It had been a while since Ned regularly trained in the yard, but the past sennight had been a rather busy one, and a long forgotten desire to lift his sword had bubbled in his gut.
It felt good.
No matter how long he went without picking one up, the weight of a sword settled into his grip with familiarity.
It was like how a man’s body remembered how to swim even when he had not been in water for years.
Ser Rodrik Cassel was breathing harder than he wanted to be.
Ned could see it in the set of the old knight’s shoulders.
Despite the Master-At-Arms’ skill, Ned had won four bouts out of five.
Old age caught up to Ser Rodrik, who had held the position since his father’s time.
“Still as sharp as ever, Lord Stark.” Ser Rodrik lowered his blade.
His walrus whiskers were damp with exertion.
“You’ve not lost an edge.” “You’ve kept it sharp for me,” Ned said, and meant it.
He handed the training sword to a waiting page and rolled his shoulder, feeling the familiar pull in the old wound there.
Sixteen years since the Trident and the thing still refused to go away.
He had initially come to the yard to hack his sword at a training dummy, but a spar was exactly the thing he needed.
After seven whole days of looking at letters and ledgers and the hundred small things needed to be prepared for a royal visit, it felt good to loosen the body once in a while.
Ser Rodrik was already moving toward the nearest cluster of guardsmen, barking out instructions as they began drills.
The yard was certainly busy, with more than two dozen guardsmen engaging in the rotations that Ser Rodrik deemed necessary.
With the King’s visit approaching, Winterfell would soon host the entire royal family within its walls.
Safety was paramount, thus the guardsmen on watch was doubled, Ned had Jory recruit more men from Wintertown, and the training had been intensified accordingly.
Ned watched them for a moment and then let his attention move to where his son and nephew were.
Jory Cassel sparred against Robb and Jon at once, who found out that trouncing his boys was not as easy when they were younger.
Robb moved well and Jon was a more patient fighter.
They worked well together, but Ned did notice how Jon was a little more naturally talented than Robb.
It wasn’t much of a problem, in fact, Ned was happy about it.
Rhaegar was a fine swordsman, and it seems the talent had passed from father to son.
Lyanna would have been proud.
He let the thought pass before shaking his head.
An arrow thwacked into the center circle of a straw dummy, and Ned turned.
Theon stood at the far end of the range, already nocking another.
He was one-and-twenty now, and had the Greyjoy black hair.
An amused smile was on his face as he continued going through the motions, another arrow hitting right at the center circle of the target.
The boy was good, which Ned was proud of.
He had always tried his best to raise him right and treat him fairly, to ensure that when Theon Greyjoy eventually returned to the Iron Islands, he returned to them as a man who understood what it meant to be raised with honor.
It was his hope that when it was time for the next generation to take the helm, Robb and Theon would grow to be friends and brothers — as he and Robert were — so the North in the future would grow to not fear the Kraken, as Ned and Karlon had to.
He was deep in thought when he caught a glimpse of grey in the corner of his eye.
Ned shook his head before moving towards the barrels, and put his hand on his daughter’s shoulders.
A loud yelp came from Arya Stark as she spun around and looked at him sheepishly.
Her direwolf was beside her, licking her snout once before settling her chin on her forepaws.
Almost all of them had grown from the small pups they were, now the size of a rather small dog.
“Nymeria!” Arya said.
“You’re supposed to tell me if someone got close!” The wolf’s tail moved once, without apology.
“Arya.” Ned looked at his daughter.
He had his coloring, the only one besides Jon.
“What are you doing here?” “I wanted to practice swords with Jon!” Arya said loudly, causing the spar between Jory and his sons to stop as Jon looked sheepish at the proclamation.
“You’re skimping your lessons again, aren’t you?” Ned said, “You should be with Sansa and Septa Mordane.” “I don’t want to!” Arya said indignantly, Nymeria yipped beside her.
“I’m not even good at them!
