The breeze ruffled the banners on the blackened walls of Harrenhal. The golden sun of the Black Castle unfurled lazily, catching the light of the setting sun, while below, the air hummed with a cacophony of voices—some speaking the Common Tongue, others the rough cadences of the Free Folk, and still others the deep rumble of giants.
Carts and wagons rolled through the massive gates. They entered empty and departed heavy, stacked with stones pried from Harrenhal's ruined towers. The steady rhythm of creaking axles and clattering hooves became the heartbeat of the fortress. Beyond the walls, those carts fed the construction of a sprawling military camp outside the city—an army of stone rising where once only tents and wooden palisades had stood.
Harrenhal had always been a monument to folly. Tywin Lannister, when he had occupied the castle, built his encampment nearby to hold the twenty thousand men of the Westerlands. After him, Ser Brynden Tully, the Blackfish, had claimed it, shoring up what Tywin left behind. Now the duty fell to Eddard Stark, and unlike his predecessors, he did not dream of glory but of survival.
From the ramparts, Ned surveyed the industry below. The Free Folk worked in gangs under the stern eye of Northern overseers. Giants, harnessed with ropes and scaffolds, dismantled Harrenhal's spires as easily as a man might break apart children's toys. The Dreadfort Tower, the Widow's Tower, the Wailing Tower—once proud, now condemned to rubble.
To some, such destruction might seem sacrilege, but Ned Stark was not a man for vanity. The towers were useless—too vast, too broken, too costly to defend. A few archers or ballistae might hold them, true, but only at a ruinous expense of men he did not have. Better to tear them down and make something useful.
Only the King's Tower would remain. That one, he could adapt—reinforcing it, crowning it with bells, warning flags, perhaps even a great brass telescope. A true watchtower, not a mausoleum of wasted stone.
Harrenhal itself was a monster, a castle fit for giants, not men. Its halls swallowed sound; its courtyards could host armies. To repair it fully was impossible, but to tame parts of it—that, Ned could attempt.
Inside, he had quartered the Free Folk's women and children. They scrubbed soot-stained walls, swept away cobwebs older than their grandfathers, cleared out the nests of vermin and bats that had long claimed the castle. The laughter of children echoed faintly in its cavernous halls for the first time in living memory, though always beneath the shadow of ruin.
Every day, Ned walked the walls with his guard. Giants could topple towers, but ropes frayed, scaffolds cracked, and men were small beneath falling stone. He would not have Harrenhal claim fresh lives while he commanded it.
It was during one such patrol that his wife approached him.
"Ned," Sansa said softly, her silken skirts brushing the stone. "This letter came from White Harbor. Cregan sent it. He says it concerns a marriage alliance."
Ned accepted the parchment. His daughter-turned-queen looked every bit the image of grace: chestnut hair cascading to her waist, a simple gown of pale silk clinging to her tall frame. She wore no crown, no jewels. She could have been mistaken for a maiden of autumn, not a queen who bore the burdens of kingdoms. Brienne of Tarth shadowed her steps, along with a cluster of maids.
Ned broke the seal, scanned the words, and—unexpectedly—laughed.
"I knew it," he muttered, handing the parchment back. "Tywin Lannister never does anything without reason. Three hundred men with Tyrion to the Wall? Bah. He plans to rouse the Reach against the Stormlands and wants eyes upon the Free Folk left behind. War is stirring again."
At that word, Sansa paled. "War?" Her voice trembled. "Ned, what does Cregan say exactly?"
Ned explained, his tone measured though the message itself was grave. "Petyr Baelish, speaking in Robert Arryn's name, summons the Lords of the Vale to march south—to aid the Iron Throne in crushing the Stormlands. Bronze Yohn Royce dislikes it. He dares not refuse openly, so he sends us this warning through Cregan."
Sansa's hand shook as she held the letter. "But why?" she whispered. "Aunt Lysa knows the Lannisters are our enemies. She knows what they did to House Tully, what they did to me. How could she…" Her voice faltered into silence.
Ned drew her into his arms, steady and cold as winter steel. "Because she listens to Littlefinger. Because she trusts the wrong man. I told you, Sansa—the Arryns are no friends to us. Not while Petyr Baelish whispers in their ears."
Sansa clung to him, her composure cracking. She had endured Joffrey's cruelty, but not yet the scars of Ramsay's torments or the steel forged by years of hardship. She was still young, still untested. The weight of crowns and wars pressed heavy upon her.
"Will the Riverlands be safe?" she asked finally, voice muffled against his chest.
Ned exhaled slowly. "For now. Stannis and I both know the truth: only together—North, Riverlands, Stormlands—can we match the Iron Throne, propped up by Lannister, Tyrell, and Martell. Tywin knows it too. If he moves on the Stormlands, he must keep us busy here."
He kissed his wife's brow, then gestured for a guard. "Fetch Lando to me. Now."
As the man departed, Ned turned back. "Sansa, write to our Grand Marshal at Golden Tooth. Tell him to prepare. If Tywin strikes, he will strike there first."
She nodded, still pale. "Should I summon the Riverlords as well? To Harrenhal?"
"Not yet," Ned said firmly. "The Riverlands bled long in the last war. Their fields need sowing, their people need rest. Another harvest may mean the difference between life and death when winter deepens. We cannot call them too soon."
Sansa agreed, then hesitated, cheeks coloring faintly. Glancing to ensure her guards looked away, she disentangled herself from Ned's arms and whispered, "Then I will return, husband."
"One thing more," Ned said. "The blacksmiths—have they come?"
"Almost all," she answered. "They arrive in groups each day."
"Good." He dismissed her with a nod. She departed with Brienne, her silks vanishing into the stairwell.
Ned returned his gaze to the camp. The Free Folk numbered in thousands. Poorly armed, poorly trained—but strong. With blacksmiths, he could at least forge spears, axes, shields. Enough to give them teeth. The giants especially required steel. Not swords—never swords—but vast shields, thick helms, plates for chest and thigh. A giant with a shield could smash horse and rider alike, a living battering ram.
He dreamed of them armored, towering over the field, yet even so, a problem remained: loyalty. They spoke the Old Tongue, alien to him. They followed only those they trusted. For now, he studied their words, learning slowly from Styr and from the giantess they called Strong Marga. Perhaps, in time, they would fight not just alongside him but for him.
Eight hundred Free Folk already served in his personal guard—admiring his strength, or hailing from Thenn tribes that respected order. The rest would follow when they proved themselves. Their blood was First Men, like his own people. Hardy, stubborn, born of the same cold.
Training them required a proper ground. He had Dita Kalander move the practice field from Twin River City to Harrenhal itself, though hauling the great dragon statues proved an ordeal. Abel remained in the Twins to govern, leaving Dita to serve Ned directly.
When Dita arrived with Lando at his side, Ned wasted no time.
"Take your cavalry," he ordered, "and set a chain of outposts along the Golden Road. Ten leagues apart. Hidden, silent. If King's Landing stirs, I want word before their banners reach the horizon."
They bowed, grave and sharp. "Yes, Your Majesty." "As you command, my lord."
When they departed, Ned lingered on the wall, brooding. He needed to write Stannis, though he knew what reply would come: demands for allegiance, lectures on legitimacy, the endless refrain of his rights. Stannis spoke of duty but knew nothing of courtesy.
Still, letters must be written. Allies must be warned. Wars could be delayed, perhaps even shaped, but never avoided.
Ned Stark descended from the wall, his mind turning already to ink and parchment.
War was coming.
And Harrenhal, scarred and broken, would have to stand.
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