[Winterfell, 8th moon, 295AC]
The sun cast long shadows across the yard of Winterfell, its light filtering through the crisp autumn air. Benjen Stark stood in the training yard, his breath visible in the chill as he sparred with Ser Harald Stark. Their swords clashed rhythmically, the sound echoing off the ancient stone walls. Nearby, Alaric Stark practiced with Ice, the massive Valyrian steel greatsword. Each swing demonstrated his growing mastery, the blade slicing through the air with precision.
Benjen parried a strike from Ser Harald and stepped back, lowering his sword. "You've improved, cousin," he said, nodding appreciatively.
Ser Harald grinned, wiping sweat from his brow. "You've not lost your touch either, Benjen. Sea Dragon Point will be fortunate to have you."
Benjen glanced toward Alaric, who was now sheathing Ice. "Alaric's becoming quite the swordsman. Father would be proud."
Ser Harald followed his gaze. "Indeed. He's taken to Ice as if it were an extension of himself."
As the sun dipped below the horizon, the household gathered in the Great Hall for supper. The room buzzed with conversation and laughter. At the head of the table, Alaric sat with Domeric, Rodrik Stark, Torrhen Karstark, and the Umber brothers, Smalljon and Derrick, engaged in animated discussion. Further down, Robb, Jon Snow, Rickard, Osric, Harlon, Roddy Dustin, Dorren Snow, Edric, and Elric Snow shared jests and laughter, their mirth occasionally drawing disapproving glances from Sansa, Lyarra, Alysanne Stark of White Harbor, and Lysa Dustin. Alys Karstark, however, seemed more amused than annoyed..
Sansa and Lyarra exchanged quiet words, no doubt about the boys' latest embarrassment. Alysanne Stark of White Harbor leaned close to Alys Karstark, whispering behind her palm while casting sly glances toward Alaric. Alys Karstark caught Alaric's eye and smirked.
On the opposite side, Arya and the High Hill twins, Branda and Berena, listened intently as Bran and Edwyn recounted their adventures in the crypts. Benjen sat beside Dacey, who was attempting to feed their two-year-old son, Cregan. The boy squirmed in his seat, more interested in the commotion around him than the food on his plate. Nearby, Ned and Catelyn tended to Rickon, who was similarly restless.
"Old gods save me," she muttered, brushing carrot mush off her cheek. "We've bred a beast."
Benjen chuckled low in his throat and reached for his son, scooping the boy into his lap. Cregan squealed, trying to wriggle away, but Benjen held firm.
"Easy now, pup. You'll have plenty of time to torment your mother on the voyage west," he said. "You'll miss these halls when the sea's biting at your ears and there's nothing but pines and wind and waves for a hundred leagues."
Benjen leaned toward Ser Harald, who was seated across from him. "Preparations for our departure are nearly complete. Wolf's Haven awaits."
Ser Harald nodded. "A new beginning for House Stark at Sea Dragon Point. The lands there are rich with history."
Benjen thought on it. "Aye. I'll miss Winterfell, but… It's time. A lord must shape the land he holds, and Wolf's Haven needs shaping. I want Rickard to grow up knowing what it means to forge something from nothing."
Ser Harald nodded slowly. "A good place for a new branch to take root."
At that moment, Alaric rose, goblet in hand. His voice cut cleanly through the din, clear and deliberate.
"I have an announcement," he said. The Great Hall fell still.
Benjen turned, uncertain.
Alaric's eyes met his. "Before my uncle departs for Sea Dragon Point, I would offer him a gift."
The hall murmured. Even the boys stopped their jests. A servant stepped forward, holding a long, cloth-wrapped bundle. Alaric took it with reverence, then slowly undid the wrappings. A collective gasp swept the room.
The sheath alone was a marvel, deep black, edged with silver and dark blue, the direwolf of Stark howling proudly from the leather. But the blade…
Alaric drew it free, and the room seemed to chill with the hiss of Valyrian steel.
Benjen stared. "Is that…"
"This is Nightfall," Alaric said. "A sword I won during the Greyjoy Rebellion, from Ser Harras Harlaw. It was once a prize, but I've come to believe it belongs here, with you. Ice is the only sword I need now."
He walked the length of the table, the sword cradled in his arms as one might carry a sleeping child. When he reached Benjen, he offered it with both hands.
Benjen rose slowly, heart hammering. "Alaric… this is too much."
Alaric shook his head. "No. You've given more than I ever could, uncle. This is my way of honoring that. Of honoring you."
