# Winterfell, The Training Yard
*Five years later, early morning*
The training yard of Winterfell rang with the distinctive *clack-clack-clack* of wooden practice swords meeting in the cold morning air. Autumn was giving way to winter proper now, the first real snows having fallen three days past, leaving the ground frozen hard as iron and the breath of every living thing visible as white clouds in the pale light.
Seven-year-old Cregan Stark moved through the forms with a precision that would have been remarkable in a boy twice his age. His wooden sword—weighted to match real steel, scaled to his growing frame—cut through the air in arcs that spoke of hundreds of hours of practice and an understanding of leverage and momentum that went deeper than mere instruction could teach.
He'd grown since that first arrival at Winterfell five years past. Still lean, still carrying that peculiar gravity that made him seem older than his years, but with height and strength beginning to emerge from childhood's softness. His dark hair was tied back in the simple warrior's braid Arthur had taught him, and his violet eyes—so striking against his Northern features—held the kind of focused intensity usually seen in knights preparing for tourneys rather than children at play.
"Guard higher, Cregan," came Arthur Dayne's voice, calm and instructive despite the bite of cold that made lesser men huddle by fires. "Your opponent won't always telegraph their strikes with such courtesy. Adapt to what *is* rather than what you expect."
Cregan adjusted immediately, wooden blade coming up to intercept a strike from his sparring partner—six-year-old Robb Stark, red-haired and fierce, fighting with all the natural aggression that marked the truest wolves of Winterfell. Where Cregan was precision and calculation, Robb was fire and instinct, attacking with the kind of fearless abandon that would someday make him either legendary or dead.
"Got you!" Robb crowed as his practice sword slipped past Cregan's guard to tap his cousin's ribs with enough force to leave a bruise. His grey eyes sparkled with triumph, his grin fierce as a direwolf's. "Uncle Arthur, did you see? I got past his defense!"
"I saw," Arthur replied with that faint smile that suggested both approval and the knowledge that the victory had been allowed rather than earned. "Well struck, young wolf. Though mark that your lord cousin permitted the opening. In true combat, such generosity is rarely offered."
At six and a half feet of lean muscle and contained power, Arthur Dayne dominated the training yard without effort. He wore simple wool and leather despite the cold—no armor, no pretense—yet every line of his bearing spoke of absolute confidence in his ability to handle whatever threats might arise. Dawn hung at his hip, the pale blade seeming to drink in even the weak morning light, a reminder that the greatest swordsman in Westeros stood watch over these boys as they learned to be men.
"Again," Cregan said simply, settling back into his guard with the kind of immediate recovery that marked natural fighters. "But faster this time. No more courtesy."
Robb's grin widened. "Aye. Let's see if you can keep up, cousin!"
They engaged again, wooden swords clattering with renewed intensity. Around them, other sounds created the symphony of the training yard: grunts of effort, the *thunk* of arrows hitting targets, the rhythmic *thud-thud-thud* of a spear-butt striking frozen ground in precise patterns that spoke of dance as much as combat.
That last sound came from the far corner of the yard, where nine-year-old Princess Rhaenys Targaryen practiced forms that would have made Oberyn Martell himself nod approval. She moved with fluid grace, her silver-gold hair caught back in the Dornish style, her violet eyes focused on invisible opponents as she spun and struck with economical precision.
The spear was not a typical weapon for highborn ladies, but Rhaenys had never been typical. She'd taken one look at the delicate needlework and courtly dances that were supposed to occupy her time and declared them "monumentally boring and strategically useless." When pressed to choose *some* appropriate feminine pursuit, she'd pointed at the weapons rack and announced that if she was going to learn anything, it would be something that might actually keep her alive if circumstances demanded.
The fact that Oberyn Martell had written enthusiastic letters supporting this decision—complete with detailed instructions on Dornish spear-fighting that he insisted Arthur pass along—had settled the matter. Now Rhaenys practiced alongside the boys, her weapon of choice the light spear that could be thrown or wielded in close combat with equal efficiency.
"Stance wider, princess," Arthur called without turning from where he supervised Cregan and Robb's bout. "You're sacrificing stability for speed. Against a larger opponent, that trade becomes fatal."
Rhaenys adjusted immediately, spreading her feet while maintaining the flowing movements that made her style so distinctive. "Like this, Uncle Arthur?"
"Better. Remember—the spear's advantage is reach. You should never be close enough for an opponent to grapple unless you've chosen that engagement deliberately."
