Game of thrones: Winter's Bastard

The new year, 289 AC.

The wind whispered low over the Neck, dragging its chill through the reeds and fog like a blade drawn slow across the skin. The bogs exhaled their mist with each breath of dawn, curling pale and quiet between twisted trees and stunted hills. To most, it would seem a haunted land.

To Wulfric, it was home.

Beneath the hooves of his horse, the road held firm. Stonebind. His own creation, clay, gravel, sand, stone, and the dark marsh-pitch of the Neck fused under pressure and fire. Poured layer by layer, compacted until it cured like bedrock. The South had no roads like this. No means to build them. No will or patience to even try.

The beast beneath him, his charger, moved with steady, hulking power. Shaggy dark black fur framed its shoulders beneath the layered barding, and its breath came out in long white plumes. Iron-plated leather overlaid with lizardlion scales covered its chest and flanks, giving the animal a terrifying, primal look from a distance. A ironroot metal chanfron with two horns made the charger look like a living siege beast. Ready for war more than any pony normally ridden.

Wulfric rode without a banner himself, but he felt its presence behind him, a tall sigil of black cloth carried near the rear of the column, its image bold in the morning mist. A snarling wolf skull, rising from a mire, its jaws wide as if trying to devour the breaking sun behind it. A mark not of birthright, but of conquest. A claim forged in the dark and risen through the swamp.

His armor whispered with each movement, a second skin of blackish-green ironroot and dull grey lizardlion scale. The scales no longer gleamed, old and weathered, like stone, but they held fast. The runes etched into his pauldrons and gauntlets were ancient. First Men script, protections carved with blood and patience.

Across his back, his round shield, Ironwood core, rimmed in ironroot, the boss a brutal spike forged for war. At his belt hung a blackened ironroot bearded axe, long-bladed and weighty with an extra bit to the edge for a longer blade. Slung behind his saddle, a pack of short javelins with iron heads. And riding low across one side, a heavy spear, made for the charge, not the duel.

To his right rode Brandon Crowl, looming in plate and fury. His ironroot and scale armor bulked even further by his sheer size, the bear skull atop his helm glaring at the road ahead. His tower shield rode high across his back, and the flanged mace with a spiked top at his hip matched his pace, slow, powerful, and inevitable.

To his left, Cregan Norrey drifted like smoke. His cloak, scaled and fur-lined, curled with the wind. His hood shadowed his eyes, and the neck guard masked the rest. A bow rested across his back while a hand axe sat hanging from his hip with a dagger strapped to his chest.. A round shield hugged his forearm, light and quick.

Behind them, twenty-four riders. Not Blightguard, not yet, but close. Each bore a round shield reinforced with ironroot and tipped with a sharp spiked boss. Their arming swords were built for mounted strikes, and compact recurve bows sat ready against their saddles.

Their horses bore barding of younger lizardlion hide, more flexible, brownish in hue, but no less unsettling. In motion, they looked like beasts of legend, scaled, steaming, unstoppable. Each of their chanfron's having a single spiked metal horn, small enough to not be a burden but large enough to be seen.

None spoke through the winds of the north. The mist had swallowed their words. But he could feel the eyes watching from the woods and water, Crannogmen, beasts, old ghosts. They would see him and they would remember.

He had carved a road through the Neck, reforged an ancient fortress, and called warriors to his banner. He had taken the mire and made it into a gold mine. For trade to go north, west, east, or south, it all flowed through his lands mostly. He was the talk of many lords North and South.

Now he was returning to the heart of the North. The mud clung to his horse's legs like old blood. As he reminisced, his mind wandered.

-

Snow had fallen the day before, but not enough to hide the true state of the road, rutted, brown, and half-thawed, slushing beneath their march. The scent of wet earth, woodsmoke, and distant pine filled the air. Overhead, the clouds hung low and sullen, casting Winterfell's towers in pale shadow.

The Stonebind road had ended days ago. Now they rode the old bones of the North, roads that sank beneath weight, that remembered every wheel and hoof, every frozen body dragged across them. Wulfric did not mind the mess. What came after the road mattered more than the road itself. Winterfell rose before them, ancient and watching.

