Chapter 39: Shadows of the North

The gates of Winterfell loomed large in the distance, a welcome sight for Benjen Stark. The journey south from the Wall had been long and cold, but as he approached his childhood home, a sense of warmth filled him, even amidst the biting winds of the North. The sight of the ancient castle's high walls, its familiar gray stone, and the steam rising from the hot springs made him feel, for a brief moment, that he had returned to a simpler time.

The guards recognized him immediately, and the gates opened with haste. Inside, the bustle of Winterfell's courtyard greeted him. Stablehands moved quickly to take his horse, and the scents of baking bread and roasting meat wafted from the kitchens. But it wasn't the homecoming he would have wished for; a shadow of unease hung over the castle.

"Uncle Benjen!" a young voice called out, and he turned to see Robb Stark, tall for his years, striding toward him with Bran in tow. The two boys looked excited, but their faces betrayed concern. Behind them followed Maester Luwin, his expression grave.

"Robb, Bran," Benjen greeted warmly, ruffling Bran's hair. "You've grown taller since I last saw you."

Bran grinned, but Robb's smile was tight. "Uncle, you've come at an... interesting time. Father's in his solar. He'll want to speak with you."

Benjen nodded, his smile fading as he caught the undercurrent in Robb's tone. Something was amiss. He gave Luwin a questioning glance, but the Maester only gestured for him to follow.

Benjen nodded, handing his reins to a stable boy before following Maester into the keep. The halls of Winterfell were as familiar to him as the corridors of Castle Black, yet each time he returned, it felt like stepping into another life. The warmth of the fires, the bustling servants, the scent of roasting meat—all reminders of the home he had left behind.

When they reached the solar, Luwin excused himself, leaving Benjen to step inside alone.

Eddard Stark stood by the window, his silhouette framed by the pale winter light. He turned as Benjen entered, his expression softening at the sight of his brother.

"Benjen," Ned said, crossing the room to clasp his arm. "It's good to see you."

"And you, Ned," Benjen replied. "Though I bring no good news."

Ned gestured for him to sit, his brow furrowing. "From the Wall?"

Benjen nodded, lowering himself into a chair. "The Free Folk have gathered, Ned. In numbers I've never seen before. Tens of thousands, at least."

Ned's eyes sharpened. "Tens of thousands? United?"

"As much as they can be," Benjen said grimly. "They're still Free Folk, with all the infighting that comes with it. But they've set aside enough of their differences to form a host. Men, women, children, the elderly. And of those who can fight... well, we're still outnumbered."

Ned leaned forward, his hands clasped tightly. "What could unite them?"

Benjen hesitated, his thoughts turning to the scattered reports from rangers and his own observations beyond the Wall. "Desperation, maybe. Or fear. Something is driving them south, and it's not just the cold."

Ned's expression darkened. "Do you think they mean to attack the Wall?"

"I don't know," Benjen admitted. "But even if they don't, their numbers alone are enough to overwhelm us. The Watch is stretched thin as it is. If they decide to come south, I don't see how we'll hold them."

Ned sat back, his gaze distant. "And the lords of the North will see this as a threat. They won't care that these are families, not soldiers. They'll only see invaders."

"Aye," Benjen said. "And if it comes to that, it won't just be the Free Folk who suffer."

After a pause, Ned spoke again, his tone quieter. "There's more, Benjen. Jon Arryn is dead."

Benjen's eyes widened. "Dead? How?"

"They say it was a fever," Ned replied, though his voice carried doubt. "But Robert is riding north. He'll be here in a few days."

"To Winterfell?"

Ned nodded. "He'll want me to be his Hand. And I'm not sure I can refuse."

The news struck Benjen like a blow. Jon Arryn's death was a loss not just to the realm but to the Wall. He had always been a friend to the Watch, a steady hand in the storm of politics. And now Robert Baratheon, with all his impulsiveness and appetites, was bringing his court to Winterfell.

"Do you think he suspects something?" Benjen asked.

"I don't know," Ned admitted. "But whatever the reason, it seems the North will soon find itself entangled in the South's troubles once again."

The room fell silent, the weight of their conversation settling between them. At last, Ned spoke. "Thank you for bringing this to me, Benjen. I'll think on what you've said."

Benjen rose, placing a hand on his brother's shoulder. "Be careful, Ned. The North has its own troubles, even without the South meddling in them."

As Benjen left the solar, his thoughts lingered on the faces of the Free Folk he had glimpsed beyond the Wall—faces marked by fear, hope, and defiance. Whatever they were running from, it was something he could not yet name.

---

The Weight of Winterfell

Eddard Stark sat alone in his solar, the fire crackling in the hearth. Benjen's words echoed in his mind, interwoven with the weight of his own burdens. Jon Arryn, dead. His friend and mentor, gone. And now Robert Baratheon was riding north, his court in tow, with a summons that Ned already knew he could not refuse.

The Hand of the King. It was a title that carried power, yes, but also a noose around the neck. Ned had no love for the politics of the South, no patience for the schemes and betrayals that came with it. But Robert was his king, his friend. And Winterfell could not ignore the call of the Iron Throne.

Yet it was not just the South that troubled him. Benjen's news hung over him like a storm cloud. Tens of thousands of Free Folk, gathered together. It was unheard of. Something—or someone—had driven them together.

Ned rose from his chair, pacing the room. His thoughts turned to his duties as Warden of the North. The lords would expect action, but what action could he take? The Night's Watch was meant to hold the Wall. If they failed, the burden would fall on the North. And the North was vast, its defenses stretched thin.

A knock at the door broke his reverie. A servant entered, bowing low. "My lord, there are men at the gates. They've come from the Wall. Night's Watchmen."

Ned's brow furrowed. "The Watch? What business do they have here?"

"They've brought... something," the servant said, his voice uncertain. "It's covered, my lord, but they say it's urgent. They ask to speak with you directly."

Ned's unease deepened. "Bring them to the hall. And summon the household. If the Watch has come this far south, it cannot be for a small matter."

The servant bowed and hurried away, leaving Ned alone with his thoughts.

---

A Dark Arrival

The Great Hall of Winterfell was eerily quiet as the Night's Watchmen entered. Their cloaks were travel-stained, their faces pale with exhaustion. Behind them, a cart creaked as it was wheeled into the hall, covered with thick furs.

Ned rose from his seat at the high table, his gaze fixed on the Watchmen. "What brings you to Winterfell?"

The leader of the group, a grizzled ranger, stepped forward and bowed. "My lord, we've come from the Wall. What we bring... you must see it for yourself."

Ned gestured for them to proceed, his heart pounding in his chest. As the furs were pulled back, the hall seemed to grow colder. Beneath them lay a body—or what had once been a body. Its skin was pale as snow, its eyes glimmering with an unnatural light.

A collective gasp rippled through the gathered Stark household. The Stark children, standing near their father, watched in silent horror.

"What is this?" Ned demanded, his voice sharp.

The ranger's face was grim. "We don't know, my lord. But it walks. And it kills."