Chapter 18 Strength

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Chapter Eighteen: Strength.

The warm afternoon sun bathed the Winterfell courtyard, casting long shadows across the training yard. The clang of steel against steel rang out, mingled with the cheers and chatter of onlookers. Dust rose beneath the feet of sparring fighters, swirling in the crisp northern air.

Ned Stark stood at the edge of the yard, his grey eyes focused on his sons. Jon Snow and Robb Stark circled each other, wooden practice swords raised, their expressions serious but tinged with youthful determination.

Beside Ned stood Ser Walder, a massive figure with a thick beard and a broad, ever-present smile. The knight's jolly nature reminded Ned of Robert Baratheon in their younger days—though without Robert's vices. There was no reckless drinking, no chasing after women, no restless ambition that soured over time.

Ser Walder was a warrior through and through, but his heart was steady and dependable.

The people of the North had given him a new name: The Hammer of the North.

It was a title well-earned. As the North grew more prosperous in recent years, so too had the threats to its peace. Thieves and bandits had crept into the forests and hills, preying on trade routes and isolated villages.

Ned had sent his brother Benjen and Ser Walder to deal with the problem. Benjen, sharp-eyed and relentless, tracked down the outlaws, while Walder crushed them with brutal efficiency. Wherever Walder's hammer fell, chaos was quelled.

Ned trusted the man implicitly.

He had also entrusted Benjen with overseeing Wintertown—a settlement that had once thrived only in winter when smallfolk sought shelter near the castle walls. Now, with the North's prosperity, Wintertown had grown into a bustling center of trade and industry. Some had even begun to call it Wintercity.

Winterfell itself had never been stronger. The walls, once showing signs of age and disrepair, had been fully restored. The keep was fortified, and the castle housed a standing garrison of five thousand men, with another five thousand trained militia ready to be raised from Wintertown if needed.

Ned allowed himself a rare moment of pride. The North was strong, resilient, and prepared for whatever challenges lay ahead.

"He's holding back," Walder said, his deep voice pulling Ned from his thoughts.

Ned arched a brow. "Jon?"

"Aye," Walder confirmed. "He's fighting just a little better than Robb, making sure the boy improves."

Ned nodded thoughtfully. Walder might not be a scholar, but when it came to combat, his insight was rarely wrong.

The proof came moments later as Robb, gritting his teeth, swung high only to have Jon parry deftly and disarm him with a fluid motion. Robb's sword clattered to the ground.

Robb blinked in surprise before breaking into a grin. "I'll get you one of these days, Snow," he promised, laughter in his voice.

Jon, breathing heavily but not truly winded, extended a hand. "We'll see about that."

Robb clasped Jon's hand, allowing his brother to help him to his feet. The bond between them was clear—strong, unshakable, forged by love rather than blood.

Ned's heart warmed at the sight.

The sparring match wasn't over, though.

Dacey Stark strode confidently into the yard, her dark hair pulled back, her expression fierce. She carried a morningstar, its spiked head gleaming ominously in the sunlight.

Jon squared his shoulders, stepping back into position.

Ned watched with quiet amusement. He knew Dacey loved Jon like her own son, though you wouldn't see it now. In the yard, there was no leniency, no motherly affection—only a fierce determination to test Jon's mettle.

Dacey's morningstar whistled through the air, and Jon darted to the side, narrowly avoiding the brutal swing.

The match was fast and intense, drawing the attention of everyone in the courtyard. Dacey was relentless, her strikes calculated and precise, but Jon moved with a grace that belied his supposed exhaustion.

Ned's sharp eyes caught the subtle truth: Jon was pretending to be tired, letting his footwork falter ever so slightly, his breath coming in shallow gasps that were just a touch too deliberate.

He's holding back again, Ned realized.

Whether out of respect for Dacey or to mask his growing prowess, Jon chose not to reveal the full extent of his abilities.

Ned allowed himself a faint smile. The boy was clever.

Dacey finally landed a glancing blow to Jon's side, sending him stumbling back. She grinned triumphantly. "Not bad, Snow. But you'll need to do better."

Jon grinned through his supposed fatigue. "Next time, I will."

Satisfied that his sons and Dacey had had their fill of sparring, Ned turned to Ser Walder. "See that they don't overdo it," he instructed.

Walder gave a hearty laugh. "Aye, my lord. Dacey's got enough fire to keep Snow and Stark humble."

With a nod, Ned left the yard, his boots echoing against the stone as he made his way toward the Great Hall. The upcoming harvest feast demanded his attention.

As he walked, the sounds of laughter and steel faded behind him, replaced by the hum of preparation throughout the castle. Servants bustled about, hanging banners and setting tables. The scent of roasting meats wafted through the corridors.

Ned's thoughts lingered on the sparring yard—the strength of Winterfell embodied in his family and trusted retainers.

Winterfell was thriving, stronger than ever, and Ned Stark would ensure it remained that way.

The North would endure, and so would its people.