He gave no commands, only a gesture. His riders adjusted without a word. Brandon flanked right, Cregan to the left. The two dozen behind him shifted seamlessly into tight ranks, shields gleaming dark in the snowlight. Their horses steamed and stamped, the dull clink of scale barding echoing like a slow drumbeat. Then, above, the gatehouse stirred.

A few guards leaned forward. One called out something muffled. The gates opened though not fully, just enough. Wulfric's eyes narrowed slightly beneath his helm. No trumpets or standing greetings, or armed escort. No lordly banners or Stark in sight.

He felt it before he thought. A message and a clear one.

They rode in slowly, boots crunching across hardened slush. The guards near the gate stepped back, eyes drawn not to the banner, but to the men beneath it atop scale-armored horses. Silent warriors clad in black-green and dull grey, their faces hidden behind helms or cloaks. They didn't look like Northmen. They looked like something out of an old tale with blackened dark green plated armor and their tall statures.

The banner unfurled as they crossed into the courtyard, black cloth, rippling high in the cold air. At its center, stitched in silver-grey, a snarling wolf skull, rising from a mire, jaws open wide, eating the breaking sun behind it. Neither noble nor knightly but it did demand attention. And yet they were only greeted by a gathering of weary guards with their hands on their hilts and a few side eyes of the servants and passing man or woman.

Maester Luwin stood near the center of the yard, clutching his sleeves in the cold, flanked by a pair of guards who looked uncertain whether they were part of a reception or a warning. Behind him stood three small figures.

Wulfric dismounted slowly, snow crunching under his boots as he dropped to the ground. The weight of his armor settled into place, his heavy armor not as heavy as many would believe but his heavy body itself still sinking into the muddied ground all the same. His shield stayed strapped across his back, axe sheathed at his hip. He did not reach for the javelins or spear. He even placed his shield, strapping it to his horse not needing it.

Brandon and Cregan dismounted in turn. Brandon's bear skull helm turned toward the gate like it might growl at the stone. Cregan's eyes flicked between rooftops and doorways, his body relaxed, but his mind already mapping the exits.

The guards behind them held formation, snow falling lightly on their cloaks and helms. Luwin stepped forward, his breath visible in the cold. He bowed just barely, a mocking display of fake respect.

"Wulfric Snow" he said with monotone wording. "On behalf of House Stark, welcome to Winterfell."

Not even the courtesy of a title. No "Lord of Moat Cailin." Wulfric almost wanted to snarl at the maester.

He said nothing instead.

Luwin's smile tightened like a fraying thread. "Lord Eddard has asked that I receive you. He is within, tending to matters of state. He sends his greetings and awaits you for a private audience when you are ready."

Behind the maester, children stood stiffly yet eyeing wulfric with curiosity.

Robb Stark, five years old, had grown tall for his age. His red-brown hair was unkempt, cheeks flushed from the cold. A wooden sword hung awkwardly from his side, too long for his small frame. He watched the riders not with fear, but the hunger of a boy wishing to be a warrior one day.

Beside him, Jon Snow stood quiet, almost still, his hands balled up into little fists like it took all his courage to stay in that place. His dark curls fell in front of his eyes. He didn't flinch beneath Wulfric's gaze. There was a sharpness there, not a child's wonder, it made Wulfric look at him a moment longer.

To the side, wrapped in a heavy fur-lined cloak, Sansa peeked out from behind a maid, barely two. Her wide blue eyes fixed on Wulfric's helm with both awe and confusion. Wulfric let the silence stretch. The snow crunched as a stablehand named Hodor hesitantly approached his horse. The beast stamped once and snorted, forcing the tall boy to take a startled step back.

Brandon finally spoke, his voice like cracking stone.

"Strange reception for a man who holds Moat Cailin."

Luwin blinked.

"No disrespect was meant. Winterfell,"

"Winterfell forgets quickly," Cregan said, quiet but sharp.

Wulfric raised a hand. The silence snapped back into place. He turned his gaze on Luwin, calm but unblinking.

