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{ A Game Of Thrones Fanfic: 'The Fallen Stark' } × { A Song Of Ice And Fire }
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| Important Character's Age:
- Brandon Stark is 8 namedays;
- Anakin Stark is 7 namedays;
- Eddard Stark is 6 namedays;
- Lyanna Stark is 3 namedays;
- Benjen Stark is 2 namedays.
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| Winterfell, The North - Rickard Stark - 269 AC:
Two years had passed since the letter arrived,— sealed in Arryn blue, its contents heavy with meaning.
Now, beneath a pale, drowsy sky, Lord Rickard Stark rode northward once more, the scent of frost thick in his lungs, as Winterfell's shadow rose in the distance.
He crested a hill with his retinue, a dozen guards in tow, their breath misting in the pre-dawn chill. Hooves struck hard soil, muffled by a thin layer of frost, and behind them trailed the long silence of the North,— endless pines, barren hills, and the mountains beyond, all cloaked in slumbering stillness.
Winterfell rose from the land like an old god carved of granite,— its towers barely visible in the twilight gloom, its ancient stones stained with ice.
Unchanging, unmoved, and yet… to Rickard, it never failed to feel like a welcome reprieve from the ways and the distant ambitions of the south.
Within minutes, the company had crossed the outer gates, with torchlight flickering in the courtyard, chasing shadows away as servants began to stir.
The air smelled of ash from the all-nighter lit flames, and of cold iron,— the familiar scent alone made Rickard realize how long he had been away from his home.
He dismounted in practiced silence, stretching stiff legs as his gaze swept across the small gathering of guards and household men.
From their midst stepped a thick-shouldered knight draped in a dark cloak of bear fur, silver now threading through the black of his beard. Beside him stood a boy,— barely eight namedays old,— his hair tousled, his tunic wrinkled from sleep.
"Lord Stark." the older knight greeted, offering a respectful nod. "Welcome home."
Rickard took the offered hand, clasping it firmly. "Good man, Harwin. I thank you for keeping my house in order while I was away."
"It was no trouble, m'lord." Harwin Slate replied, his voice rough as gravel, but not unkind.
He then gave a fond, guiding nudge to the boy at his side. "Though your son kept us all on our toes." The child stepped forward, blinking sleep from his grey eyes, posture stiff with that instinctive pride born of his bloodline. Despite his composure, the edges of his gaze were still unfocused from slumber.
"Welcome back home, Father." the boy greeted, his voice still small despite the solemn tone he tried to adopt, and Rickard let out a low chuckle, crouching just enough to embrace the boy in a brief, warm hug.
"Brandon." he murmured. "It's good to be back." That was all it took,— within seconds, the child's carefully worn stoicism gave way to a smirk, and the gleam of curiosity sparkled behind his eyes.
As they walked together through the courtyard toward the keep, Brandon launched into a barrage of questions,— his voice rapid and unfiltered, inquiring about the Eyrie, Jon Arryn, the falcons he'd heard about, and whether the knights in the Vale truly trained on cliff faces.
Rickard offered cryptic smiles and vague answers, amused at his son's energy, and only when Brandon paused for breath did he ask, "Are your brothers and sister still abed?"
Brandon gave a sleepy nod, rubbing one eye with a sleeve, and it was Harwin who answered with words instead. "I thought it best to wake only the young lord, m'lord." the knight said, falling into step behind them.
"He's already of the age to start learning the weight of responsibility… and the ways of rulership,— and so I thought it best to have him with me to welcome you home." Rickard nodded thoughtfully, though his brow remained furrowed in silent reflection.
"Discipline indeed has its place, that much is true." He said at last, his voice quiet. "But there's time yet before he must wear the burdens I carry, you could have let the lad sleep a few more minutes."
"Aye." Harwin said, bowing his head. "Now, shall I wake the rest of your brood, m'lord?"
"Yes, I would enjoy to break my fast with them." Rickard said, glancing eastward where the first rays of sunlight peeked over the white horizon. "And I've news from the Vale that concern some of them,— so it's best they hear it from me directly as soon as possible." Harwin nodded dutifully and peeled away, calling to a waiting steward nearby.
Rickard continued forward, boots crunching softly over stone, with his eldest, Brandon, still at his side. The boy yawned again, quieter this time, the flush of excitement beginning to wear thin in the cold.
Within the hour, they would all be gathered, and by noon, Winterfell's future would already be turning.
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| A few moments after - Anakin Stark:
The servants had laced his doublet too tight again, and Anakin breathed out, slow and sharp through his nose, the kind of exhale that spoke louder than words.