"Ser Arthur!" came an excited voice from near the archery butts. "Ser Arthur, look!"
Six-year-old Aegon Targaryen—Prince Aegon, though that title was used sparingly in Winterfell's practical atmosphere—stood with a training bow that was almost too large for his frame, pointing at the target where his arrow had lodged in the outer ring. His silver-gold hair caught the light like spun moonlight, his purple eyes bright with pride at having actually hit the target rather than the ground or sky.
"Well struck, young prince," Arthur called back, genuine approval in his voice. "Mark where your feet were positioned—that stance served you well. Try to replicate it with your next shot."
Aegon beamed, already nocking another arrow with the careful attention to form that Arthur drilled into all his students. Where his sister Rhaenys was fire and quick intelligence, Aegon was steadier—thoughtful, measured, the kind of boy who would think three moves ahead and prepare contingencies for outcomes he hoped would never occur.
*Different souls,* thought the part of Cregan that was still Harry Potter, watching his sparring partner's younger brother with the kind of attention that went beyond mere courtesy. *Aegon's not a reborn soul like me and Hermione—just a child growing up with the weight of expectations and a name that carries too much history. But he's adapting well, learning to be more than just a symbol.*
"Cregan!" Robb's shout snapped his attention back just in time to parry a strike that would have caught him across the shoulder. "Pay attention or I'll actually hurt you!"
"Sorry," Cregan replied, pressing the attack with renewed focus. "Distracted."
"Distracted gets you killed," Arthur observed, though there was no heat in the correction. "In the training yard, such lapses mean bruises. In true combat, they mean death or maiming. Train your mind to stay present, my lord, or all your skill with a blade becomes meaningless."
The bout continued, intensifying as both boys forgot courtesy in favor of genuine competition. Robb fought with that natural aggression that would someday make him formidable, while Cregan countered with precision that suggested he was always thinking two moves ahead, setting traps and creating openings with the patience of someone much older.
*He's good,* Harry's memories whispered. *Robb's naturally talented, fights with his whole heart. If he survives long enough to gain experience, he'll be dangerous.*
But even as that thought formed, Cregan saw the opening—a slight over-extension as Robb committed to a particularly aggressive strike. His practice sword swept low, catching Robb's leading leg hard enough to send the younger boy stumbling. Before Robb could recover, Cregan's blade was pressed against his cousin's throat.
"Yield," Cregan said simply.
Robb stared up at him for a moment, grey eyes blazing with frustrated pride. Then, slowly, he nodded. "Yield."
Cregan stepped back immediately, offering his hand to help Robb up. "You're getting faster. That last combination almost worked."
"Almost," Robb grumbled, accepting the hand and allowing himself to be pulled upright. "I hate that word. Almost doesn't count for anything."
"Almost," Cregan replied with a slight smile, "means you're learning. Six months ago, that combination wouldn't have existed. In six more months, it might actually land."
"Wise words, my lord," Arthur interjected, moving closer to inspect both boys for injuries. Finding nothing worse than the expected bruises, he nodded approval. "Lord Robb, your aggression is a strength, but it becomes a weakness when it blinds you to openings you create. Every attack is also an opportunity for your opponent—remember that, or someone quicker than your cousin will make you pay for your enthusiasm."
"Yes, Ser Arthur," Robb said, though frustration still colored his voice.
"And you, Lord Cregan," Arthur continued, turning that pale gaze on his nephew, "are too cautious by half. You see the opening, calculate the odds, plan the strike—and in that heartbeat of hesitation, a true opponent would have adjusted their position or launched their own attack. Precision without speed is merely careful losing."
Cregan absorbed the criticism with characteristic seriousness. "How do I balance caution and speed without sacrificing either?"
"By practicing until thought becomes instinct," Arthur replied. "Until your body knows the forms so deeply that your mind is free to adapt without conscious planning. It's the work of years, not days—but you have the dedication required if you can find the patience."
From the far side of the yard, Rhaenys called out with that particular note of challenge that meant she'd been eavesdropping and had opinions. "Perhaps Cregan needs a different sparring partner! Someone who won't let him be so cautious!"
"Someone like you?" Cregan replied, though his tone suggested amusement rather than dismissal. "The princess who fights with a spear from maximum range and calls it bravery?"
"The princess who understands that only fools close with opponents when they don't have to," Rhaenys shot back, her violet eyes sparkling with mischief. "But if you'd like a lesson in the difference between caution and cowardice, my lord, I'm happy to provide one!"
