Chapter Text
Eddard Stark stood at the center of Winterfell’s courtyard, a slight chill running through him despite the layered furs draped over his broad shoulders. The air was crisp and clear, the sky above a wintry blue with only a scattering of clouds. Around him, his family and the principal members of his household bustled with a mix of excitement and tension. The impending arrival of King Robert Baratheon was no small event; it had been years since Ned had last seen his old friend, and much had changed since their days fighting together during the rebellion.
Lady Catelyn Stark stood nearby, directing servants with an authority that came from years of managing the household. Sansa, with her auburn hair neatly braided and wearing a dress fit for a princess, stood next to her mother, her eyes bright with anticipation. Arya, on the other hand, fidgeted beside them, clearly more interested in her own adventures than the arrival of royalty. Bran and Rickon stood together, the older boy trying to act every bit the noble son while the youngest clung to his older brother's hand. Robb, standing closest to Ned, had a look of calm readiness about him, already beginning to take on the mantle of leadership that would one day be his.
Ned glanced towards Maester Luwin, who was speaking in low tones to Rodrik Cassel, Winterfell’s master-at-arms. Preparations for the feast were well underway; the kitchens were a hive of activity, with the scents of roasting meats and fresh bread wafting through the courtyard. Everything was as it should be for the arrival of the King.
Suddenly, a voice rang out from above, breaking the murmur of the courtyard. “Riders approaching, m’lord, at a gallop! A half-dozen, at most, bearing the King’s banner!”
The young sentry's voice, though earnest, was tinged with an edge of uncertainty. Ned frowned, his keen eyes narrowing as he tried to peer into the distance. From his vantage point at the gates, he could see nothing yet. A half-dozen riders? That was not the grand procession he had been expecting. Something was amiss.
“Robb,” Ned called to his eldest son, his voice calm but firm. “With me.”
Together, they made their way to the top of the walls, moving swiftly but without haste. As they walked, Ned's mind raced through the possibilities. King Robert was not a man to travel lightly. Where was the great host of knights and bannermen that usually accompanied the King? And why such a small party? It made no sense.
The two Starks reached the walls, joined by several of Winterfell's guards. The sentry above leaned over, his eyes wide with nervousness. “They’re moving fast, m’lord. Too fast.”
Ned exchanged a look with Robb, whose expression mirrored his own concern. “Sound the horn,” Ned commanded. “Call the men to arms. We don’t know what we’re facing yet.”
The sentry nodded and disappeared from view. Moments later, the deep, resonant call of the horn echoed through Winterfell, a sound that sent a ripple of unease through the gathered crowd. The men of Winterfell responded with practiced efficiency, falling into line and preparing for whatever might come.
Ned turned to Robb. “Stay close, and keep your eyes open. We may have trouble on our hands.”
Finally, the figures emerged from the distant treeline, galloping toward Winterfell. Ned could make out the Baratheon stag on a field of gold fluttering in the wind. As they drew nearer, he could see that one of the riders was indeed Robert, his massive frame unmistakable even at a distance.
Ned's heart quickened. Robert was riding hard, his usual boisterous presence now wrapped in a thick shroud of urgency. The King’s banner flapped wildly, the revered cloth haggard and torn as if heralding the arrival of a storm. Behind Robert, the other riders, though well-trained knights all, struggled to keep pace, their mounts straining under the pressure.
As they approached the gates, Ned felt a wave of confusion and concern wash over him. This was not the entrance of a king visiting a friend. This was the arrival of a man on a mission, driven by something more pressing than the simple desire to visit his old comrade.
Robert's face came into focus as they drew closer, and Ned could see the determination and strain etched into his features. But something more, something that rattled a nerve in the heart of Ned's being; fear. The King’s eyes locked onto Ned’s, and for a moment, all the years of friendship and shared battles seemed to pass between them in silence.
Ned took a deep breath, steeling himself for whatever news Robert brought. He could sense the unease in the air, feel the eyes of his family and retainers upon him. Whatever was about to unfold, it would change everything.
Ned wasn't quite sure exactly when Robert's frantic shouts became audible--only that they faded in slowly, as if the man had been bellowing long before he came into earshot. But still, before long, the booming voice of King Robert Baratheon, First of His Name, carried across the courtyard like a warning bell. Eddard Stark's heart skipped a beat as the words registered: "Hold the gates! Prepare for an assault! We're under attack!" Eddard's mind raced, the implications of the King's desperate cries colliding with the scene rapidly unfolding before him.
Robert's party charged through the gates, a frantic tableau of panic and urgency. Eddard's keen eyes quickly assessed the dire situation. The King himself, burly and imposing even in his current state, had his wife, Cersei Lannister, draped over his horse, clutching their daughter Myrcella. Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, rode alongside, each holding one of the royal sons. All were pale, and the children looked greener around the gills than Ned had ever seen a person. Ser Sandor Clegane struggled to keep his horse under control with Tyrion Lannister clinging precariously to the beast as if he had only had time to half secure himself before the horse had taken off.
Barristan Selmy was already dismounting, his movements quick and efficient as he supported Robert.
Robert's eyes, bloodshot and wild, found Ned's as he dismounted his destrier and slumped against Selmy. "Gods, Ned, they're coming. An army... a horde, unlike anything I've ever seen," he gasped between coughs. "We have to hold here. Winterfell must hold."
"Robert, by the gods, what has happened?" Ned asked, urgency and concern battling in his voice. He gestured for the guards to assist the riders, helping Cersei and Myrcella dismount safely, followed by Jaime with Joffrey and Barristan with Tommen.
