Winterfell's quieter than it ought to be.
Father rode south with Benjen and Lyanna weeks ago, off chasing songs and banners at Harrenhal. Let the southrons knock each other off horses and play at their pretty little games. That sort of thing was never meant for the likes of me. Might never be now that I think about it.
The halls feel colder without them. You hear every bootstep now, every door creak, every damned raven cawing like it owns the place. Even the wind sounds louder.
Not that I mind it though. Quiet's no bad thing. Gives me space to breathe. Space to take a step back and enjoy the peace.
Ser Rodrik lets me have the yard first, before the rest of the guards, recruits and guests crawl out of bed. They stumble in later, swinging their blades like they're chopping firewood the most of em. They train because someone tells them to. I train because no one's going to hand me a bloody thing.
I'm Wulfric Snow. Stark blood, but not Stark name. I don't have a banner. No songs will be sung for me. And I won't be sitting beside any king's table.
The South's full of fools chasing glory and silk sheets … atleast thatsI've got stone beneath my boots, steel in my hands, and cold in my bones. That's enough for now.
Still, some boys linger round. Sons of lords, second-borns mostly. Left behind while their fathers went south to chase their fortunes. Some eye me, like they want to test their luck. Others just watch, waiting to see if I'll stumble.
Then there's Brandon Crowl and Domund Snow.
Brandon's Skagosi, quiet as a rock and built like one too. Doesn't talk much, but when his axe swings, you stay out of its path I've learned. Men on Skagos don't fuss over names and titles like the rest. You live or you don't. Simple as that, a way of life I think I could like.
Domund… Domund wears his statues like a stone tied round his neck. Tries to play it off, but I see the weight in his eyes. The way some of the others talk gets to him. Bastard cuts deeper for him than it does for me.
Sometimes, when we're done training, he'll look over and say soft, "You reckon they'll ever call us proper men, like the trueborn?"
I never have much for that. Talking won't fix it. Swinging steel might.
We ain't the same, the three of us. But we're alike enough. Bastards, outsiders, unwanted by most, but stubborn enough to stay.
The South don't know our names. But one day, the North will, I can feel it.
I met Domund and Brandon like every other time my life changed, in a fight or dealing with a bad situation. It was near midmorning when I found them and a day ill remember for good and bad reasons.
Behind the kennels, good for hiding trouble from the grown ups. And trouble was brewing. Six of them, lordlings, left behind while their fathers chased banners at Harrenhal. Second sons. Third sons. Boys who think names are armor and their blood makes them better men.
Domund and Brandon stood at the center of the circle. It was tight now. No fists yet, but it was coming. You could feel it, like a storm rolling over the hills.
Domund stood stiff, fists clenched, jaw tight. Brandon stood beside him like the cliffs he came from, quiet, heavy, solid. Skagosi don't waste words.
One of the older boys, some fat chubby checked brat was grinning wide, like a predator who smelled blood.
"Well look at this, lads. The goat-blood and the whore-born. What a pair."
The others chuckled and circled closer.
"Crowl's mother likely took a goat to her bed," said one. "Or her brother. Same thing on Skagos."
"Not that it matters," another snorted, "half of Skagos bed beasts anyway. You can't tell man from mountain goat up there with how ugly all of ya are."
Still Brandon said nothing. But his eyes had gone sharp. The kind of sharp that only leads to broken teeth.
Then they turned to Domund.
"And you, Snow…" fat boy sneered. "Bastard to a bastard's house. Your mother was some wet-legged camp whore your father couldn't even name. That makes you twice the mistake."
Another chimed in, spitting near Domund's boots. "No Karstark would claim you. Even dogs have better blood."
"You shouldn't even wear steel. You should be mucking stables like the rest of your kind. Or better yet, just move into the stable, sure would save all of us the smell you got."
Domund's fists shook. His face was red, breath shallow. The words cut him deep, they always did. He tried to stand tall, but I saw how hard he was fighting to hold it in.
Then the last one leaned in with a sly smirk uttered his last words..
