The morning in Winterfell broke cold and bright.
Frost clung to the training yard, and the breath of every man and child rose like pale smoke into the northern air.
Young Bran Stark stood with a bow in his hands.
Too big for him.
But he refused to admit it.
He drew the string.
Carefully.
Eyes narrowed at the target.
Release.
The arrow flew—
Wide.
It struck the outer edge of the straw dummy and fell uselessly to the ground.
Bran's face tightened.
Frustration burned quickly in him.
Behind him—
A voice.
"You're holding it wrong."
He turned sharply.
There stood Arya Stark.
Small.
Sharp.
Certain.
"I am not," Bran snapped.
Arya rolled her eyes.
"Watch."
She stepped forward, took the bow without waiting for permission, and nocked an arrow.
No hesitation.
No doubt.
Draw.
Release.
The arrow cut clean through the air—
And struck the center.
Perfect.
Bran stared.
Then glared.
"That was luck!"
Arya smirked.
"Then do it."
Bran lunged toward her.
Angry.
Determined.
She darted back, laughing.
Their chase broke across the yard, boots crunching frost, voices rising in childish fury.
Above them—
Watching quietly—
Stood Eddard Stark.
His expression was calm.
But his eyes were soft.
This—
Was what he fought for.
This—
Was what must be protected.
A guard approached quickly.
"My lord."
Ned turned.
"We have taken a deserter."
The warmth left his gaze.
Duty returned.
"Bring him," Ned said.
The Execution
They rode beyond the gates.
Snow lay thin across the ground.
The world stretched quiet and endless.
The man knelt before them.
Shaking.
Broken.
A deserter from the Night's Watch.
His fear was clear.
But his crime—
Was greater.
Ned drew his sword.
Ice.
Heavy.
Ancient.
He spoke the words that mattered.
"The man who passes the sentence…"
A pause.
"…should swing the sword."
Bran watched.
Robb stood silent.
Theon Greyjoy observed with sharp curiosity.
The blade fell.
Clean.
Final.
Bran did not look away.
Because his father had taught him—
A lord must see.
The Wolfswood
They rode on.
Into the Wolfswood.
The trees grew thick.
Ancient.
Watching.
Then—
They found it.
A dead direwolf.
Massive.
Still.
Its body lay twisted, its throat torn open.
Ned dismounted slowly.
His eyes narrowed.
"This is no accident," he said quietly.
The sigil of House Stark—
Dead.
In the North.
It felt wrong.
Then—
A sound.
Soft.
Bran turned.
"Father…"
He pointed.
From beneath the body—
Movement.
Small.
Fragile.
Cubs.
Direwolf Cubs
Five of them.
Blind.
Weak.
But alive.
Bran's voice softened instantly.
"Can we keep them?"
Ned hesitated.
This was not a small thing.
Direwolves were not pets.
They were symbols.
Power.
Danger.
"The children of House Stark…" Bran continued, hopeful, "should have direwolves."
The words lingered.
Ned looked at his sons.
At Arya.
At the small lives struggling in the snow.
Theon spoke lightly.
"It seems meant, my lord."
A pause.
"One for each child."
Ned looked again.
Five cubs.
Five children.
It felt like fate.
Then—
A guard's voice cut in.
"My lord…"
"There is another."
They turned.
From the edge of the brush—
A sixth cub emerged.
Smaller.
White.
With red eyes.
Different.
Alone.
Ned stared at it.
Long.
Then spoke quietly.
"This one…"
A pause.
"…belongs to Jon Snow."
Bran smile
Even Robb's face softened.
Because somehow—
It felt right.
They gathered the cubs carefully.
Small lives carried in strong arms.
As they rode back toward Winterfell, the wind moved through the trees.
Cold.
Ancient.
Watching.
Because something had begun.
Six wolves.
Six children.
Bound by blood.
Bound by fate.The gates of Winterfell closed behind them with a deep, echoing thud.
Snow drifted softly across the courtyard as the riders returned—boots heavy, silence heavier. The direwolf pups were carried gently, small bundles of life against the cold.
For a brief moment—
It felt like peace.
Until she spoke.
"My lord."
Catelyn Stark stood at the steps of the Great Hall, her hands clasped tightly before her.
There was no warmth in her face.
No relief.
Only worry.
Ned dismounted immediately.
Something in her voice—
He recognized.
"What is it?" asked Eddard Stark.
Catelyn stepped forward.
A letter in her hand.
The parchment trembled slightly—not from cold.
"A raven came from King's Landing."
The words fell too quickly.
Too sharply.
Ned took the letter.
His fingers—steady.
But his eyes—
Already searching.
He broke the seal.
Read.
And the world—
Shifted.
For a long moment—
He did not speak.
Bran watched him.
Robb grew still.
Even Arya's restless energy faded.
Because something had changed.
Ned lowered the letter slowly.
"Jon Arryn…"
His voice was quiet.
Too quiet.
"…is dead."
The words struck like winter.
Catelyn closed her eyes briefly.
"I am sorry," she whispered.
Ned said nothing.
Because grief—
Did not come to him in tears.
It came in silence.
In memory.
A man older than him.
Wiser.
Kinder.
The man who had raised him.
Guided him.
Stood beside him when the world burned in rebellion.
Jon Arryn had been more than Hand of the King.
He had been—
A father.
Ned looked away.
Toward the distant hills.
"I should have been there."
The regret was quiet.
But heavy.
Catelyn stepped closer.
"You could not have known."
But Ned did not answer.
Because part of him—
Always felt he should have.
The wind moved through the courtyard.
Cold.
Sharp.
Then—
Catelyn spoke again.
"There is more."
Ned turned.
Another letter.
From the Vale.
She handed it to him.
Ned opened it slowly.
Read.
This time—
His expression changed.
Not grief.
Something else.
"Michel Arryn…"
He spoke the name thoughtfully.
"He is coming north."
Catelyn frowned slightly.
"With the king," Ned added.
Silence.
The weight of it settled instantly.
"Robert is coming here?" Robb asked.
Ned nodded.
"To ask me to serve as Hand."
The courtyard fell still.
Arya blinked.
Bran looked confused.
Robb understood.
And Catelyn—
Her breath caught.
"The king… in Winterfell…"
It was no small thing.
But her gaze shifted.
"Michel Arryn…" she said quietly.
The name lingered.
The boy who had reshaped the Vale.
Who had ended a war that had lasted generations.
Who had bound the North, Riverlands, and Vale in alliance.
And now—
He was coming here.
Catelyn's thoughts moved quickly.
This was no simple visit.
This was power—
Arriving at their gates.
Ned folded both letters slowly.
His grief did not fade.
But it hardened.
Because now—
Duty called.
Jon Arryn was gone.
And the realm—
Would not remain still for long.
Ned looked at his children.
At the wolves in their arms.
At the life he had built here.
And he knew—
It was about to change.
"The king comes," Ned said quietly.
A pause.
"Prepare the castle."
His voice was calm.
But final.
[English is not native language please understand]
[ Please give me power stones and ticket]