"Ser Rodrik," Ned called out, his voice steady despite the turmoil within him. "Secure the Great Hall. Have the children and the Queen's party moved to quarters in the holdfast.."
Lady Catelyn moved forward, her face a mask of calm authority. She and Rodrik guided Cersei and the royal children toward the Great Hall, Robb and Bran following close behind to offer their assistance. Arya and Sansa, though clearly shaken, dutifully followed their mother's lead.
"Double the watch on the walls," Ned commanded. "Every able-bodied man is to be armed and ready. Send word to our bannermen and prepare the archers. We must be ready for whatever is coming."
"Hold!" Robert bellowed, though he clutched his side and it looked like it half-killed him to do so. "No bannermen! Send no word to anyone!" He wheezed out.
Ned's heart pounded as he heard Robert's command, confusion and loyalty chipping at each other in his mind. The urgency and fear in his old friend's voice sent a chill through his bones. He motioned for the scribe to halt, then turned to his men, his voice carrying the weight of his authority.
"Do as the King commands. No word leaves Winterfell," he ordered. The courtyard fell silent as the gravity of the situation sank in. His men, though confused and wary, obeyed without question.
By now, the King’s face was flushed, sweat pouring down his brow as he struggled to catch his breath.
"Maester Luwin!" Ned called out, and the Maester hurried over. "See to the King, and make sure the others are tended to as well."
Maester Luwin nodded, his hands already reaching to check Robert's pulse. "We must get him inside, my lord. The King needs rest and further attention."
Robert waved a hand weakly, trying to push Luwin away. "No time for that, damn it. They’ll be here soon."
Ned placed a reassuring hand on Robert's shoulder. "We'll be ready. Winterfell will hold. But you need to rest, even if it's just for a moment."
Robert looked as though he was about to rebut, but he held his tongue long enough to draw in a deep draught of the cold air around him. His eyes briefly flicked across the crowd of frightened smallfolk around the castle, before he gave a small grunt and a nod and allowed himself to be led inside. Ned turned to his men, barking orders to secure the courtyard and prepare for an imminent attack.
The Stark guards moved with disciplined efficiency, spreading the word and readying their defenses. Ned's mind raced with the possibilities of what could be bearing down on them. He knew Robert would not call for such drastic measures unless the threat was dire.
Finally, with the immediate preparations underway, Ned focused on the task of securing a safe place to ask more of Robert, who was currently seated on a bench in the almost eerily empty Great Hall, breathing heavily but no longer looked about to keel over. Ned knelt beside his old friend, his voice low but urgent.
"Robert, who are they? Who are we preparing to fight? And what happened to the rest of your convoy?"
Robert, leaning heavily against the sturdy oak table, looked more aged and wearied than Ned had ever seen him. The King’s eyes, usually so full of fire and mirth, were haunted and bloodshot, reflecting a bone-deep horror that words could scarcely capture. Ned’s heart sank further at the sight of his old friend in such a state, but he steeled himself, ready to hear whatever grim news Robert had to impart.
“Speak, Robert,” Ned urged softly but firmly. “Tell me what we face."
Robert took a deep, ragged breath, trying to steady himself as he began to recount the nightmare that had befallen his convoy. His voice, though strained, carried the weight of his authority and the rawness of his recent encounter.
"It spreads, Ned. By the Gods, I swear it, it spreads like wildfire. It's a madness, a plague, but of souls and Gods and monsters.
"It's madness. Madmen attacked us. Women. Children. A family, I think. Just six of them. Their faces were scarred, mutilated, the Seven-Pointed Star carved into their skin. I thought they were victims of the war, at first. Before... The six of them threw themselves at us like it was a game, like they could feel no pain. They were savage as the old Wight-tales, I swear it, but in the tales, aren't the Wights dead? They weren't. And they laughed . Gods, Ned, they laughed.
"The woman laughed as she threw her own infant at Ser Trant's spear to distract him long enough for her to sink her teeth in his throat. The man laughed as he and his son were caught raping a septa who was travelling with us, and didn't stop laughing as swords found their necks.
“What kind of father laughs as his son dies in front of him, Ned?”
Ned's face grew grimmer still as Robert continued, his own fatherly instincts to protect thrashing beneath the surface against the injustice he'd just heard. The King’s voice broke from a similar state of mind, and for the first time since the rebellion, Ned saw his friend truly vulnerable.
"Then.... Then the Septa, she... turned . Changed, into one of them, seven-pointed-star pox on her face and all. She put her own eyes out with a kitchen blade, then took four men-at-arms down before they realized she was hurting more than just herself. She was laughing, too. After that, it was like dry hay in a lightning storm. I think we're all that's left, and the rest of the convoy is either dead or... changed. Or they will be soon, at any rate. You can't let any blood on you, Ned. Not you, not your men, not anyone. It has to be the blood, has to be. Madness borne of blood. That's why I stopped your scribe--any aide we call for could well turn into one of them. Turn against us. Organized against us. They'd ride into a wall of teeth and swords and blood."
Robert's account of the septa's transformation, her self-inflicted death, and the subsequent contagion of madness that swept through the convoy was a horror that left Eddard momentarily speechless. The Lord of Winterfell's heart beat once, twice, three times, thunderous in the inky-black silence between them, and for a few moments, he truly had no idea what to do. A breaking wave of blood was about to batter Winterfell, and all he could do was brace.