"I think," Arthur interjected with the long-suffering tone of a man who'd broken up this particular argument at least once a week for the past three years, "that Lord Cregan and Princess Rhaenys can continue their ongoing debate about combat philosophy at a later time. Preferably when I'm not required to referee."
"But Uncle Arthur—"
"No, princess. Lord Cregan, take five minutes to catch your breath, then we'll work on your footwork. Lord Robb, you're with me for form corrections. And Princess Rhaenys—" his voice carried just enough steel to cut through her protest "—if you've got breath enough to shout challenges across the yard, you've got breath enough to practice your throwing forms. Twenty repetitions, full extension, and I want to see every muscle engaged properly."
The grumbling that followed suggested none of them were entirely pleased with these arrangements, but all three moved to follow Arthur's instructions without serious complaint. Six years of training under the Sword of the Morning's instruction had taught them that arguing with Arthur Dayne was about as productive as arguing with winter itself.
---
High above the training yard, on the covered walkway that connected Winterfell's towers and allowed its occupants to move about even in the deepest winter, Lord Eddard Stark stood and watched his nephew and son train alongside the last Targaryen prince.
The view from here was comprehensive—he could see the entire yard, could track Arthur's patient instruction and the children's varying responses, could mark progress and identify areas that still needed work. But more than the tactical assessment, more than the practical evaluation of combat skills, he found himself simply... watching. Taking in the scene that spoke to everything they'd built here over the past six years.
*They're growing so fast,* Ned thought with the particular melancholy that came to all fathers watching their children race toward adulthood. *Cregan's almost tall enough to reach my shoulder now. In another few years, he'll be taller than me. And Robb...*
His son moved through forms with Arthur, listening to corrections with the kind of fierce attention that suggested he was determined to master every lesson through sheer force of will. Robb was so like Brandon sometimes it made Ned's chest ache—that same natural aggression, that same absolute certainty that he could overcome any obstacle through courage and determination.
*Please,* Ned prayed to whatever gods might be listening, *please let him have better judgment than Brandon did. Let him learn when to fight and when to think first.*
"You're brooding again, my lord," came Catelyn's voice from behind him, carrying that particular mixture of fondness and exasperation that had become characteristic of their marriage. "I can always tell when you're brooding—your shoulders get that particular set, like you're preparing to carry the weight of kingdoms."
Ned turned to find his wife approaching along the walkway, three-year-old Sansa's small hand clasped in hers while baby Arya fussed in her other arm. Catelyn looked tired—as she always did these days with two young children demanding constant attention—but there was contentment in her expression despite the exhaustion.
"Not brooding," Ned replied mildly. "Observing. There's a difference."
"Is there?" Catelyn settled onto the stone bench that had been placed in this particular spot specifically for watching the training yard, arranging her skirts with practiced efficiency while maintaining her grip on both daughters. "Because from here it looks remarkably like brooding. That same expression you get when you're thinking about Brandon, or your father, or all the things that might go wrong despite our best efforts."
Ned allowed himself a small smile. "You know me too well, Cat."
"Someone has to," she replied, patting the bench beside her. "Come, sit. Watch your son try to beat your nephew half to death with a practice sword while I attempt to teach our daughter her letters. Domestic harmony at its finest."
Ned did sit, grateful for the solid warmth of his wife beside him as she pulled a small slate from her bag and offered it to Sansa. The little girl took it with solemn care, her auburn hair—so like her mother's—catching the weak morning light.
"What letter are we learning today, sweetling?" Catelyn asked, adjusting baby Arya against her shoulder while the infant made soft sounds of protest at being shifted.
"S!" Sansa announced with the fierce pride of a child who had recently mastered this particular piece of knowledge. "S is for Sansa, and for snow, and for... for..." She frowned, searching for more words.
"South," Ned supplied. "And sept, and stone, and..." He glanced down at the training yard where Cregan was working through footwork drills with mechanical precision. "And Stark."
"Stark," Sansa repeated, carefully forming the letter on her slate with chalk held in a grip that was improving but still sometimes smudged the work. "That's us, isn't it, Papa? We're Starks?"
"We are indeed," Ned confirmed, reaching over to gently correct her grip. "The oldest house in the North, eight thousand years of history behind that name. And you, little one, carry it as much as Robb or Cregan do."
Sansa beamed at that, returning to her slate with renewed determination to make the letter perfect.