Benjen took the blade. It was lighter than he expected, yet perfectly balanced, as though it had known his hand from the start.
The hall erupted in cheers. Rickard rushed to his side again, his small hands reaching up to touch the sword.
"Is that really Valyrian steel?" the boy breathed.
"Aye," Benjen said, still staring at the blade. "And now it's yours, one day."
Alaric raised a hand again, and the room fell still.
"I haven't forgotten my other Uncle," he said, turning to Ned. Another bundle was brought forward. Benjen could see his older brother's eyes narrow in suspicion.
Alaric unwrapped the bundle with care. A second sheath, this one of burnished gray with a red border. The direwolf again, this time set beside stylized waves and a bleeding moon. When Alaric drew the blade, a hush fell.
It was red, deep, bloody red, as if the steel itself drank war. The edge glinted like firelight on a still pool.
"This is Red Rain," Alaric said. "Ancestral blade of House Drumm. I found it two moons past, in the hands of a merchant traveling through the Neck. He claimed his son took it from a Drumm captain during the Rebellion, then died of his wounds. He had no use for the blade. But I did."
Alaric walked to Ned and held it out. "For your service, Uncle. For all the burdens you've carried in silence."
Ned rose, a rare softness in his eyes. He took the sword and tested its weight.
"It has a good balance," he said quietly. "Like Dawn."
"You deserve something more than silence and duty," Alaric replied.
The applause this time was thunderous, almost shaking the rafters. Even the girls clapped, though Sansa did so delicately, careful not to spill her drink.
Benjen looked around the hall, his heart swelling. This, he thought, was what it meant to be Stark. Not just duty and honor, but legacy, and steel, and the bonds that held fast even in winter.
Dacey leaned into him. "You'll have to name the sword now."
Benjen smiled. "No need. It already has a name. And I'll carve it into legend before I die."
Cregan, still squirming in his lap, reached for the blade.
"Not yet, pup," Benjen murmured. "But one day."
He looked back at Alaric, who had returned to his seat, face half in shadow, half in light.
"One day," Benjen whispered, "they'll sing of you too."
[The Next Morning]
The next morning came cloaked in a gray mist, as if the gods themselves mourned the parting. Winterfell stirred early. Benjen stood beneath the godswood, Nightfall strapped across his waist in its black-and-silver sheath, the weight of it familiar now, comforting. The crisp autumn wind rustled through the crimson leaves of the heart tree, and he closed his eyes, offering a silent prayer.
When he emerged, the courtyard was a bustle of activity, horses being saddled, carts loaded with provisions, swaddled children bundled into arms. The banners of House Stark of Sea Dragon Point fluttered proudly beside those of Winterfell, a silver-gray direwolf swimming beneath storm-wracked waves.
Dacey adjusted the fur-lined cloak around Cregan, who clung to her neck, wide-eyed and solemn. Their daughter Lyarra stood beside her, pale and tearful, clutching Sansa's hand like a lifeline. Sansa, too, had reddened eyes, but she held herself with poise, lips trembling despite her best efforts.
"Must we go?" Lyarra asked, her voice cracking.
Benjen knelt and pulled her close. "Aye, my wolf pup. We must build our hall by the sea, and you'll have your own chamber with windows that look out over the cliffs. You'll see the whales in the bay and the stars on clear nights like nowhere else in the realm."
She buried her face into his collar and sobbed. Sansa held her, weeping softly now too, and whispered comforting words.
Nearby, Rickard stood among the wolf pack, Robb, Jon, Osric, Harlon, and Roddy Dustin, Dorren, Edric, and Elric Snow, each dressed in their finest traveling leathers, each trying not to look too affected.
"You'll have to keep the others from getting soft without me," Rickard muttered, adjusting his sword belt.
Jon gave him a nod. "We'll train every day. So when you come back, we'll all still be able to best you."
"I'll believe it when I see it," Rickard said, smirking, though his voice wavered.
Bran, flanked by Edwyn Stark, stepped forward. "Will you write to us?"
Rickard hesitated, then nodded. "Only if you promise to send ravens back."
The boys clapped each other's shoulders. It was a solemn farewell, full of silent promises and unspoken affection. Benjen watched them with pride and a touch of sorrow. Winterfell was in good hands, but the bond between these lads would stretch thin over the leagues, and time had a way of thinning it further.
Benjen turned then and walked to the stone steps where Alaric and Ned stood, side by side.
