Game of Thrones:Dawn of Ice and Fire.

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Chapter Three: The Weight of Winter

The gates of Winterfell loomed ahead, sturdy and timeless, their thick wooden beams scarred by countless winters but unyielding. The castle stood as it always had, its grey stone walls wrapped in the chill of the North, a bastion of Stark legacy.

Ned Stark rode through the gates with grim determination, his jaw set against the bitter wind that swept down from the mountains. He was home, yet it didn't feel like home. The weight of loss pressed against his heart—too heavy, too vast to bear.

Behind him, his men led a somber procession. At the center, draped in a shroud of Stark grey, was the body of Lyanna, his beloved sister. Her face, even in death, remained gentle, untouched by the chaos that had claimed her life. Cradled in the arms of one of his sworn swords was her infant son, dark-haired and quiet as though sensing the gravity of his arrival.

Jon Snow.

Ned had named the boy himself, the only protection he could offer. He would be raised as Ned Stark's bastard, a child born of shame, rather than a prince whose very existence would provoke Robert's wrath. The truth—that Jon was Rhaegar Targaryen's son—would die with Lyanna.

The boy's birthright was fire and ash, but Ned had cloaked him in winter's chill.

As they entered the courtyard, familiar faces gathered. Stable hands rushed forward to tend the horses, and retainers moved to greet their returning lord. Catelyn stood near the steps of the Great Hall, her face composed but uncertain. In her arms, their son Robb squirmed, a babe of just a few months.

Ned dismounted, exhaustion weighing on every step. He greeted his men with solemn gratitude, then approached his wife.

"Lady Stark," he said softly.

Her lips parted as though she wanted to say more, but she merely inclined her head. "My lord husband. Welcome home."

Ned's eyes drifted to the bundle in her arms. Robb's bright blue eyes blinked up at him, curious and innocent. He brushed a calloused hand over the child's soft head.

"A fine boy," he murmured, though his voice was hollow.

"And this?" Catelyn's gaze shifted to the infant now being handed to Ned. Her brows knit with confusion.

"My son," Ned said simply, the lie bitter on his tongue. "Jon Snow."

Catelyn's expression hardened, but she said nothing. The silence between them was thick with unspoken questions and resentment.

After greeting those who had gathered, Ned left his wife and child behind, his feet carrying him toward the godswood. He needed solitude—needed the peace that only the ancient trees could offer.

The path wound through frost-covered earth until the heart tree came into view, its red leaves rustling gently in the cold breeze. The face carved into its white bark was solemn, its eyes deep and knowing.

Ned knelt beside the dark pool near the heart tree, his breath visible in the frigid air. The still water reflected the crimson leaves above, a stark contrast to the bleakness that gnawed at his soul.

He drew Ice from its scabbard, the ancestral greatsword of House Stark. The blade was dark and heavy, its edges sharp enough to sever flesh and bone with ease. He remembered watching his father, Lord Rickard Stark, sitting by this very pool, carefully wiping the blade clean after executions or battles fought in defense of the North.

Ned dipped a cloth into the cold water and began to clean the sword, each stroke deliberate and methodical. The motion steadied his trembling hands. As he wiped the steel, grief clawed its way to the surface—grief he had kept buried for too long.

His father, Lord Rickard, burned alive in the Mad King's madness. Brandon, his fiery and impetuous brother, strangled by a noose as he tried to save their father. And Lyanna, spirited and fierce, gone too soon, her life stolen by forces beyond their control.

They were all gone. And now Winterfell, once filled with the laughter and strength of his family, felt hollow.

The weight of duty pressed on Ned's shoulders. He was Warden of the North, a title earned by blood and sacrifice. But the cost had been steep—a wife he barely knew, a castle that no longer felt like home, and a heart weighed down by sorrow.

His breath hitched as he wiped the last smear of water from Ice. The cold steel gleamed under the pale winter light. He stared at the blade, his grief and pain bleeding out with each careful stroke.

Somehow, in the presence of the old gods, he felt a flicker of peace. The towering trees stood as silent witnesses, their ancient roots entwined with the very bones of the North. The cold air bit at his skin, but it was a familiar cold—a reminder that life, like winter, endured.

Ned sat there for a long while, the weight of his grief slowly easing as the godswood embraced him.

Finally, he stood, sheathing Ice with a quiet finality. As he turned to leave, a sudden breeze rustled through the heart tree, its red leaves whispering softly.

Ned paused, his heart catching in his chest. The sound was faint, almost imperceptible, but it carried a strange reassurance, as though the old gods themselves were offering him comfort.

He closed his eyes, the chill wind brushing against his face.

Somehow, he felt the gods were giving him a sign—a promise that everything would be alright.

The North endured, and so would he.