"I see no banners. No lords, not even a steward to greet me," he said. "What message do you carry, Maester?"

Luwin hesitated. "Only that Lord Stark wishes to speak with you alone."

Wulfric looked again at the boys. Robb stared openly. Jon simply observed. Then he turned toward the Great Hall.

"Then I'll not keep him waiting."

He walked forward, each step heavy with steel and snow. As he passed the children, Robb took a step back. Jon didn't move either too stunned or too stubborn. Wulfric paused, just long enough to lock eyes with the dark-haired boy, and gave the faintest nod. Then he passed into Winterfell's shadow, his cloak trailing behind like a storm cloud.

The gate had opened. The welcome had been given. But the message had already been received. The air inside Winterfell's Great Hall was stale and heavy.

Smoke curled from the long hearth fire, rising in uneven trails toward rafters thick with soot. The warmth from the flames did little to soften the cold that clung to the stone walls. Flags hung still from their poles, grey wolves on pale white, their stitched maws frozen in silent watch.

The chamber was quiet when Wulfric entered. The thick wooden doors groaned shut behind him. He walked forward with unhurried steps, boots thudding solidly against the old flagstones. No servant announced him nor did he need any introduction. His presence said enough. It was thundering and irritating.

The man who crossed that floor was no longer the stoic shadow of a boy who once trained in the yards and read in silence beneath towers that never called him theirs. He was tall now, broader than most, armored in black-green ironroot and dull grey lizardlion scale. Scars, both seen and unseen, shaped the way he moved, shoulders squared, spine straight, gaze like a drawn blade.

His hair was shaved along the sides, the top pulled back into a thick warrior's tail tied tight at the base of his skull. A short, rough beard had begun to shadow his jawline, sharp and silver against his pale skin. He didn't dress like a southern knight nor a showy lord. Though he didn't dress like any Northman would either, covered in furs. He dressed like he expected to bleed and make others do the same.

He stopped a dozen paces from the high table. Eddard Stark stood at its center, clad in a plain wool cloak over dark leather. The Lord of Winterfell held himself like a man with no time for vanity. His grey eyes watched Wulfric without blinking.

Catelyn Stark stood beside her husband, stiff and straight-backed, hands clasped. Her face betrayed nothing, but her eyes flicked like a hawk watching a storm roll in.

"Lord Stark," Wulfric said, his voice low, measured, Northern. "As I mentioned in my letter, I've come.."

"Aye," Eddard replied. "And you came with a company fit for war."

Wulfric allowed a small, knowing grin. "I came with guards. Not for show but for protection. Every man who rides with me is armed in gear that costs more than a freeman's house. I don't leave that kind of steel unguarded nor myself. Besides, the North isn't exactly the safest of places uncle."

Catelyn's chin lifted slightly. "You speak to the Warden of the North. Remember who stands before you."

Wulfric turned his gaze to her. "I remember who wasn't there."

Then, back to Eddard. "I came to talk only about what I've built and what I could build. I brought no banners under threat. Just myself and my guard."

Eddard's tone hardened. "And what exactly have you built? Roads? Forges? Canals and farms? A procession of armored men who say little and march like a standing army?"

"A future," Wulfric replied. "One not tied to southern coin or southern pity or… southern crown."

"And who leads that future?"

"The North."

"You dodge. Speak plainly."

"I built what I was given."

Eddard took a slow step forward, voice rising with tempered fire. "I gave you Moat Cailin! Gold and men to rebuild it! Don't act as if you carved it from nothing."

Wulfric chuckled, low and dangerous. "Aye. And I would've done it without your coin. I already had the fire. You just handed me the kindling. I made the rest."

"Then show respect for it," Catelyn snapped. "Winterfell's grace gave you your chance."

Wulfric's eyes narrowed. "Winterfell's grace?" He barked a single laugh. "I gave you iron and salt. My salt cured your meat for the long winters. My iron reinforced your walls and your gates. And what did I get in return? Silence and skepticism. Not so much as a raven as you tried to forget about me in the bogs and swamps hoping I'd die I bet."