Alaric's eyes were shadowed by the hood of his cloak, his expression unreadable. "The road west is long," he said. "But you will not walk it alone."
"No," Benjen replied. "But it'll be different without your company."
Ned clasped Benjen's arm tightly. "You've always walked ahead of me when it came to carving paths. I'll miss your counsel, and your stubbornness."
"And I'll miss your brooding silences," Benjen said with a grin. "Tell Catelyn to keep the ravens flying. I want word of every child's mischief."
Alaric stepped forward. "When the seat is ready, I will come. Wolf's Haven will not remain a distant name on the map."
Benjen studied his nephew for a long moment. "Then I'll make sure it's worthy of your arrival."
With one last glance at the keep, Benjen mounted his horse, Dacey riding beside him with Cregan in her arms, Lyarra tucked before a maid on another steed. Rickard rode just behind, already asking questions about the route west.
The gates of Winterfell groaned open, and the procession began to move.
Benjen did not look back.
[Two Weeks Later, Just Past Deepwood Motte]
The pine-scented air of the northwestern wilds filled Benjen's lungs as he rode ahead of the column, the sea wind already beginning to drift through the trees as they neared the coast. The Deepwood men had given them fine hospitality, Lord Galbart Glover offering his hall and food for the night, but Benjen felt the pull of the road stronger than ever.
Rickard rode beside him, sitting tall in his saddle. Though only 2-and-10, the boy already had the makings of his father's height and his mother's fierce eyes.
"Sea's close," Rickard said, peering toward the horizon.
"Aye," Benjen replied. "You can smell the salt when the wind shifts."
Rickard was quiet for a while, then said, "Lord Galbart spoke of a new fishing hamlet half a day's ride south. Says his men helped build it over the last moon."
Benjen nodded. "They did. It's one of a dozen new settlements Alaric's chartered along the coast, refugees, displaced folk, even smallfolk from the Riverlands have come to start anew. The new roads make the passage easier, and Alaric's taxes give them time to grow."
Rickard's eyes shone with curiosity. "What about Wolf's Haven? Are there villages there too?"
"There are now," Benjen said with pride. "Two full villages already, a third being raised near the estuary where the herring schools run thick. They say the black cod nets burst last season."
"Why there?" Rickard asked. "The land's wild and cold."
Benjen gave a small smile. "Because it's wild. And because Alaric knows that if you tame the land with your hands and your will, it becomes yours in truth. This, what we're doing, it's what the old kings used to do. Settling new land, calling bannermen not to defend castles, but to raise them."
Rickard was quiet for a time. "Do you think we'll have to fight?"
Benjen did not answer at once. "There are always fights, son. Sometimes with swords, sometimes with hunger or storms. But we'll be ready."
Rickard looked ahead, thoughtful. "Then I'll make sure our name is known there too."
Benjen looked over at his son with a faint grin. "You already bear the Stark name, Rickard. But let's see what kind of legend you carve for it."
[One Week Later, Wolf's Haven]
The sight of the sea broke upon them like a revelation.
They crested a final hill, and before them lay Wolf's Haven.
The castle stood atop a rocky promontory, its walls newly built from gray stone quarried inland and reinforced with ironwood beams. It rose not as an ancient ruin, but as a work of purpose, angular and stern, a fortress meant to watch over the deep. Its towers bore no ivy, its gates no rust. And its banners, silver-gray direwolves above stormy waves, snapped in the brisk wind.
Below the castle sprawled two walled villages, their thatched roofs clustered together like barnacles on a stone. Smoke curled from dozens of chimneys, and far off, the sails of fishing ships glided across the wide bay.
Benjen halted his horse, drinking it all in.
Dacey pulled up beside him, her hair tousled from the ride, her eyes bright. "It's more than I imagined."
"It's just the beginning," Benjen murmured.
They descended the slope as villagers emerged from the gates to greet them, men in cloaks of seal fur, women with babies on their hips, children running beside the horses.
Lord Benjen Stark of Sea Dragon Point, they cried. Welcome home.
Benjen dismounted in the central yard as the castle gates swung open. Cregan squealed in excitement as Dacey set him down. Rickard stepped forward, his hand on the hilt of his sword.
Benjen turned and looked up at the towers of Wolf's Haven. It would need more work, more hearths, more arms, more names to swear to it. But it stood. That was enough.
Nightfall hung at his side, cold and sharp and waiting.
He turned to his family, the people who had followed him to the edge of the world, and smiled.
"Let's begin."