[Winterfell, 3rd Moon, 289AC]
Benjen Stark stood on the ramparts of Winterfell, cloaked in dark wool and furs. Snowflakes drifted lazily down, catching in his beard and melting against his cheeks. Below, the yard echoed with the sounds of boys sparring, the clang of steel on steel, and the barking of Ser Harald's commands. Benjen's son, Rickard, was among them, facing off against Osric of High Hill, the High Hill Starks, having been in Winterfell for 8 days now, both children clumsily swinging their wooden blades. The training yard was alive with youth and promise, and for a moment, Benjen let himself believe in peace.
Then the raven called.
He turned at the flapping of wings and the creak of the rookery door. Maester Luwin emerged with his robes fluttering in the wind and a scroll in hand. His face was drawn, grave as the crypts.
"For you, my lord," the Maester said. "From Bear Isle."
Benjen's stomach tightened. Letters from Bear Isle were rare, and rarer still were those that carried urgency.
He broke the wax seal with cold-numbed fingers and unfolded the parchment. Jorah Mormont's script was neat, but rushed.
Lord Benjen—
We've seen longships. Four, maybe five. Maege swears they bore the kraken's black sails. They haven't made landfall, not yet, but they circle like carrion. We've recalled our hunting parties, and I've seen fit to raise the levies in preparation. I'll be riding out with the men of House Mormont by dawn to set up patrols on the coast. Whatever this is, it isn't peace. Warn Winterfell, warn the coast. The Ironborn are testing us.
—Lord Jorah Mormont, Lord of Bear Island
He read it twice. Then a third time.
The Ironborn. After so many years, after almost a century, have begun what seems to be the preparations for another raiding campaign, something that hasn't been seen since the days of the Last Reaver. But why now? Do the squids not fear the collective ire of the other Six Kingdoms?
Benjen folded the parchment and tucked it beneath his cloak.
[Inside the Halls of Winterfell]
He wasted no time. Benjen swiftly departed the ramparts and set toward his nephew's solar to deliver the grave news. After a moment of brisk motion and gaining a tail of Lord Artos and, surprisingly, Catelyn, the trio arrived at the door to the solar, a guardsman letting Alaric know of their arrival.
Inside, he found Alaric and Eddard seated at a long oaken table in the solar. A brazier burned between them, and a map of the North was spread across the surface. Parchments littered the table, letters bearing the seals of House Glover and House Flint of Flint's Finger.
Eddard looked up at the sound of boots.
"Benjen, Lord Artos, and… Cat?" he said, rising, yet looking confused at his wife standing alongside the two Starks. "We didn't expect you so soon," Ned added as he went to Catelyn, no doubt to ask about her purpose being there with them.
Alaric, standing at the far end of the table with arms crossed, turned as well. "Have you more grim news to share?" Alaric asked, almost as if he assumed Benjen brought news of the issue at hand
"Aye, nephew, unfortunately, I have," Benjen said. He drew Jorah's letter from his cloak and handed it to Eddard. "From Lord Jorah Mormont. Bear Isle's sighted longships. Four or five of them. Lord Mormont thinks they're Ironborn. They haven't landed yet."
Alaric's face darkened. He stepped forward, taking the letter and reading the contents. Over his shoulder, Ned peered at the letter as well.
Eddard's jaw was set. "The Glovers report similar tales. A single ship was spotted off Deepwood Motte. Too distant to pursue, and a couple of villages, razed to the ground. Lord Galbart believes they were testing response times."
"And the Flints of Flint's Finger," Alaric added, tapping a second letter, "reported three more longships sighted at the mouth of Blazewater Bay, just north of their Seat, and also the destruction of a couple of villages as well. No large-scale raids yet, but the shepherds are pulling their flocks inland."
Benjen exhaled. "They're testing the whole western coast."
"It's not a raid," Alaric said quietly. "Not yet. This feels like something more."
"Do we think the old squid wishes to rekindle what died out with his great-grandsire? Or maybe even declare the Iron Isles independent?" Benjen asked.
Eddard gave a slight nod. "If he does, then he's a fool. But a bold fool can do great harm before he's brought to heel."
Alaric reached for a marker and placed it on Bear Isle. "We need to reinforce the coasts. Send word to Deepwood Motte, the Rills, and too Flint's Finger. And we need ships. Not just fishing boats, warships." Alaric stated grimly
"Lord Dustin recently sent a raven detailing a handful of new shipyards that had been erected in Barrowtown, and it seems they may find some use sooner than expected," Alaric said as he motioned for Ser Torrhen.
Tapping his sworn shield on the chest, Alaric added, "Ser Torrhen, if you would please send word to your brother Edwyle along with Lord Willam Dustin of the plans I am about to outline for the production of 20 warships, only galley's, if worst comes to worst the North needs the ability to mount a large landing force."