In Catelyn's arms, baby Arya had graduated from soft fussing to more determined protest, her small face scrunching in that particular expression that suggested crying was imminent. Catelyn sighed, already beginning the practiced sway that sometimes—sometimes—soothed the baby back to contentment.
"She's hungry again," Catelyn said with resigned amusement. "Or uncomfortable. Or simply annoyed that the world refuses to arrange itself according to her preferences. With Arya, it's always difficult to tell which."
"She has strong opinions," Ned observed, watching his youngest daughter work herself up to a proper wail. "Even at six months."
"Strong opinions and the lungs to express them," Catelyn agreed. "Sansa was never this... assertive. She would fuss quietly and wait patiently to be fed. Arya acts as if waiting even a moment is a personal affront to her dignity."
As if to emphasize the point, Arya's fussing crescendoed into full crying—not the weak mewling of a truly distressed infant, but the robust, indignant wailing of a child who had decided that circumstances were unacceptable and required immediate correction.
"Perhaps I should take her inside," Catelyn said over the noise. "Find a quiet place to feed her before she disturbs the entire castle with her protests."
"Or I could take Sansa down to the yard," Ned offered. "Let her watch her brother and cousin train, give you some quiet for dealing with Arya."
Catelyn considered this briefly, then nodded. "That might work. Though if you take Sansa down there, make sure she stays well back from the practice area. I don't want her getting caught by a stray sword strike."
"She'll be safe," Ned promised, offering his hand to his daughter. "Come, sweetling. Let's go watch Robb and Cregan train. Perhaps Arthur will let you ring the bell when they've finished."
Sansa's eyes lit up at this prospect—the training bell was one of her favorite things, its clear note carrying across the entire yard to signal the end of practice sessions. She took her father's hand eagerly, her slate forgotten as more interesting prospects beckoned.
As Catelyn departed with the still-protesting Arya, Ned and Sansa descended the stairs toward the training yard. From this vantage, he could see more details—the way Cregan adjusted his stance with each of Arthur's corrections, the fierce concentration on Robb's face as he tried to master forms that still eluded his grasp, the fluid grace of Rhaenys's spear work as she moved through throwing drills with increasing confidence.
"Papa," Sansa said as they reached the yard's edge, her voice carrying that particular note of childhood curiosity that suggested a question was forming, "why does Cregan have purple eyes when he's supposed to be a Stark like us?"
It was a reasonable question—one that Ned had been preparing to answer since Sansa had first noticed the unusual coloring. He knelt beside his daughter, bringing himself to her eye level for the conversation.
"Cregan's mother is Lady Ashara of House Dayne," he explained carefully. "House Dayne has very old blood, going back to the first men who came to Westeros. Sometimes that old blood shows itself in unusual ways—purple eyes like Cregan's, or the pale hair of the Targaryens, or other things that mark certain families as special."
"Is Cregan special?" Sansa asked, studying the older boy with renewed interest.
"Every child is special in their own way," Ned replied diplomatically. "But yes, Cregan carries old blood that gives him certain... qualities... that make him well-suited to be Lord of Winterfell someday."
He didn't mention the other reasons Cregan was special—the uncanny maturity, the conversations that sometimes suggested understanding beyond his years, the way he and Princess Rhaenys seemed to communicate through glances and half-finished sentences that left everyone else confused. Those were observations better left unspoken, at least to three-year-olds still learning their letters.
"And why does Princess Rhaenys fight with a spear?" Sansa continued, her questions flowing with the persistence that made teaching her both rewarding and exhausting. "Ladies are supposed to do needlework, aren't they? That's what Old Nan says."
"Old Nan says many things," Ned replied carefully, "and most of them are true for most people. But Princess Rhaenys comes from Dorne, where they have different ideas about what ladies should and shouldn't do. In Dorne, it's not unusual for women to learn combat skills alongside men, to rule as princes in their own right, to make choices that might seem strange in the North but are perfectly normal there."
He gestured toward where Rhaenys was completing her throwing drills, each spear flying true to strike the target with satisfying *thunks*. "And besides, the princess is very good at it. Would be a shame to waste natural talent just because tradition says ladies should only do certain things, don't you think?"
Sansa considered this with the seriousness she brought to all new information. "I suppose so," she said slowly. "But I like needlework. Does that mean I can't be special like Princess Rhaenys?"
