again whose child Jon was. Benjen (having been told the truth of the babe's origin) had told him two days ago, voice low, eyes cautious. "Lyanna's boy," he'd said. "Born in blood, and hidden for his own sake." Elias hadn't questioned it further. He understood enough.
The great gates creaked open as they approached, and the guards peered down from the battlements. Some called greetings to Lord Stark. Others stared openly at Elias, whispers traveling as quickly as the wind.
Ashara Dayne's boy.
Firstborn of Winterfell.
The true heir.
Elias ignored them, his storm-grey eyes fixed on the courtyard ahead. He'd learned on the road that listening was better than speaking, words traveled faster than arrows, and in the wrong hands, they could kill.
Inside the walls, Winterfell smelled of woodsmoke, damp stone, and the faint tang of iron from the forges. Stablehands rushed forward to take the horses. Elias swung down on his own before anyone could offer him a hand. His boots hit the packed snow with a muted crunch.
Benjen greeted the guards and retainers warmly, clasping shoulders and trading words in the easy way only a man born here could. "Winterfell's been quieter without you, Ned," he said, grinning as he embraced his brother. Then he turned to Elias and crouched so they were eye level.
"You've your mother's face," Benjen said softly. "And your father's eyes. The North has been waiting for you."
Elias tilted his head slightly. "Then I won't make them wait any longer."
Benjen chuckled, but there was something in his gaze measuring, almost wary.
They crossed the courtyard toward the Great Keep. Servants lined the steps, and at the top waited a woman Elias had only heard of in passing after the war, a tall lady with the polished bearing of the South. Her red hair was pinned in the southern style, her dress of deep blue wool trimmed in white fur.
"Catelyn," Ned said as they mounted the steps. "This is my son, Elias."
Catelyn Tully's eyes were the color of a summer sky, but her smile was thin as winter ice. "Your son," she repeated, voice cool. "The North will find him… interesting."
"Our son," Ned corrected quietly. "Born to my wife Ashara, before the war."
The name Ashara Dayne passed between them like a shadow. Elias saw the flicker in Catelyn's eyes, something sharp and unspoken. She stepped closer and looked him over. "You'll find the North colder than Starfall, boy."
"I'll find it mine," Elias said without hesitation.
A slight twitch crossed her lips. She turned without another word, leading them into the hall.
The Great Hall of Winterfell was warm with the heat of its central hearth. Shadows danced on the stone walls, thrown by the flicker of the flames. The smell of roasting meat and fresh bread filled the air, and Elias's stomach twisted with hunger.
They took their places at the high table, Ned at the center with Catelyn beside him, Benjen to the right, Elias to the left. Lords and bannermen filled the benches below Lord Glover, broad-shouldered and serious; Lord Karstark, tall and grim-faced; and Lord Wyman Manderly, whose girth was matched only by the depth of his laughter.
They spoke of winter stores, of wolves roaming closer to the villages, of trade shipments delayed by storms. Elias kept silent, letting their words wash over him. He studied their faces instead, noting the lines of worry or the flashes of calculation when certain matters were raised.
Jon Snow was brought in midway through the meal, laid in a cradle near the fire. Elias's gaze lingered on him, a small thing, with a full head of dark hair and a faint crease in his brow, as though even in sleep he carried the weight of the world.
"Your cousin," Benjen murmured. "He'll be raised here, as one of us."
Elias glanced at Catelyn. The slight stiffness in her shoulders told him she didn't agree.
When the meal ended, most of the lords drifted toward the solar for further discussion with Ned. Elias slipped away quietly, his feet carrying him through the winding corridors until he emerged into the godswood.
The air here was colder, the snow deeper, muffling the world beyond the trees. The heart tree stood in the center, its carved face watching him with eyes that bled red sap. Elias moved closer, the crunch of snow under his boots the only sound.
Kneeling before the tree, he placed a hand on its trunk. The bark was rough beneath his palm, but beneath that roughness he feltsomething. A slow, patient heartbeat, like the earth itself breathing.
"I'll keep them safe," he whispered, the words spilling out before he could stop them. "My blood. My people. No matter the cost."
The wind stirred, shaking snow from the branches. It fell around him in a soft curtain, and for a moment Elias could almost believe the tree had heard him.
Almost.
Elias lingered before the heart tree longer than he meant to. The cold didn't bother him; in truth, he welcomed it. The air was cleaner here, the silence heavier. He could think without eyes on him.
Footsteps crunched in the snow behind him. He didn't turn immediately.
"You've grown since last I saw you," came a voice deep, with a gravelly edge.
Elias rose and faced Lord Rickard Karstark. The man was tall, broad of shoulder, with hair gone white at the temples and a short, neatly kept beard. His eyes were sharp, assessing.
"My father says you were at the Trident," Elias said.
"I was," Karstark replied, studying him. "And I fought alongside your uncle Benjen before that. Your blood runs strong with Stark and Dayne both. A rare thing." He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "The North will expect much of you, boy. More than you may be ready to give."
"I'll give more than they expect," Elias said evenly.
A flicker of surprise touched Karstark's eyes before he gave a short nod and turned back toward the hall.
When Elias returned to the Great Hall, the meal had shifted into quiet conversation. The lords and their retainers huddled in smaller groups, some laughing softly, others speaking in hushed tones. Benjen stood near the hearth with Lord Manderly, their voices low but their eyes occasionally flicking toward Elias.
Lord Glover intercepted him halfway across the hall. "Your father's told me you've a sharp mind for your age," Glover said, his heavy arms crossed. "That true?"
"I listen," Elias said. "That's more than most men do."
Glover gave a low chuckle. "Sharp tongue too, I see." He leaned in. "There's work to be done in the North. Fields to be cleared before the frost, roads to be mended. You'll do well to remember that a lord's duty isn't only in the sword arm."
"I'll remember," Elias said, filing the advice away.
By the time the lords retired for the night, Elias found himself restless. He left the hall again, this time taking a different path up the inner stairs of the Great Keep, onto the ramparts. The wind was harsher here, cutting against his cheeks, but the view was worth it.
From this height, he could see nearly all of Winterfell: the steaming baths, the forge smoke curling into the night, the distant shapes of guards on the outer wall. Beyond the walls, the dark line of the Wolfswood stretched toward the horizon, a sleeping beast under a blanket of snow.
He traced the walls with his eyes, noting the thickness of the stone, the angles of the towers. Solid. Defensible. But not unbreakable. The gates could be breached with enough fire; the walls could be scaled in places where the ice gathered thick against them.
And the lords yes, they were loyal now, but loyalty was a fire. It burned bright when fed, and guttered fast when starved. His father had their trust because he was here, among them. But if he left…
Elias's thoughts sharpened. If he left, it would fall to him. And perhaps sooner than anyone expected.
Snow began to fall harder, clinging to his hair and lashes. He turned back toward the stairwell, his boots crunching on the frost-laced stone.
As he reached the bottom of the steps, he passed two servants speaking in low tones.
"…never thought I'd see him here," one whispered. "The Dayne boy, in Winterfell."
"They say he's the true heir," the other murmured. "Born before Catelyn, before Robb. And the gods know he's got the look of them. He'll have the North one day."
Elias didn't stop walking, but their words settled deep. He'll have the North one day.
Yes, he would. And when that day came, he'd hold it so tightly no southern king, no faith, no rival could take it from him.