Nodded at his liege's words, "Of course, my lord, I shall set off to the rookery once the plans are made." Torrhen finished as he handed Alaric a pen and parchment.
"The North has never been strong at sea," Benjen said.
"But we will be," Alaric replied. "We must be."
Eddard looked between them. "Benjen, I'll have you take a retinue with you to Barrowtown to meet with Willam and Edwyle in person, although Ser Torrhen's letter will set the groundwork, I wish for you to personally supervise and direct the efforts." Eddard added with a dark look, one hesitant yet resolute all the same, "Although I do not wish to march to war once again, we can not take this threat lying down."
"Aye," Alaric nodded in affirmation, "Uncle, send word to Lord Cerwyn outlining the need to send any skilled carpenters or laborers among the canal's work crews, who have any knowledge of shipbuilding, to Barrowtown." Alaric declared as Eddard nodded in response.
Benjen felt a chill, not from the cold but from the old weight of war settling in his bones again, although he was too young to fight in the rebellion, the same could not be said now, no, now Benjen would march off to war and he would do it with his head held high as any Stark would.
"Do you think it's just a test?" he asked. "Or are they planning to strike en masse?"
Eddard said nothing for a long moment.
Alaric spoke first. "They want us afraid. They want to remind us they're still out there, patrolling the seas and ready to strike at any moment. But they're fools if they think we're not ready."
Benjen met his nephew's eyes and saw the fire there. The same fire that had burned in Brandon. The same fire that had once led them into the Rebellion.
"I'll leave by dawn," Benjen said. "And I'll carry your orders to Lord Dustin on the morrow."
Eddard nodded. "Take ten riders with you. Keep to the road. And if you see sails…"
"I'll send word."
As he left the solar, snow began to fall again.
But this time, it did not feel peaceful.
[Later that night]
That night, Benjen walked the godswood alone.
He needed the quiet, the stillness of the old trees and the whisper of the wind through the leaves. He needed the face of the old gods watching from the heart tree's pale bark. He remembered when he was a boy, climbing the roots, hiding beneath the weirwood while his brothers searched for him. The world had felt simple then.
Now, the shadows grew again. And they came not just from the south, from King's Landing, or the crown, but from the West, from the sea.
He knelt beneath the heart tree and whispered a prayer for Jorah Mormont. For the men of Bear Isle. For the men of Deepwood and the Rills.
For the North.
And then he rose, straightened his cloak, and made ready to ride again.
The Ironborn had not been forgotten.
And the North shall not be broken.
[Barrowtown, Four Days Later]
The wind howled across the Barrowlands as Benjen Stark and his riders crested the hill overlooking Barrowtown. The snow had turned to a dreary sleet as they approached, and the mud clung to their cloaks and boots like some clinging beast. Ahead, the dark timber walls of the town rose, stark and grim against the gray sky. Beyond them, the ancient barrow mounds lay quiet, their secrets buried beneath the earth for a thousand years or more.
Benjen rode at the head of the column, his cloak soaked through, but his face set with purpose. Behind him, ten good men, Starks and retainers alike, followed in silence, Ser Harald Stark having joined him on the journey. He could see the smoke of hearthfires rising, and beyond the palisade, the river that fed into Blazewater Bay lapped gently against the frozen dock pilings. The banners of House Dustin snapped in the wind: two rusted longaxes with black shafts crossed, a black crown between their points, on yellow. The rusted crown on their arms derives from their claim of descent from the First King and the Barrow Kings that followed him.
The gates opened before them, and they were met by Ser Edwyle Stark of White Harbor, his light brown hair damp under his hood, his sea green eyes, a feature his branch inherited from the Manderlys, searching the contingent until they landed on Benjen
"Benjen," Edwyle greeted, embracing him swiftly before stepping back. "By the gods, it's good to see kin in these days."
Benjen, having dismounted from his charger, clasped Edwyle's forearm. "The feeling is mutual. Are Willam and Barbrey in the hall?"
"Aye. And not happy to be called from their shipyards, but I told them it was Stark business." Edwyle lowered his voice as they began walking toward the hall. "Willam's focused on numbers. Barbrey… she's always watching."
Benjen gave a slight grunt of agreement. He had known Lady Barbrey for years, since before the days of the Rebellion, and even before Alaric was born, when she and her father, Lord Rodrik Ryswell, had come to Winterfell demanding an explanation for her and Brandon's affair, and wishing for a betrothal as recompense. There was fire in that woman, the kind that never truly faded.
Inside the hall, the fire roared in the great hearth, and the scent of woodsmoke mingled with old stone and wool. Lord Willam Dustin rose from the high seat, tall and lean in a black surcoat trimmed with bronze studs. His russet hair had begun to recede, but his eyes remained sharp.
