EDDARD III

The turn of the year had done little to warm the grey stone of Eddard's solar. The North was always cold, but now a deeper chill seemed to be setting in, a promise of the true winter to come. But the cold that truly troubled Eddard Stark was the one that seemed to be seeping through the walls of his own home, a creeping rot of secrets and strife that no amount of firewood could burn away.

For the third time in as many moons, Vayon Poole stood before his desk, his face a mask of grim frustration. "Another one, my lord," he said, his voice tight. "A wine merchant and a caravan guard. Found beaten in an abandoned watchtower by the river road. Their hands were bound, and a strange symbol—a cracked snowflake—was drawn on a paper left near them."

Eddard's hands, resting on the oaken desk, curled into fists. "And the vigilante?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous.

"Vanished, my lord. As before," Poole reported, the frustration clear in his tone. "The men we posted in the town saw nothing, heard nothing. We doubled the patrols, just as you commanded. It makes no difference. It's like a ghost is moving among them. The smallfolk are starting to whisper. Some are afraid, but others… others are starting to see this shadow as a protector. They say he only targets the corrupt."

Eddard clenched his jaw. That was the most dangerous part. It wasn't the broken bones or the blood; it was the whispers. If his people began to believe that a faceless shadow dealt swifter and fairer justice than their liege lord, then the law was already broken. Trust would erode. Men would stop bringing their grievances to the castle guard and start looking to the shadows for answers. It was a rot, one that started in the dark alleys of the Winter Town but could spread to undermine the very foundations of his rule.

It was a direct challenge to his authority, and the lords of the North were watching. He could see their judgment in their letters, feel their questions hanging in the air. If Lord Stark cannot keep order in his own town, how can he keep it in the North?

His frustration with his guards was matched only by the growing tension in his own family. Catelyn's hostility towards Jon had sharpened into a blade, honed daily by the boy's impossible progress in the yard. Jon's skill was no longer a quiet rumor; it was a fact. He had taken to sparring with the most seasoned men-at-arms, and his victories were becoming commonplace. The whispers in the castle had changed from "the bastard is skilled" to "the bastard is a prodigy."

"He makes a mockery of Robb," Catelyn had said to him just last night, her voice trembling with a mixture of fear and fury as they sat in their chambers. "He flaunts his skill, this unnatural grace he possesses. Do you not see how the men look at him? They see a warrior. And they see Robb, your trueborn son, and they make comparisons. You are nurturing a viper in our home, Ned. A talented, ambitious viper who will one day strike at your own son."

"That is not Jon's heart, Cat," he had argued, the words tasting like ash in his mouth.

"I am not talking about his heart! I am talking about the hearts of other men!" she had shot back, her blue eyes blazing. "Ambitious lords will see that skill. They will see his name is Snow, not Stark, and they will see a tool to be used against your trueborn heir. You are so blinded by your honor, by this… affection for the boy, that you refuse to see the danger he represents to our family. To our children."

Her fears, once easily dismissed as a mother's bias, now held a sharper sting. Eddard had seen the looks. He had seen the awe in the guards' eyes when they spoke of Jon. He knew Catelyn was wrong about Jon's heart, but he feared she was right about the hearts of other men.

He was brooding on this, staring into the flames, when Maester Luwin entered, his face graver than usual. He carried a single, tightly rolled scroll, its seal black.

"My lord," Luwin said, his voice low. "Another raven from the Wall."

Eddard's blood ran cold. So soon after the last? He took the scroll, his fingers breaking the black seal of the Night's Watch. The message was from Benjen, but the handwriting was frantic, the words stark and terrifying.

Ned,

The reports are worse. Thoren Smallwood and two other rangers are gone, lost on a ranging north of the Gorge. The wildlings have grown bolder. Mance Rayder has done the impossible and united them. They are not just scattered bands of raiders anymore; they move with purpose, striking our patrols with a cunning we have not seen before. Our numbers are too few to hold them back if they decide to march on the Wall in force. We need men. Any men you can spare.

Your brother, Benjen.

Eddard stared at the words, the parchment trembling in his hand. They move with purpose. These were not the words of a simple wildling raid. This was an army being forged in the wilderness, led by a king of their own choosing. Benjen was not a man given to flights of fancy. He was a Stark, grounded and steady. If he wrote of a true threat to the North, he meant it.

The walls of the solar seemed to close in around him. A smuggling ring run by ghosts in his town. A wife who saw a viper in her home. A brother facing a gathering army at the edge of the world. And in the center of it all, Jon. A boy with too much skill and no place in the world.

He looked at the problems laid out before him, a grim and terrible tapestry of his life. A vigilante who needed to be stopped. A son who needed a future. A brother who needed men.

The thought, once a poison, now felt like a surgeon's cold steel. A necessary cut to save the patient. Benjen needed men. Jon was becoming a man, one who needed a purpose, a place where his skills would be an asset, not a threat. A place where the name Targaryen was just a forgotten word, and a bastard could rise to be a king of his own making.

He had made a promise to Lyanna to protect her son. Perhaps protection was not a warm bed and a full belly. Perhaps protection was a wall at the end of the world, and a sworn brotherhood to stand against the dark.

He watched the first flakes of a new snow begin to drift down from the grey sky, each one a small, cold weight settling on his shoulders. The Wall. The thought was no longer an abstract, last resort. It was now a real, tangible path, a grim possibility that had moved from the back of his mind to the forefront. He had not made a decision. Not yet. But for the first time, standing there in the cold silence of his solar, he feared he knew what the only true answer would be. The day was coming, he knew, when a choice would have to be made, and it would be the hardest of his life.

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[A/N]: Hey everyone, hope you're enjoying the story so far! I wanted to say a huge thank you for reading. Please feel free to drop a review or a comment to let me know what you think—seeing your feedback is a massive source of motivation and really helps me keep going!

On a quick story note, if you feel like the recent Eddard chapters have a similar tone, that's very much by design. I'm trying to show how the constant pressure from Jon's incredible progress, Catelyn's fears, and the problems piling up are actively grinding him down. Ned is being slowly and painfully forced to see the Wall as a "good" option. The repetition is meant to show that pressure building to a breaking point.

Thanks for reading !!