Chapter 44 Visions
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Chapter Forty-Four: Visions of the Old Gods
The godswood of Winterfell had always been a place of solace for Eddard Stark.
It was the one place where he could think without intrusion, where the burdens of lordship felt lighter, where he could simply be—a son kneeling before the same heart tree his father had once knelt before.
The wind whispered through the ancient trees of the godswood, their red leaves rustling like soft murmurs of a thousand voices. The heart tree stood before him, its pale bark seeming almost luminous in the dim light.
Ned Stark knelt beneath its branches, his head bowed, his hands resting on the hilt of Ice, the greatsword planted firmly in the earth before him.
He had called his banners.
The North was mustering for war.
Most of his bannermen had already arrived at Winterfell, their forces swelling the castle's ranks. More would join them on the march south.
Soon, they would ride.
And yet, before that moment came, he had come here.
To the heart of Winterfell.
To the old gods.
"Give me guidance."
His words were soft, barely louder than the wind, but they carried weight.
He expected silence.
He expected the same quiet presence he had always felt from the old gods—a stillness, a watchful peace.
But instead—
Instead, something happened.
The air shifted.
The trees seemed to lean closer, their branches stretching toward him.
And then—
The visions came.
They struck like lightning—flashes of images, moments, futures.
He saw Robert Baratheon riding into Winterfell, his great bulk draped in a royal cloak, his black beard streaked with grey. Behind him came the Lannisters, golden-haired and cold-eyed.
He saw the great feast, the laughter, the toasts. Robert clapping him on the back, speaking of old times, of war and glory.
He saw Robert offering him the position of Hand of the King.
"You are the only man I trust, Ned."
He saw himself accepting.
Ned's breath caught.
No.
He saw Sansa and Joffrey in the courtyard, his daughter gazing at the prince with youthful admiration. He saw Robert proposing a betrothal.
He saw Catelyn convincing him to agree.
No.
He saw himself riding south, leaving Winterfell behind. Sansa and Arya at his side.
He saw the Red Keep, the columns of King's Landing rising before him like a city of stone and lies.
He saw whispers in the dark.
He saw a book—the lineages of noble houses.
"Black of hair."
"Black of hair."
"Black of hair."
"Golden-haired."
He saw the truth.
He saw golden-haired children who should have been black of hair.
He saw the truth—the secret Jon Arryn had died for.
Joffrey, Myrcella, Tommen—none of them were Robert's.
They were bastards, born of incest between Cersei and Jaime Lannister.
Ned gasped, his fingers tightening around Ice's hilt.
The visions did not stop.
He saw himself seeking allies.
He saw Petyr Baelish smiling, speaking of friendship, of trust.
He saw himself hesitating, waiting, giving Cersei the chance to flee—giving her time to act.
He saw himself betrayed.
He saw steel at his throat.
He saw the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor.
He saw Sansa sobbing.
He saw Arya watching from the crowd.
He saw his own head falling from his shoulders.
Darkness.
Ned gasped, his vision swimming.
The godswood came back into focus. The heart tree loomed before him, its red leaves still rustling.
His breath came in ragged bursts.
His pulse pounded in his ears.
He lifted his trembling hands from the hilt of his sword.
The old gods had spoken.
They had shown him.
A life—a fate—that was not his own, yet could have been.
Would have been.
If not for the choices he had already made.
"They wanted me to see."
His stomach churned.
He had died in that vision.
He had failed his children.
He had let himself be deceived by the false promise of honor in a pit of vipers.
He had given Cersei time.
He had trusted Littlefinger.
"I told you not to trust me."
And he had paid the price.
But that was not the path he was walking now.
Not anymore.
Robert was not coming to Winterfell.
Robert was dead.
Now the war was upon them, and the choices before him were different.
But the lessons remained.
"Do not trust the wrong people."
"Do not hesitate when facing vipers."
"Do not play by the rules of honor in a game of treachery."
Ned swallowed hard, the weight of the vision pressing against him like a great stone.
Then, slowly, he rose.
Ice was steady in his grip, heavy, but no longer shaking.
He thought of the banners gathered in Winterfell.
He thought of the men who had sworn to follow him south.
He thought of his family.
"I will not make the same mistakes."
He had knelt before the heart tree seeking guidance.
The gods had given him clarity.
The war was upon them.
And he would be ready.
Ned Stark rose, the godswood silent once more.
There was no more time for prayers.
He had a war to win.