"Maybe you two should share a goat and be done with it."
That was enough.
I stepped forward, but not alone.
Cregan Norrey and Torrhen Slate flanked me, close and steady. My new friends, weird to call anyone other than family but all the same. They didn't need words. They saw what I saw.
"That's a lot of barking for pups who've never bit anything tougher than soft bread," I said, loud and sharp.
The lordlings turned, surprised to find it wasn't just me.
Fat boy sneered. "Back off, Snow. You want to stand with these misborns? You'll get what's coming same as them."
I shrugged, my voice calm. "Aye. But I figure you'll get it worse."
"You think you scare us? There's six of us."
"Six isn't as many as you think," Torrhen said, cracking his knuckles.
Cregan smiled his crooked toothy grin faintly, flexing his fingers. "We're ready to throw down. You're doing all the talking like some dipshit not knowing when to shut up."
The boys shifted now, blood heating, pride too thick to back down. Yet they're eyes twitched as they saw the odds shrinking.
"You lot'll regret this, Snow," the fat boy spat. "You're standing on the wrong side."
"Maybe," I said. "But not today."
Then one of them shoved Brandon hard in the chest. Trying to start it. The shove was a mistake.
Brandon caught the boy's arm before it finished, thick fingers snapping shut around his wrist like iron. The lordling's eyes went wide as Brandon yanked him forward, stepped in, and drove his forehead into the boy's face with a sickening crack. Blood sprayed from the lordling's nose as he crumpled to the ground.
That broke the dam. The brawl exploded.
One of the lordlings charged at me wild and open. He led with his head, stupidly bold. I stepped aside, caught him by the collar, and rammed my fist square into his gut. He let out a wheeze like a bellows emptying and dropped to his knees. A short punch behind his ear finished him.
To my left, Cregan was already moving. One of the older boys swung at him with wide, clumsy fists. Cregan ducked low, grabbed the boy's belt and shoulder, and drove him headfirst into the kennel wall with a hard thud. The boy slid down, groaning.
Torrhen met his attacker clean. The lad swung fast, but Torrhen was quicker. He caught the boy's wrist, twisted hard, and slammed his free fist into the boy's cheek. The snap of bone rang sharp, and the boy dropped without another sound.
That left two, and both had gone for Domund.
They swarmed him together, one grabbing at his tunic while the other swung high. Domund tried to block the first hit but the second landed, rocking his head sideways. He staggered but stayed on his feet, arms up, taking the next few blows as best he could. He fought to hold his ground, but two-on-one was heavy work.
The pair shoved him back toward the kennel wall, fists and elbows hammering in short bursts. Domund grunted, ducking his head to shield himself as best he could, but blood was already running from his brow.
I turned fast, no time to think. I caught one of Domund's attackers from behind, grabbing his shoulder and driving my fist straight into his jaw. His legs gave out beneath him like a sack of oats.
The last boy spun toward me, only to find Brandon there instead.
Brandon grabbed him by the back of the neck, jerked him off balance, and drove his knee up into the boy's stomach. As the boy folded, Brandon finished it with a brutal elbow to the back of his head, dropping him face-first into the dirt.
And just like that, it was over.
Six boys groaning, bleeding, sprawled on the ground. None of them dared to stand.
I stood there, breathing hard, blood warm on my split lip. My knuckles throbbed. But the grin was already pulling at my mouth.
"Well," I said, wiping my lip, "I'd say we did fine work."
Cregan gave a low chuckle. "Aye. They'll think twice next time."
Torrhen shook his head. "Next time they'll bring friends."
Domund stood upright, still panting. His lip was split, one eye already swelling. But he stood. And he didn't look away.
"Doesn't matter how many come I guess, as long as we stick together, right?" Domund's question was filled with uncertainty like he wasn't sure what this was.
Brandon just nodded once at me, calm and quiet as always. I nodded back reassured that I made the right decision… until I heard his voice.
We didn't get far.