"You can be special in your own way," Ned assured her, pulling his daughter close. "Not everyone needs to fight with spears or swords. Some people serve by being kind, by making beautiful things, by teaching others or healing hurts or simply bringing joy to those around them. That's just as valuable as being able to hit targets with weapons."
"Oh." Sansa seemed satisfied with this explanation, leaning against her father's shoulder as they watched the training continue. "Papa? Will Robb really be a great knight someday?"
Ned followed her gaze to where his son was working through forms with Arthur, wooden sword moving in patterns that were beginning to show real skill beneath the rough edges. "If he keeps training like this, if he learns not just the physical skills but the wisdom to know when and how to use them, then yes—Robb could be a great knight. Perhaps even a legendary one."
"Like Uncle Arthur?"
"Perhaps," Ned allowed. "Though Arthur Dayne is... unique. There's only been one Sword of the Morning in each generation, and that title isn't earned through training alone. It requires something more—skill, yes, but also honor and wisdom and the kind of character that makes other men trust you with their lives."
They sat in companionable silence for a while, watching as the training continued. Arthur called for a water break, and the three combatants—Cregan, Robb, and Rhaenys—converged on the well with the kind of easy camaraderie that had developed over years of shared training and shared childhood.
"Cregan's footwork is improving," came a voice from beside Ned, startling him slightly. He turned to find Ashara Dayne standing there, wrapped in a cloak of grey wool against the autumn chill, her violet eyes fixed on her son with that mixture of pride and worry that defined all mothers watching their children grow toward dangerous futures.
"My lady," Ned said, starting to rise, but Ashara waved him back down.
"Please, don't stand on ceremony, Ned. We've known each other too long for such formality." She settled beside them on the stone bench, her gaze never leaving the training yard. "How long have you been watching?"
"Long enough to see Cregan defeat Robb twice and earn corrections from your brother about being too cautious," Ned replied. "The boy is skilled, Ashara. Arthur's training has given him abilities far beyond his years."
"Arthur's training has given him the tools," Ashara corrected gently. "But Cregan was always going to be skilled—it's in his blood, I think. Brandon's natural talent combined with..." She paused, seeming to choose her words carefully. "Combined with something else. Something that makes him more than the sum of his parents."
Ned heard the weight in those words, the suggestion of things understood but not spoken. He'd noticed it too—the way Cregan sometimes seemed too old for his age, the conversations that touched on philosophy and strategy with understanding that should have been beyond a seven-year-old's grasp.
"He and Princess Rhaenys are... close," he observed neutrally.
Ashara's lips curved into a knowing smile. "Close doesn't begin to describe it. They finish each other's sentences, anticipate each other's thoughts, seem to communicate through glances and subtle gestures that leave everyone else confused. Arthur calls it 'almost unsettling' and he's not wrong."
She turned to look at Ned directly. "You've noticed it too, haven't you? That there's something about them—both of them—that doesn't quite match normal childhood development?"
"I've noticed," Ned admitted quietly. "But I've also learned that sometimes the gods work in mysterious ways, that not every unusual occurrence requires investigation or explanation. If Cregan and Rhaenys are... exceptional... in ways we don't fully understand, perhaps that's simply what the North needs right now."
"Practical as always," Ashara murmured, though there was approval in her tone. "Very Northern of you, Ned—accept what works and don't ask uncomfortable questions about why it works."
"Would asking questions change anything?" Ned replied. "Would knowing why they're exceptional make them less so? Or would it simply add complications to a situation that's already complex enough?"
Ashara laughed softly. "Point taken. Though I confess, sometimes I wonder what's happening inside that boy's head. What thoughts occupy a seven-year-old who discusses military strategy with Arthur like a seasoned commander and speaks of governance with understanding that should take decades to develop."
"Perhaps," Ned suggested, "he's simply brilliant. Some children are. My father used to tell stories about Brandon at that age—how he could plan campaigns and anticipate opponents' moves before his tenth nameday, how he seemed to understand people and politics with unusual clarity."
"Perhaps," Ashara agreed, though her tone suggested she wasn't entirely convinced. "Or perhaps there's something more. Something that neither of us fully understand but which serves the North's interests regardless."
In the training yard below, the water break was ending. Arthur called his students back to their positions, ready to begin the next phase of the morning's instruction. Cregan moved with that characteristic precision, wooden sword held at ready, while Robb bounced on the balls of his feet with barely contained energy.
And off to the side, Rhaenys twirled her practice spear with the kind of casual competence that spoke of thousands of repetitions, her violet eyes bright with the satisfaction of someone who'd hit every target during her drills.