Eddard stepped closer. "We've kept your coffers full. You've traded well. The ore and meat you've sent has brought coin to your hall."

Wulfric laughed aloud. "So that's your great return? Coin?" His smile twisted. "You think I did all this for coin? You think I bled men in the mire and carved stone from the swamp to line my pockets? Aye, I made a lot of coin but I made more coin from Essos and the South than I ever did trading with the North."

He looked between the two. "I made Moat Cailin what it is, not with gold, but with blood, sweat, and people who believed to follow me. If you'd given me the North then, not just the bones of a ruin, I wouldn't have only built a fortress. I would've raised the whole of the North."

Catelyn's voice cut sharp. "The North was not yours to have then nor is it now. Though the lords speak more and more about you. That you seek more than what was granted, building and expanding too much too fast."

"They're right to whisper," Wulfric said, lifting his chin. "Not because I move or build too fast, but because they've stood still too long. If I was lord of the North then all those years ago, every hold would share in what I've gained. But as I'm not, I must keep my spoils close. That's not greed, that's necessity."

Eddard's tone shifted. "Then share what you've made. Sell your ironroot. Offer your lizardlion scale to the bannermen. Share your marshflame. Teach them to use your Stonebind. That's the duty of a Stark."

Wulfric tilted his head, amused. "Stark? Where? I'm no Stark, you made that clear when you shoved me off to another hold to take up another name when I was but a boy. What's next? Should I hand out gold and silver to every beggar, too? Forgive me, but I don't see the wisdom in giving away what gives my men strength, what gives my HOUSE identity."

Catelyn's jaw tightened. "You speak as if no house matters but your own, as if you didn't grow up under this roof!"

"No, Lady Stark. I speak as a man who answers to none but himself. I can't give away the secrets of my house to lords who hold no loyalty to me. Who watch me with narrowed eyes and sharpened blades. That's not honor. That's suicide."

Eddard's voice cooled. "I could order it."

The room froze.

Wulfric's smile vanished. Then slowly, a new one returned, broader, sharper.

"You could," he said softly. "And I'll give it all away. Every secret, every forge, every flame, if you give me the Wardenship of the North."

Eddard's face turned to stone.

Catelyn's eyes widened, horror flashing across her face. "How dare you… You would coarse knowledge and prosperity for your people for a title that was never yours?"

Wulfric's tone was like frost. "Don't ask me to give away my soul for free. I won't… Not to you. Not to any of them."

The silence that followed was thick and bitter.

Eddard stepped forward once more, fists clenched behind his back. "You speak of what you deserve. But not of what you've done to earn the right."

"I've made something from nothing," Wulfric said. "And if the title had passed where it should have, long ago, maybe we wouldn't be having this conversation."

He took a step forward, voice rising ever so slightly. "You want to speak of inheritance? Let's speak truth. Before Brandon was even cold in the grave, the great and generous King Robert didn't hesitate. He gave Winterfell to his best friend. His brother-in-arms. Not to the bastard son of the man he buried."

He smiled again, mocking and grim. "So don't speak to me of birthright."

Eddard's jaw worked wordlessly. Rage simmered behind his calm mask.

"You've grown too proud," he said. "Too bold."

"And you've grown too comfortable, too complacent." Wulfric shot back. "Comfort breeds weakness. And I've seen enough of that to last me a lifetime. While I worked and bled for the land I have now, Winterfell does nothing, shows no progress, no advancement to helping its people or its land. "

The tension between them thickened like northern ice during winter.

Catelyn's hand went to her husband's arm. She said nothing, but the message was in her eyes, end this.

But neither man moved.

Wulfric stood his ground, a mountain wrapped in lizardlion hide and cold plate. Eddard stood like a wolf holding back a snarl, his patience fraying. The silence stretched, swords unsheathed in words and memory. The echo of Wulfric's last words still hung in the air like a blade suspended between them, neither sheathed nor swung. Then came the pounding of hurried steps.

The chamber doors burst open with a thunderous clap, startling even the banners on the walls into a slow ripple. Maester Luwin came first, his breath ragged, sweat dampening the collar of his grey robe. The old man held a sealed scroll high, as if the message itself burned in his fingers. Behind him, Ser Rodrik Cassel entered at a purposeful pace, hand resting on the hilt of his sword, face grim and ready.