We hadn't even rounded the corner of the kennels before Ser Rodrik found us. Or maybe he'd been looking for us already. His sharp eyes caught the state of us at once, split lips, bruised knuckles, Domund's swelling eye, Brandon's bloodied sleeve.
The faint shouts and groans from behind us probably helped. Rodrik didn't raise his voice. He didn't have to.
"Gods help me, boys," he muttered. "What in seven bloody hells have you done?"
No one answered straight off.
The weight of his stare landed square on me, like it usually did.
"Inside. Now. All of you."
We followed, heads low but steps steady. The walk back to the Great Keep felt longer than it ever had.
-
A short time later, within Lord Rickard Stark's solar.
The heavy door closed behind Ser Rodrik and Maester Walys as they stood before Lord Rickard Stark.
Rickard was silent for a time, his eyes fixed on the fire as it popped and cracked, the flames dancing low. His hands remained clasped behind his back, shoulders tight beneath the weight of his house's duties.
Rodrik finally broke the quiet. "It wasn't unprovoked, my lord. The others started it. Six against two, near as I could tell before Wulfric and the others stepped in."
Walys nodded softly. "There's truth in that. But truth won't matter to the fathers. Not once they hear their sons were bloodied under your roof."
"Aye," Rickard said, his voice low. "And there will be letters. Accusations. Demands."
Rodrik's tone was grim but even. "It could be made Wulfric's fault. The other boys might claim he led it. That he set it in motion."
Walys gave Rickard a careful look. "If you lay the burden at Wulfric's feet, it may quiet some of the lords."
Rickard's eyes narrowed as he stared into the fire. The flickering light caught the sharp edges of his face, but his voice remained steady.
"No." He shook his head once. "I will bear it. The fault will be mine. They were guests under my roof, my responsibility. I will see to it."
Rodrik hesitated. "The boy may need to learn the weight of…"
Rickard cut him off, his voice colder.
"He learns enough. He carries more than most boys twice his age already. Being a bastard is hard enough, being a firstborn bastard to a great house is a terrible burden. A weight that no child should bear for its the sin of the father or mother."
Walys spoke softly, with the careful tone only a maester dares take with a lord. "You care for him, my lord."
Rickard didn't answer at first. Then, very softly: "He is my blood, and blood is duty."
The fire cracked again as silence settled over them.
Finally, Rickard exhaled and turned. "Send him in."
-
Wulfric's eyes and ears.
I stepped into the solar as the door creaked open. My grandfather stood facing me, his face unreadable.
For a long moment, we said nothing. The fire hissed behind him.
"You fought six lordlings this morning," he said at last.
"Aye," I answered.
"You bloodied them all."
"Aye."
"Their fathers trusted me to foster them, to keep them safe."
I swallowed but kept my voice steady. "I know."
"You've embarrassed them, and you've embarrassed me."
His words landed heavy, but I didn't flinch.
"They started it," I said, quiet but firm. "They cornered Domund and Brandon. Six against two."
"You could've fetched Rodrik. You could've called for a master-at-arms."
I shook my head. "There wouldn't have been time."
Rickard studied me long and hard, then asked, "You think yourself their leader now?"
I hesitated. "I don't know if I'd call it that. But I won't stand by when they're cornered."
His mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but not displeased.
"You're your father's son."
He turned back toward the fire, voice softer, almost to himself. "There will be letters. Apologies. Some lords may demand coin or promises. I will see to it."
I nodded. "Aye."
He faced me again, his voice harder. "You cannot think fists will answer every insult. You are my blood, whether you carry my name or not. That weight follows you everywhere."
I swallowed once. "If I stood by while they were beaten, what weight would that carry?"
Rickard studied me a moment longer, eyes sharp as winter frost. Then he gave the faintest nod.
"A true Stark answer, that."
The room grew quiet again before he finally dismissed me.
"Go now."
I bowed my head. "Yes, my lord."
As I stepped out, the others were waiting. Bruised faces, swollen knuckles and steady eyes. No words needed, we fell into pace and walked together.