Wolven Uncles

Brandon sat in his solar, his gaze fixed on his brothers as they read through the missives exchanged between him and Maekar. A large hearth blazed, the crackling fire doing little to chase away the lingering chill in the room. The flickering flames cast eerie shadows on their faces, making their expressions difficult to read at first glance, but Brandon knew them too well. Ned's face, as always, was calm and composed, his features neutral and cold like the winter wind that never seemed to leave him. But Benjen—Benjen was seething. Brandon could see it in the way his hands gripped the missives, the tension in his jaw, the silent fury in his eyes. He had every right to be angry.

Years ago, the three of them had made a promise. They had sworn that Maekar would not be a tool of revenge. That Lyanna's boy would be given a good life, far away from the scheming courts of the South. They had decided, as brothers, to let go of their thirst for vengeance. It was for the betterment of their family, of the North. Rhaegar was a name they would leave in the past.

Brandon had tried. For years, he barely thought of the man who had taken Lyanna. He had pushed it down, buried it beneath the snow and cold of the North. Maekar had even become a boon to their family, to the point where Brandon had plans to marry Sansa to him. The boy had proven himself time and time again, and Brandon had wanted to keep him in the North, where he belonged. Where they had all agreed he would stay.

But that changed. Everything changed the day Maekar confessed his ambitions to him.

Brandon realized he had never truly known his nephew. The boy had kept his pieces close. Maekar had his eyes on his father's throne from the very beginning. The Iron Throne. The South. The very place they had all promised to leave behind.

When Maekar had promised him revenge for Lyanna... it had been like a spark to dry kindling within him.

Brandon had thought those flames were long extinguished, but in that moment, they reignited. The thought of seeing Rhaegar's head on a spike—the man who had taken Lyanna from them, who had ripped their family apart—was too powerful a temptation. He hadn't realized how deeply that hatred still burned within him, but Maekar had fanned it, and now it was an inferno.

Now, watching Ned and Benjen across the table, Brandon could feel the weight of their judgment. They were his brothers, the ones who had sworn that same oath, and yet here he was, preparing for war. He had betrayed that promise. The weight of it pressed on him, but the fire of revenge burned hotter still.

His thoughts were abruptly interrupted as Benjen's voice broke the heavy silence in the room, his tone laced with barely restrained anger.

"So, brother," Benjen began, his voice low and simmering, "what exactly have you been filling our dear nephew's head with all these years?"

Brandon sighed, leaning back in his chair.

"We promised each other," Benjen continued, his voice rising with each word, "that Maekar would stay away from the South. That he wouldn't be used as a tool for revenge."

"And I've kept that promise," Brandon replied, his voice tense, irritation bubbling just beneath the surface.

"Oh? Then what are these, Brandon?" Benjen shot back, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he waved the parchments in his hand. Without waiting for a response, he began reading aloud with mocking emphasis, "'Uncle, the city is under my control now. When the time comes, the city will not bow to Aegon.'" Benjen flipped through the stack of letters, his eyes scanning the lines before he read again, "'The northern lords are itching for revenge, nephew. They will follow you.'"

He tossed the parchments onto the table between them. "So much for staying out of the South, eh?" Benjen sneered.

Brandon's jaw tightened, his hands gripping the arms of his chair until his knuckles turned white.

"That's enough, Benjen," Ned's calm but firm voice cut through the tension, his gaze moving between his two brothers. "Let him explain."

Brandon turned to meet Ned's eyes.

"Well, brother?" Ned's voice was steady, but there was an edge to it. "Did you push Maekar into this?"

Brandon met Ned's gaze, his expression hardening. "No, Ned. It was all him. I wanted the boy here, the same as we all did. Married to a proper Northern lady, safe with us in the North, away from the South and all its madness." He leaned forward, his voice laced with frustration. "But Maekar had other plans. He's no puppet—neither mine nor anyone else's."

Benjen's face twisted in anger, his voice trembling as he fired back, "You could've tried harder! Talked sense into him, convinced him the South isn't worth anything."