"They're going to be formidable," Ashara said quietly. "All three of them, in their different ways. Cregan with his precision and planning, Robb with his courage and aggression, Rhaenys with her intelligence and adaptability. Whatever the future holds, the North will be well-served by the generation we're raising here."
"If we can keep them alive long enough to grow into their potential," Ned replied, voicing the fear that haunted every parent watching their children learn the arts of war. "Training accidents, illness, the thousand small disasters that claim children before they reach adulthood—any of those could steal away these promising futures we're imagining."
"Then we watch," Ashara said simply. "We protect. We prepare them as best we can while hoping the gods are kind enough to let them grow into the people they're meant to be."
Below, Arthur called for sparring to resume, and the training yard filled once more with the sounds of wooden swords meeting, of corrections called out, of children learning to be warriors through sweat and effort and Arthur Dayne's patient instruction.
And on the bench above, three adults watched and hoped that the futures they were building would prove worth the considerable effort it took to build them.
Winter was coming, as it always did in the North.
But this time, the wolves were preparing their young to meet it.
And that, perhaps, would make all the difference.
—
The peaceful observation was interrupted by the sound of hurried footsteps on the stone walkway. Vayon Poole, Winterfell's steward, approached with the measured haste of a man who knew better than to run in his lord's presence but clearly had news that warranted immediate attention.
"My lord Stark," he said, bowing with practiced efficiency that didn't slow his delivery. "My lady Ashara. Forgive the interruption, but riders have just arrived at the main gates—Lord Benjen returns from Sea Dragon Point, and Ser Rodrik Cassel brings his son Jory from Moat Cailin. They request immediate audience, citing matters of some urgency regarding the construction projects."
Ned felt something tighten in his chest—that particular combination of anticipation and apprehension that came with news from the great works that had consumed so much of the North's resources and attention over the past five years. Sea Dragon Point and Moat Cailin represented not just massive construction undertakings, but the foundation of Northern independence and prosperity for generations to come.
"Urgency?" he asked, rising from the bench with Sansa still clinging to his hand. "What manner of urgency? Has there been trouble with the works, or with the men?"
"They didn't specify, my lord," Vayon replied with the careful neutrality of a man who knew better than to speculate when facts would soon be available. "Only that they wished to present their reports in person rather than through written correspondence. Lord Benjen seemed... eager. Not distressed, I should note, but carrying that particular energy that suggests significant news rather than disaster."
Ashara stood as well, her violet eyes sharp with the intelligence that had made her one of Ned's most valued advisors over the years. "Eager rather than troubled—that's promising. Though significant news can be troubling in its own way, depending on what form it takes."
"Indeed, my lady," Vayon agreed. "They're being shown to the Great Hall as we speak. I took the liberty of ordering refreshments—they'll have ridden hard to reach Winterfell so quickly, and the autumn roads are not kind to travelers."
"Well done, Vayon," Ned said, already beginning to move toward the stairs that would take them down from the walkway. He paused, looking down at Sansa with apologetic fondness. "I'm sorry, sweetling, but it seems Papa has work to attend to. Would you like to stay here with Lady Ashara and continue watching the training?"
"Can I ring the bell when they're finished?" Sansa asked hopefully, clearly having not forgotten this promised treat.
"I'll make sure someone brings you when it's time," Ashara assured her with the gentle warmth she showed all of Winterfell's children. "And perhaps afterward, we can work on your letters together—I have some books from Dorne with beautiful pictures that might interest a clever girl like you."
Sansa's eyes lit up at this prospect, and she readily transferred her grip from her father's hand to Ashara's. "Books from Dorne? With pictures?"
"With pictures," Ashara confirmed. "Now go on, Lord Stark—see to your brother and your bannermen. Sansa and I will keep watch here."
Ned squeezed his daughter's shoulder once more, then turned to follow Vayon back through Winterfell's ancient corridors. Behind him, he could hear Ashara settling back onto the bench, Sansa chattering excitedly about Dornish books and what pictures they might contain.
*Five years,* he thought as he walked, boots echoing on stone worn smooth by eight thousand years of Stark feet. *Five years since we began this grand experiment in Northern development. Five years of planning and building and hoping that the gold we've spent will prove worth the investment.*
*Now, finally, we'll learn whether our gamble has paid off.*
The Great Hall beckoned ahead, and with it, news that would determine whether the North's future would be built on solid stone or shifting sand.
---
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