"Lord Benjen," Willam said, voice steady, but edged with worry. "We'd hoped this was just a minor issue. But you bring the storm with you."
"I bring the truth," Benjen replied, unslinging the leather satchel from his shoulder and removing the sealed letters from Alaric and Eddard. He handed them to Willam and Barbrey, who had approached quietly from the shadows beside the hearth.
Barbrey Dustin was still beautiful in a cold, hard way. Her long black hair was braided in coils atop her head, and she wore a cloak of wolf fur, though her family had long since traded loyalty from Stark to Dustin. In her arms, she held little Lyra, a babe of barely 1, her youngest daughter, who blinked sleepily at Benjen before resting her head on her mother's shoulder.
Roderick Dustin, the heir, stood near the fire, eyeing Benjen with the wary interest of a boy far from the burdens of manhood. Born in 283AC, the lad had already begun training in the yard and looked much like his father, thin, proud, and quick-eyed. Beside him, his younger sister Lysa, only three, was tugging at her handmaid's skirts, trying to catch a glimpse of the stranger who had arrived.
Lord Willam finished reading the letters aloud, his voice growing darker with each line.
"So the krakens are circling the coast," he muttered. "Not just Bear Isle, but also Deepwood Motte."
Benjen nodded. "They've hit near Flint's Finger, too. Alaric believes they're testing our response times. I agree. And now Winterfell has ordered the construction of twenty Galleys in the North. We need Barrowtown's shipyards."
Barbrey tilted her head, eyes narrowing. "20 Galleys? From a land of rivers and lakes. This is no small endeavor, Stark, who shall shoulder the cost."
Benjen met her gaze without flinching. "It is no small threat, Lady Barbrey. The krakens want more than fish. If we do not rise to meet them, they will burn our coast, take our people, and laugh at our weakness."
Edwyle stepped forward then. "The orders are sound. We need shipwrights, carpenters, and lumber. Lord Cerwyn has been tasked with diverting skilled hands from the canal projects."
Benjen nodded toward Edwyle before turning back toward Lord and Lady Dustin, "My nephew does not expect House Dustin to shoulder the cost alone, House Stark shall send over enough gold to cover 60% of the cost, in return, 8 of the ships built shall fall under compete Dustin dominion for use however you see fit once this whole mess is resolved."
Willam rubbed his beard. "The yards are ready, but not enough hands to man them. We'll need coin to feed and house the laborers, and to pay for more timber. Even the river can't float a ship without hulls."
"You'll have what you need," Benjen assured him. "Winterfell will send gold and supplies. Alaric has already approved it. But the work must begin now."
Willam exchanged a glance with Barbrey, who nodded once, slowly.
"I'll have the men put to task by dusk," he said. "Roderick will oversee the logs coming in from the Barrow Woods, accompanied by my kinsman, Cedric Dustin. He may be young, but it's time he learned command."
Benjen turned toward the boy, who straightened with pride at his father's words.
"And the rest of your household?" Benjen asked. "We'll need families moved inland if this turns into open war."
Barbrey's lips tightened. "Our children will be sent to the Rills, or even Winterfell if our Lord allows it, if the coast is threatened. I will remain here." She declared resolutely, although Benjen could hear the slight venom in her tone when referring to Alaric, no doubt feeling some phantom slight that it isn't some son of hers and Brandon who sits the throne of Winterfell
"As will I," Willam said firmly. "Barrowtown is too important to abandon. If the krakens come, we'll give them a fight they won't forget."
Benjen gave a nod of approval. "Good. Then we begin now. I'll remain here for a few days to oversee the first wave of construction and lead efforts to fortify the Town. We'll need to see the coast fortified as the work begins."
Edwyle touched his chest. "I'll stay too, to coordinate timber and the workers that shall be sent from the canal project. We'll be faster working together." Turning toward Benjen, Edwyle continued, "I shall also send a raven to my father. Last I heard, we have 20 carracks that we could spare to sail from White Harbor to Barrowtown, although it will no doubt take some time, once they're here, it will help bolster our ranks."
Benjen nodded, thankful for Edwyle's efforts as he was sure the men aboard those carracks would be valuable to any efforts they may need to fight the ironborn, especially due to the men in employ of the White Harbor Starks being grizzled veterans on land and sea.
Outside, the storm had begun to roll in earnest, sleet turning to heavy snow, the kind that blanketed the land like a shroud. Yet even so, Barrowtown stirred with life, workers already moving toward the yards, children ushered indoors, and soldiers posted along the gates. The North was moving.
And Benjen Stark was no longer watching from afar.
He was in the heart of it.
In the dark and stormy west, where krakens lurked and war loomed again.
And the North would meet them, not with fear, but with courage and steel.