"My lord!" Luwin panted, eyes wide. "A raven, from King's Landing! Terrible news my lord!"

Eddard Stark took the scroll without a word. The wax snapped beneath his thumb. His eyes moved swiftly across the lines, face tightening as he read. Then his voice, low and cold, carried across the hall.

"The Lannister fleet has been destroyed. Lannisport raided and burned to the ground. The Reach's western coasts are under siege. Balon Greyjoy has crowned himself King of the Iron Islands."

A hush fell like a hammer. Eddard folded the scroll.

"Rodrik, rally the garrison. Every man in the yard armed and mounted by morn. Ravens to every bannerman from White Harbor to Bear Island. We march."

Rodrik bowed his head and strode out, already bellowing commands before he cleared the threshold.

Eddard turned to speak again, but Wulfric was already walking away. Not with haste, but with purpose, as if the words he'd just heard were no surprise at all.

He didn't look back. Didn't wait for permission. He didn't need to. Behind him, he heard Catelyn's voice, cutting through the cold like a thin southern knife.

"Ned! He can't just leave like that! You are his Lord! Does he think himself above you, Ned?"

She wasn't shouting. But her words were sharpened with something colder than anger, contempt.

"You see it, don't you?" she went on, softer now, but each word honed like a needle. "He believes himself your equal. Or worse, your better. That is not how a bannerman is supposed to act. That is a man preparing to take what is ours! And you just let him walk away!"

Eddard didn't respond.

Wulfric had already passed the carved archways leading from the Great Hall into the keep's open court. The air outside was biting, the sky grey with the weight of more snow to come. The stone beneath his boots was slick and damp. His men had not moved.

They were exactly where he left them, horses at the ready, armored and mounted. Not one of them had dismounted. They had simply waited, silent and still, as though they had known the moment he stepped into Winterfell that they would ride again soon. The gates had not yet opened, and already they were prepared.

Brandon gave no greeting, only turned his mount to face the gate. Cregan gave the barest tilt of his hooded head. The rest sat in their saddles like shadows, eyes forward, tension coiled like a drawn bow. Wulfric vaulted onto his horse without a word.

His legs slid into the familiar grooves of the saddle, his body falling into rhythm with the beast beneath him like a blade settling into its sheath.

"We ride for the western canal outpost," he said, voice steady, low, and final. "Trouble will come from the sea. It always does when squids think they can walk on land."

He turned slightly to one of the younger riders. "Go ahead. Ride to Moat Cailin. Tell Torrhen and Domund, ready every watchtower, seal the water trails, double the patrols, and close the passageway into the canal from the east just to make sure."

The boy nodded once, firm, and vanished through the gate in a blur of fur and hoofbeats. Wulfric cast his gaze toward the courtyard. Winterfell was erupting now. Stark men running in tight ranks. Ravens shrieking as they were drawn from the rookeries. The yard thundered with the sound of iron shod boots and barked commands.

And in the middle of it all, two boys stood still. Robb and Jon. Just watching him.

Robb looked half-lost between the sounds of chaos, his small fist clenched tightly around a child's practice sword. Jon's eyes were locked on Wulfric, lips parted in something like wonder. They didn't wave. They didn't speak.

Wulfric didn't smile even though he wanted to. But he gave a small nod, solemn and knowing. A gesture they would remember.

The gate creaked open and snow blew in with the wind. The horses moved as one. Twenty-four riders swept out into the cold, a column of purpose and silence. Their movement was too smooth for panic, too fast for confusion.

Behind them, the Winterfell guards were only just beginning to form ranks, to receive orders. They watched the departing riders with wide eyes, confused at how quickly and silently they had gone. Wulfric did not look back, he had nothing to look back at for now. Winterfell would remember his fleeting passage.

Let them say he was arrogant. Let them call him proud. But when war called upon the North, let them see and say. It wasn't Eddard Stark that moved to protect the North first. It was Wulfric, the bastard that could've ruled.