At seven namedays, he carried a silence older than he was, too practiced, too heavy.
Old nan, bent with age and wrapped in layers of wool, glanced over without pausing her work. "Too tight, my lord?"
Anakin didn't answer right away. His eyes had gone somewhere else,— beyond the stone walls of Winterfell, past the snow-veiled woods, to a place only he could see.
"No." he muttered at last, the word more breath than voice, and the old nan hummed knowingly and resumed, fingers deft as ever despite the years. "Hm,— just nerves, maybe." She mused, though one could see it wasn't that which she wanted to say.
The room buzzed loudly around him, his three nameday sister, Lyanna, shrieked like a cat in water as her maid tried in vain to braid her wild hair, while two handmaids argued in low tones over whether her gown should have been pressed with lavender water or not.
In contrast, Ned sat still as stone,— perched on a bench, arms folded neatly, staring at his boots as though they held the secrets to his own existencial crisis,— whatever they may be, Anakin knew not.
Benjen had already been bundled off to the hall, cheeks red and chubby with protest, and so, only the older siblings remained now.
Which meant,—... that the door flung open with a gust of cold air and the too-loud voice of Brandon Stark. "Father's waiting in the hall!" he boomed. "Come on!"
Anakin flinched slightly, shoulders tensing, his older brother's tone was always too bright for mornings like this, for snow-muted light and tired minds.
"Too loud…" Anakin muttered under his breath as the Old Nan straightened his collar.
Brandon however, caught the sound. "What was that, Ani?" Anakin met his gaze, but gave no reply.
He didn't feel like sparring so early in the morning,— not even with words. Instead, he brushed past his brother when his clothes were readied, a cloak catching the air as he moved.
"Come. Let's not keep father waiting for us any longer." he said simply, which made Lyanna brake free from her maid's grip with a cry of delight.
"W-Wait!" she squeaked, her small hand finding his tunic and clutching it as she scampered to his side.
Brandon bounded ahead, ever the eager heir in his own mind, while Ned trailed behind, quiet and measured, always a shadow with thought behind his eyes, much to Anakin's exasperation.
"Do you know why father called for us so early on the morning, brother?" He asked as they passed under a familiar stone archway, the hallways lined with servants like pieces on a gameboard.
Brandon however, simply shrugged. "I heard him say something about the Vale and some news that father has about some of us, earlier." That made Anakin blink.
The Vale? Why would there be any kind of news from the Vale that concerned him or any of his siblings,—...?
His stomach curled,— not with hunger, but something quieter and worrying.
Lyanna however, tugged at his sleeve again, now skipping to some song she made up on the spot,— it didn't rhyme or make sense, but it made him smile all the same.
It's best to forget it,— it shouldn't be anything of my concern.
Ned said nothing during the whole time, his silence wasn't shy,— it was watchful, thoughtfull. His eyes never stopped moving, like he was always reading things no one else noticed, and though Anakin enjoyed the peace his brother gave him, contrary to his other siblings, it also worried him quite a lot.
The warmth of the great hall met them before they reached it, or noticed.
Twin braziers flanked the high table, early fires crackling as servants laid out steaming plates of eggs, crisped ham, oatcakes, and sliced apples.
Brandon's stride lengthened at the scent,— already halfway to his seat before their father, Rickard Stark, even looked up from his seat.
Their father sat tall at the head of the table as usual, cloaked in deep gray and silver trim, the color of cold skies before snow. His hair was darker than Brandon's and Anakin's, his beard streaked with frost.
He was a man that rarely smiled after the death of their mother Lyarra,— but when they entered, he stood to greet them with a warmth that had weight behind it.
"You lot took your time." he said, voice gravel-deep but calm and somewhat warm.
He then knelt slightly, arms gathering them in one great pull,— Brandon shrugged him off first, grinning. "Blame Lyanna, she was the one who threw a fit about her braids." And Rickard chuckled. "Is that so?"
"I hate braids..." she said, pouting as she climbed into her seat, cheeks still flushed, while Anakin sat across from Ned, whose hands were already folded politely in his lap, waiting for his father's permission to eat.
He studied his brother for a beat longer than necessary, for he still didn't know how to make Ned speak more around his own family, to feel more.
In his head, not everything had to be locked behind one's eyes, but his younger brother it seemed, did not agree.
Their father took his seat again, eyes passing over each of them, as if evaluating them. The proud heir Brandon, him, the wild-hearted Lyanna, and the youngest, two nameday Benjen already babbling in a nurse's arms.