I don’t even see why I have to do any of it, Sansa’s already good enough for the both of us!” “Because you are both Starks,” Ned said, “and Starks are held to a higher standard than most.
Go find Septa Mordane.
Do so, we will discuss the matter of sword practice when your uncle arrives.” Arya’s expression shifted immediately from mulish to calculating.
“Uncle Karlon?” “He’ll be here before the day is out.
Now go.” She bolted.
Nymeria rose from the ground and padded after her with a trot.
Ned watched them go and allowed himself a small sigh.
She was so much like Lyanna it was uncanny.
Karlon’s daughter, Arella, was supposedly similar to Arya in that way and was only a year younger.
But judging from Karlon’s letters, neither he nor Dacey had as much problems with their daughter than Ned and Cat in reeling them in.
Ned needed to know how they managed it.
“Lord Stark,” Ser Rodrik appeared at his elbow.
“Riders were seen approaching from the Wolfswood.
A large party.” “Must be Karlon and his retinue.” Ned nodded.
He turned toward Jory, who approached.
“Take a dozen men and ride up to meet them.” “Aye, my lord.” Turning back to his children, he told them to prepare for the arrival, before sending a guard to fetch Bran from the Maester’s turret and Sansa from the stitching rooms.
… 26th Day of the 3rd Moon, Year 298 AC Karlon Stark They were finally here.
The sight of Winterfell as they crest the final ridge brought many memories sprawling to the front of his mind.
He had grown up inside those walls, walked every inch within them.
The grey granite stone, the way the light would be caught atop the broken tower, where he knew plenty of crows liked to nest.
He was also very saddle-sore, and increasingly ready to be off the horse.
Such was the result of a fortnight of riding.
Karlon’s thighs were bruised red and his back hurt from being upright on the saddle all day.
Thankfully, the crofter’s village three days ago were kind enough to lend them a room, which saved Karlon from spending another night sleeping under the stars.
But they had also reminded him what it felt to have a bed and a roof over his head, which had made the remaining days worse.
Torrhen had managed it without complaint, which was a point in the boy’s favor.
Jory Cassel met them at the edge of the wolfswood with a dozen riders, the Stark banner carried easily in the late morning air.
Karlon had Ser Egran raise his own banner, as is proper.
“Lord Stark will be glad to see you, my lord.” Jory said, pulling his horse alongside Karlon’s.
“He’s in the yard?” “Was.
He’ll be in the keep by now, I’d reckon.” Karlon nodded as they rode past Wintertown, the townsfolk pointing and whispering at the sight of the modified Stark banner.
He recognized some of the older folk.
After all, jaunts to the town were a regular thing for him, Brandon, Lyanna, Ned, and Benjen when they were younger.
Back before— He shook his head as that memory passed.
The western Hunter’s Gate was open, which made sense since Ned kept the gates open in peace and closed in war.
But the sight of them still did something to his chest that he had not entirely anticipated.
He had not been back in two years.
Two years was not long, in the scale of things, but it was certainly enough.
They passed by the kennels and saw the courtyard, which was busy with guards and servants running around the place in a chaotic, but organized manner.
The grey direwolf was prevalent in all things, the doors, the banners on the walls, the statues.
Stable hands began appearing for the horses as Karlon and the rest rode in proper.
Ned was there, standing by the steps of the Great Keep with his family arrayed behind him.
He looked as he always had without much change; the long stark face, the dark hair, the posture that always remained upright the moment he returned from the Vale.
Karlon dismounted, handed his reins to a waiting groom, and crossed the yard.
They embraced the moment they reached on another, briefly and firmly.
“It’s been too long,” Ned said, against his shoulder.
“I’m glad you’re here, brother.” “Two years, actually.” Karlon said with a chuckle.
Ned pulled back, and his expression was one of amusement, “You’re late.” “The roads through the Wolfswood need tending.” Karlon just shrugged.