At that, Brandon's temper finally snapped. His voice was a low growl as he stood and stepped toward Benjen, his fists clenched. "Tried harder? You think I didn't? You think I wanted him down there? I raised that boy, not you."

"He's as stubborn as his mother was." His words were laced with frustration.

Benjen, undeterred, stepped toward Brandon, his eyes flaring with fury. "You let him go! You could've—"

"Enough!" Eddard's voice cut through. He stepped between his brothers, placing a firm hand on each of their chests to stop them from coming to blows. "Enough," he repeated, his tone quieter.

Ned's calmness had always been a counterbalance to Brandon's fiery nature and Benjen's restlessness, and it was needed now more than ever. He turned to Brandon. "Tell me, Brandon, how did you come about planning treason with our nephew?"

Brandon ran a hand through his hair, his pacing betraying the turmoil roiling inside him. His steps were slow at first, deliberate, as he weighed his words. "Maekar was insistent on returning to the capital after Rhaegar summoned him. He told me he wanted revenge for Lyanna, revenge against that cunt Rhaegar."

There was bitterness in his voice as he spoke Rhaegar's name, the old wound of his sister's death still festering beneath the surface. He resumed pacing for a moment before coming to an abrupt halt, his gaze piercing both Ned and Benjen. "But tell me this—would Maekar not make a better king?"

"The crown prince—" Ned began.

Brandon cut him off with a scoff, his voice rising in exasperation. "The crown prince? He's mad, Ned! He hasn't been well since the squids rebelled, since the boy was captured by Euron Greyjoy. You've heard the rumors. He's not fit to rule. Maekar is the only choice."

"We wouldn't stand against Maekar," Ned said softly. "You know that."

"If Maekar takes the throne, it'll be another Dance of the Dragons. Will the lords rally towards Maekar?" Benjen added, his tone laced with doubt.

Brandon crossed his arms and leaned back, his expression hardening. "I underestimated how much the lords of the North still craved vengeance," he said. "They're itching for a fight. I've spoken to many of them. They still feel the sting of Robert's Rebellion—the way it ended, the cost we paid. They want to finish what was started."

"Another war was always inevitable, and this time, we need to win," Brandon said.

Benjen's jaw tightened as he processed Brandon's words. "I'll be having a talk with Maekar at the tourney," he muttered.

Ned sighed, rubbing his temples as if the weight of the world had suddenly dropped onto his shoulders. "So, another war then," he said, his voice weary. "I just hope Maekar knows what he's doing."

Brandon smirked, a confidence gleaming in his eyes that hadn't been there before. "Oh, he does, brother," he said, the faintest hint of satisfaction in his tone. "He knows exactly what he's doing."

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Brandon, Ned, and Benjen shared a tense drink after their heated argument. They tried to push the matter aside for the moment, reminiscing about their childhood as the fire crackled softly in the hearth. The tension began to ease as they spoke of simpler times.

Their laughter was suddenly interrupted by the entrance of Steward Vayon Poole.

"My lord," Poole said, bowing.

Brandon turned, still gripping his drink. "What is it, Vayon?"

"I... um... Lord Commander Mallister is here," Poole replied, his voice uneasy.

"Mallister? Here?" Brandon repeated, confusion flashing across his face. Ned and Benjen shared the same look of bewilderment. Has something happened at the Wall?

"I am stumped as well, my lord," Vayon admitted, his brow furrowed. "This is highly irregular."

Brandon stood up, setting his drink aside. "Send him to the Great Hall. I'll meet him there."

Vayon bowed and hurried out, leaving the brothers in silence. Brandon turned to Ned and Benjen. "What the hell is this all about?"

"Let's find out," Ned answered, already on his feet.

As they walked toward the Great Hall, they encountered Robb.

"Father, Uncle Brandon, Uncle Benjen," Robb greeted them.

"Come with us," Ned said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Robb, sensing the seriousness in his father's voice, quickly followed.