When his father's gaze finally settled on him though, something inside him stilled.
"Eat first, children. I know you lot already heard that I've got news to share from my visit to the Vale, but you need to break your fast first." his father said. "Then we'll talk more."
Anakin's appetite shrank the moment the words fell, though he forced himself to eat, chewing without tasting. Ever since he woke up today, his mind felt slightly stranger than usual, though he couldn't quite yet tell why.
His brother Brandon filled the silence with talk of swords and besting the master-at-arms Harwin by next spring. Lyanna chimed in, demanding a blade of her own, which brought a small smile to his expression.
Ned said nothing, as usual, and so he listened, and thought. What news from the Vale did his father bring? Why did his father spend so much time away after his mother had died? What was coming to his family, without her here? Such, were his thoughts, chaotic and unruly.
His thoughts kept on spiralling though, and then,— they simply stopped.
He resumed eating, for there were no answers yet, so no use in worrying about it for now. And at last, Rickard set down his cup, and the hall quieted.
"I've made arrangements, during my travels to the east." he said. "And I think it's time you each begin your paths." Brandon straightened, and he looked on. "Am I to leave Winterfell, father? Foster somewhere in the North perhaps?"
"No." Rickard said. "You'll remain here, you are eight namedays old already, and so it's time you learned to rule, under my own eye and teachings." Brandon slouched, half-scowling, half-smug. It was clearly not quite the adventure his older brother had hoped for, but he knew he'd take the choice made.
Then, his father looked onto his younger brother Ned. "You, Eddard, after much consideration, will be going south. In two years, you'll foster in the Vale, directly under Lord Jon Arryn." And he noticed Ned blink, caught by surprise. "The Vale, father?"
"I'm sure you'll like it, son. The Eyrie is high,— with mountain winds colder than even our own. It will remind you of home, and of your time here." His father said, before adding something more to the already working mind of his quieter brother. "Besides, you'll make strong friendships, as the future Lord of Storm's End will also foster with you. He'll be a good companion, no doubt,— and he might even get you to speak and act more openly, hm?" A dry attempt at humor, but Ned only nodded, quietly absorbing it.
Then, Rickard's gaze turned to him. "You however, will go to Casterly Rock, Anakin."
The world narrowed rather quickly. "The Lannisters have agreed to foster you after many tries on my part, no doubt Lady Joanna's work. The journey will begin before the snow sets in fully, and so, you've a few weeks to adjust your mind to it, before you have to leave that is."
Anakin didn't breathe, or maybe he did, but he felt too shallow to even feel it.
"Why?" he asked his father, though he hadn't meant to, and Rickard Stark met his eyes.
"Because you're my son, Anakin. Your older brother is my heir, and that leaves you and your brothers as future lords, knights or anything else you might dream of becoming. For that to happen, you need to learn and open your beliefs where I believe you'll do and grow best. Casterly Rock will show you something Winterfell and the walls of our home cannot. You will be out and away from your comfort, and perhaps you will attain bigger and better aspirations, whatever those might be."
So you think it will do me good, to send me away from home and my family? The words sat like iron on his mind, and yet his brother Brandon whistled. "The Rock! Nearly across the realm, brother! Maybe you'll even see the ocean."
"I've seen it already..." he said softly, not quite sure on how to feel about the situation.
"No, you've seen a frozen shore, when mother took us to see the wall on your five nameday celebration." Brandon grinned at him, "But I heard that they say the sea at the Rock is golden."
His father didn't offer more comfort than that he already had, only certainty. "You must know the world to master it,— my father used to tell me. The Lannisters can teach you things you won't learn here, of that I'm sure."
His heart raced, and it felt like it would explode, were it not for his young sister Lyanna's hand that clutched his sleeve, her tiny fingers trembling. "You're not going away, are you, big brwother?"
He tried to smile at her cute voice, just a little, at least. "Seems that I am, sweet sister." She then leaned against him, sadness across her young and innocent expression, and though she wanted to argue, the look in his eyes made her simply... not to.
Ned looked across the table, his silence heavier now. No words passed,— only the weight of knowing they were both be sent away from home, him sooner than Ned.
He didn't cry, not even when a stray thought of how his mother wouldn't let his father send him away from her, passed through his head.
He was too old for that, but still, he felt something stretch inside of him,— something pulled tight between where he was and where he would be in the future.
His eggs and ham remains had gone cold, and for the first time since his mother's death two years ago… Winterfell no longer felt like the home he used to know.
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{ A Game Of Thrones Fanfic: 'The Fallen Stark' } × { A Song Of Ice And Fire }
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