Then something hit him in the midsection and he looked down to find Bran Stark attached to his ribs.
Arya was a half-second behind, apparently having decided that Bran had established a reasonable precedent.
“Uncle Karlon!” They said it in rough unison.
“Bran, Arya!” Catelyn tried to chastise as Robb snickered.
But Karlon just waved it away.
“It’s fine, Catelyn.” He managed to extricate one arm and put it around each of them.
Bran was taller than he remembered.
“You’ve both grown,” he said to the both of them, earning smiles.
“Arya says you might teach her to sail,” Bran said, looking up at him with the bright, Tully eyes.
“Did she now?” Karlon looked at Arya with a raised eyebrow.
“I said he might,” she clarified.
“I didn’t say it was decided!” Robb stepped forward with a grin — he had Catelyn’s auburn hair and her blue eyes, though the jaw was Ned’s — and clasped Karlon’s forearm in the proper greeting, which he had apparently decided he was old enough to use.
He was not wrong.
At seven-and-ten, Robb Stark was a man-grown and had more bearing than many men twice his age.
Jon stood just behind Robb, a half-step back.
He had the Stark look about him — dark-haired and grey-eyed, more Ned’s blood than Robb was, in truth — something that had earned his brother’s baseborn son much scorn from his lady wife.
“Jon.” Karlon nodded to him with a smile.
Jon’s mouth curved slightly.
“My lord.” Catelyn Stark stood a little back, as was proper for a lady receiving her husband’s kin, with Sansa at her side.
She was very much composed, despite Bran and Arya’s interruption, and stepped forward to embrace Karlon herself.
“Karlon,” she said.
“How is Dacey?” “She is well.” He smiled.
“She and Alaric will be holding Frostkeep while I’m away.
She sends her love.” “I’ll write to her, then.” “She’ll be happy to hear from you.” Sansa stepped forward then, curtseying.
She was certainly beautiful, her mother’s auburn hair and fine-boned quality, with the Tully blue eyes that she and Robb had both inherited.
Karlon nodded to her with the courtesy the gesture deserved.
Little Rickon was clinging to the back of his father’s knee.
Karlon crouched down to his level, which seemed to surprise the boy enough to loosen his grip on his father, and ruffled his hair.
“He looks like you,” Karlon said, straightening.
“Gods help him then,” Ned said, which from Ned was practically a jest.
Jorah, who had remained present but didn’t intrude in the reunion, suddenly drifted to Karlon’s shoulder and whispered to Karlon’s ear.
“To your left.
By the grain store.” Karlon did not look immediately.
He smiled at something Catelyn said about the journey, made a remark about the state of the roads, let three seconds pass.
Then he looked left, casually, in the way of a man simply taking in his surroundings.
There, Theon Greyjoy stood by the grain store with his arms crossed and his jaw set.
Karlon remembered meeting him once briefly, in the first year of his arrival in Winterfell.
He had certainly grown into a lean, sharp-featured young man with pride, judging by the way he was glaring at Karlon with barely any visible restraint.
A resentment that probably grew since the Greyjoy Rebellion.
Both Karlon and Jorah were infamous for their actions in Pyke and the battles before that.
Theon knew that Maron Greyjoy had landed in Frostkeep and didn’t come back, despite probably not knowing who loosed the arrow in the first place.
Karlon looked away at a normal pace and pitched his voice under the ambient noise of the yard.
“Have Ser Egran and Robett ask around.
Quietly.
I want to know what he’s been doing here.
How he spends his days, who he talks to, whether or not he’d been sending letters through raven.” “Aye,” Jorah murmured.
Ned reappeared at his elbow.
“Settle in.
Vayon will see to your men.
Meet me in my solar when you’re ready.” Karlon nodded.
“Give me an hour.” …
Check it out if you’re interested, at least chapter 10 (long form, which is around chp 18 in webnovel) should be available by the time this chapter was uploaded.