They made their way to the Great Hall, the towering stone walls lined with banners and the sigils of House Stark. As they entered, they were greeted by the sight of Denys Mallister, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. He stood waiting with two other brothers of the Watch by his side.

Denys Mallister, an old man with blue-grey eyes and a long white beard, wore the deep lines of age and service at the Wall. He had lost most of his hair, and what little remained were wisps of white above his temples. The two men standing beside him were younger, their faces grim, dressed in the black cloaks of the Night's Watch.

Brandon's eyes flicked to an intricately carved chest made of weirwood, its surface adorned with beautiful carvings. It looked old, ancient even, and from its size, it seemed designed to hold something long and important—perhaps a weapon.

"Lord Commander," Brandon began, his voice low and measured, "what brings you to Winterfell? Without even announcing yourself?" Concern laced his tone, though his eyes remained sharp, watching Mallister carefully.

"I came as quickly as I could, Lord Stark. I had instructed Maester Aemon to send a raven, but perhaps it was lost." He offered this as an excuse for breaking protocol.

Brandon nodded, understanding. "Why are you here, Lord Commander? Has something happened at the Wall?"

Mallister locked eyes with Brandon, his expression grave. He hesitated for a moment, as if choosing his words carefully. "Lord Stark, you know the kind of man I am. I am not prone to flights of fancy."

"No, you are not," Brandon agreed. He had known Mallister long enough to trust his judgment.

The Lord Commander took a deep breath before continuing. "A week ago, a figure appeared at the base of the Wall. It came out of the forest, carrying this chest." His hand rested gently on the weirwood chest, as though even the memory of the encounter unsettled him.

"A wildling?" Benjen asked, his voice skeptical.

"No, my lord," Mallister said, shaking his head slowly. "It was not a man, nor a woman. It was not of our kind."

Ned's brow furrowed as he stepped forward slightly. "What was it, then?"

Mallister's gaze did not waver as he answered. "One of the Children of the Forest."

A stunned silence followed his words.

"My men were frightened," Mallister continued, "but the Child spoke to us. It said that it had something that needed to be delivered to Maester Aemon. This chest. It made clear that it was to be opened by no one else but him."

The air in the Great Hall grew thick with unease as Mallister recounted the story. "We obeyed, not wishing to insult it. When the chest was brought to Maester Aemon... he immediately commanded that we travel south. To you, Lord Stark."

Robb, standing by his father's side, looked as though he was about to protest the story, his face etched with disbelief. Yet before he could speak, Brandon's voice cut through the tension. "What is in it, Lord Commander?"

Mallister, his expression grave, nodded and stepped toward the weirwood chest. He placed his hands carefully on its edges. With a slow, deliberate motion, he lifted the lid, revealing what lay inside.

Brandon's eyes widened in shock as he looked upon the contents of the chest. Inside, nestled in a bed of old, weathered velvet, lay a sword. Not just any sword, but one of Valyrian steel—the dark ripples of the ancient metal gleamed with a faint, ominous glow. The blade was slender, yet unmistakably deadly, its edge keen enough to cut through the very air. Its hilt was adorned with the sigil of House Targaryen—a dragon with three heads. The sword had a long, elegant grip wrapped in black leather, worn smooth with time and use.

"It can't be," Brandon whispered, his voice barely audible as the realization struck him.

Mallister looked at him solemnly, confirming his suspicion. "It was confirmed by Maester Aemon himself. There is no doubt about it, Lord Stark."

Brandon stepped forward, his gaze never leaving the blade. His voice, when it came, was a hushed murmur. "Dark Sister," he said, much to the shock of Ned, Benjen, and Robb.

For a moment, there was nothing but silence in the hall. Then, without warning, Brandon began to laugh. The sound was deep and unexpected, echoing through the stone walls of the Great Hall. He clapped Ned and Benjen on the shoulders, his face breaking into a wide grin. "I told you," he said, his voice full of conviction. "The boy has the gods on his side!"

"The gods themselves have sent us a sign..."

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Read up to chapter 82 here :

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