Chapter Text
289 AC
Ned Stark felt grim. The Iron Isles were every bit as dreary as the Mormonts said it was and the ongoing storm did little improve it. While Robert was somewhere happy battling against hordes of reavers, Ned felt little joy at this moment. After defeating the enemy fleet, the royal navy had finally arrived at the walls of Castle Pyke, the very seat of the Greyjoy Rebellion. The castle itself was built upon a series of stone stacks and decaying islands, straddled by bridges of rotting wood.
Ned would not be surprised in the slightest if the wind knocked over the castle walls before the siege engines could.
However, Ned needed to remember that behind the walls of this paltry, crumbling castle was the man behind a year of bloodshed, Balon Greyjoy himself. Even as his fleets sank and his lords turned their cloaks, Balon would refuse to accept his defeat, choosing to flee back to his fortress instead. Had he bent the knee, Balon could have easily restored his honor, but the fool believed that he could win his freedom from behind his castle walls. It was because of the Greyjoy's folly that thousands of men died fighting on another, as this absurd rebellion dragged on.
However, there was another reason why Ned felt so sour as he looked upon the crumbling walls of Castle Pyke. He had just missed the birth of his third child. Like Sansa, Catelyn had given Arya a Northern name to complement her Northern blood. Upon reading Catelyn's letters, Ned had learned that his Arya was a restless girl, who would not be soothed as easily as Robb or Sansa. Ned smiled as he remembered Lyanna, his restless little sister. But Ned knew that it was not the time to think of happier times. He had a war to win.
Ned looked to his men shouting orders over one other as they prepared to land on the shores of Pyke. The sea was stormy today, unusually stormy for a summer day, unnaturally stormy. A member of his crew was knocked into the sea by the sheer winds and Ned cried in shock as he saw him sink beneath the waves. He cursed the Storm God and he cursed the Greyjoys, sacrificing so many young men for another pointless war. Suddenly, Ned noticed that his men began rushing towards the mast of the ship, pointing towards Castle Pyke. They were all panicking, pointing to something on the castle walls.
Ned looked up to find a black and bloodied figure perched upon the walls, like a messenger raven dressed in gore. He did not seem disturbed in the slightest by the archers prepared to lose or the wind ready to knock him down. In fact, he seemed almost serene, swaying as the wind tore at his stained robes. In a smooth motion, the man raised his hands into the air, revealing that he was completely unarmed. A flicker of pale light danced across the sky, and Ned saw a grin appear on the man's face. Drawn by a strange sense of curiosity and fear, Ned began to follow his men and walked closer.
Suddenly, the man clenched his fists and pointed towards him. Towards Ned. In that instant, a great crack of thunder echoed throughout the air and pierced his ears. The ship began to shake violently side to side, the floorboards began to splinter under his feet. It was as if the sea had become alive with malice. And then, Ned felt himself falling. Down. Down. Down.
Flashes of his life appeared before his eyes. He saw Robb's fat freckled smile with Jon by his side, he saw Arya in Catelyn's arms, he saw little Sansa asleep in bed. As Ned fell beneath the waves, something dragged him towards the deep. Every muscle in his body was burning as he tried to thrash himself free. But it was over now. No matter what, the light drew dimmer and dimmer. As he felt the cold sea enter his lungs, a distant memory appeared before Ned's eyes of a woman dying in a bed of blood, tears running down her face. Gods, Lyanna will you ever forgive me? For the last time in his life, Ned closed his eyes and fell into the darkness.
300 AC
"In the name of Robert of House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. By the word of Robb of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. I hereby sentence you to die."
Robb swung the greatsword down and the oathbreaker's head was lopped off of its shoulders. A torrent of blood then burst from a severed neck as the final spasms of death took over the man's body. His first time beheading an outlaw had not been easy, but as the years went by, Robb would slowly learn to accept his lordly duties. It was his sixth execution this year and by far, the cleanest one that he had performed. Beheading criminals was not the most important of Robb's lordly duties, nor was it the most noble, but it was by far, one of the lightest burdens that came with his position.
Indeed, his life had become filled with marriage proposals from the larger lords and requests to mediate petty disputes. Things only became more hectic with the King's arrival in two moons. Sansa cheered in delight when she learned she would marry a prince, though preparing for his arrival had been anything but delightful. But here in the crisp cold air and a sword in his hands, Robb felt as if he could put those struggles behind him and finally be at peace. Here in the woods, there were no squabbles over blood and honor, no more cries of aid from Castle Black, here there was only silence.
Suddenly, that silence was broken with a shrill cry from the underbrush.
"Did you hear that?" asked Robb.
"Aye," said Jory, "there's something in the woods."
Robb's party stepped into the bushes and found a dead wolf, with maggots and corpse birds picking at its flesh. While little remained of the beast, it was apparent that the thing was a freak of nature with long sinewy legs and a height that could rival Arya's.
"A direwolf," whispered Harwin, "No one's seen a live one on this side of the Wall for a hundred years." His nose winced as he smelled the putrid scent of rotting flesh "Neither did we, I suppose"
"I wouldn't be so sure about that," said Robb. The Lord of Winterfell picked up a grey ball of fur near his feet and held it to his chest. To his delight, the pup began to squirm in his arms.
Jory picked up another ball of fur with white fuzz and piercing red eyes "I believe there are four of them in the woods, my Lord."
"Four live ones," mumbled Harwin, "looks like their brother wasn't so lucky."
Robb put the pup on the floor and walked to Harwin, only be greeted with a terrible sight. A lone crow had one of the pups in his talons, pecking at the corpse's eyes as the little hound's entrails hung out of its body. With a wave of his hand, Robb shooed the scavenger away and dark feathers fell onto the wolf's dead body.
"It would be a mercy to kill the litter right here," suggested Jory "better to die by a knife than to be pecked apart by crows."
For a moment, Robb considered cutting down the pups as he did with the deserter only moments ago. However, Robb began to think upon his house and how proudly they emblazoned the direwolf upon their banners. He remembered Maester Luwin's tales of how the direwolves once ruled the icy forests of the North. It would be a shame to allow such a rare and helpless thing to die like a deserter. Perhaps his sisters would even be delighted to raise a few little wolves as their own. It was then when Robb decided what to do with the little beast running around his feet.
"They won't die."
"Pardon, my lord?" asked Jory.
"We will bring them back to Winterfell. We can rear them at the castle instead of killing them here."
Harwin shook his head, "The kennelmaster won't like this… neither will your step-father."
Robb gave him a small smile, "I'm certain that the Lord of Winterfell can convince him otherwise."
As he knelt down to pick another pup off of the ground, Robb saw a piece of what seemed to be wood, embedded in the throat of the dead mother. As he pulled the sharp and blooded thing from her neck, Robb could see that he was holding an antler, clad in bone and covered in snapped tines. The wolf was trying to get some food for her pups, most like. Too bad she ended up picking a fight with a stag instead of a fawn. As Robb's men looked upon the broken antler, whispers began to emerge from the small crowd.
"It's a sign," declared Jory, "a message of things to come."
"If it is, then we'd better let Lady Sansa know," chuckled Harwin, "she'll be wedding a stag, after all."
Robb silenced the boy with a disapproving look and tossed the antler onto the ground. As he rode back to Winterfell, Robb began to consider Jory's words. If the Old Gods did seek to send a message, what could it have been? Will the Baratheons truly be the end of the Starks? No, it couldn't possibly be. Winterfell has always been close to the crown since the Mad King fell. If anything, what happened in the woods was a coincidence.
Eventually, Robb decided that he had little time to think of such things. After all, the King was coming to Winterfell. And so was Jon.