The Stark Shadow

The courtyard of Winterfell was alive with activity as lords and their retinues arrived from across the North. The banners of the great Northern houses fluttered in the cold wind, their sigils a vibrant reminder of the region's unity and strength—white sunbursts on black for the Karstarks, roaring giants for the Umbers, the flayed man of the Boltons, and the green-and-blue merman of House Manderly. The celebration of Eddard Stark's sixteenth name day had drawn the most powerful families of the North, and Winterfell hummed with the energy of both camaraderie and politics. 

The Umbers arrived first, their entrance as grand and raucous as expected. Greatjon Umber, a mountain of a man, clapped Rickard Stark on the back with such enthusiasm that it drew hearty laughs from those nearby. The Umbers exuded strength and blunt honesty, their laughter echoing across the courtyard as they greeted the Starks like long-lost brothers. 

House Manderly came next, a sharp contrast to the Umbers. Lord Wyman Manderly descended from his carriage with an affable smile, his booming laugh adding a warmth to the cold air. "Rickard, it has been too long!" Wyman exclaimed, pulling the Stark patriarch into a bear-like embrace. He turned his jovial attention to Eddard. "And this must be the man of the hour—young Eddard Stark. Your father tells me you are already a force to be reckoned with." 

Eddard bowed his head humbly. "Thank you, my lord. I hope to prove worthy of your words." 

Wyman's eyes sparkled with genuine fondness. "Spoken like a true Stark." 

As Wyman moved to greet the other lords, his gaze landed on Talion, standing at the periphery of the gathering. With an inquisitive smile, he approached the ranger. "And you must be Talion—the man I've heard so much about. A ranger from lands beyond our ken. Now that's a tale I'd like to hear over a good cup of wine." 

Talion inclined his head respectfully. "The honor would be mine, Lord Manderly." 

Wyman clapped Talion's shoulder with a grin. "Good! We'll talk later." 

House Karstark arrived in measured fashion. Lord Karlon Karstark was reserved, his greetings formal but steeped in respect. The Karstarks' loyalty to Winterfell was steadfast, their presence a quiet reminder of the North's enduring bonds. 

Then came the Boltons. Roose Bolton's entrance was silent and unassuming, yet his presence commanded attention. He greeted Rickard with a polite nod, his pale eyes coolly assessing the crowd. While other lords exuded warmth and camaraderie, Roose's detachment was a cold wind cutting through the gathering. Talion, standing on the outskirts, felt an unease stir within him as Roose's gaze briefly rested on the young Starks before moving on. 

The lords gathered in the courtyard, exchanging pleasantries as servants took their horses and unloaded carriages. Talion observed the interplay with sharp eyes. He noted the genuine camaraderie between Rickard and Greatjon, the cautious diplomacy of the Karstarks, and the inscrutable distance of Roose Bolton. Wyman Manderly, with his jovial nature, moved easily among the lords, bridging divides with laughter and easy conversation. 

Eddard stood at the center of it all, his quiet humility drawing approval from the older lords. Greatjon slapped him on the back, declaring him a true Stark, while Lord Karstark praised his discipline. Benjen, meanwhile, bristled slightly under comparisons to his older brother, though he greeted each lord with youthful enthusiasm and an eagerness to prove himself. 

Lyanna, undeterred by the weight of the gathering, wove among the guests with infectious energy. She approached Wyman Manderly with wide-eyed curiosity, peppering him with questions about White Harbor. Her audacity brought a hearty laugh from the lord. "You have the spirit of the North, young lady," he declared. "You remind me of my daughters—fearless and sharp-tongued." 

Rickard watched his daughter with a mixture of pride and exasperation. "Lyanna," he called gently, "leave Lord Manderly be. He's come to enjoy himself, not face an interrogation." 

Lyanna grinned unabashedly but relented, moving on to strike up a conversation with Greatjon, who welcomed her questions with booming laughter. 

As the sun began to set, the lords were ushered into Winterfell's great hall for the feast. The room was alive with warmth and celebration, the fire roaring in the hearth, and the long tables laden with food and drink. The lords and their retinues took their places, the sound of clinking goblets and lively conversation filling the air. 

Talion remained near the edges, his presence quiet but watchful. He noticed how alliances and rivalries revealed themselves in subtle ways—the Umbers' loud camaraderie with the Starks, the Karstarks' reserved distance from the Boltons, and the calculated way Roose Bolton's gaze moved across the room, his thoughts hidden behind an impenetrable mask. 

Eventually, Wyman Manderly sought Talion out, a goblet of wine in hand. "Come, Talion," he said, motioning for him to sit. "Tell me about your adventures. The North is always eager for tales of the unknown." 

Talion joined him, his expression calm. "My journey has been long, Lord Manderly. I've seen lands both beautiful and cursed, fought battles I wish I could forget, and lost much along the way. But I've also learned that there is strength in unity, in people willing to stand together against the darkness." 

Wyman's jovial demeanor softened as he listened. "A good lesson for us all, I think," he said, raising his goblet. "To unity and strength—may we never lose either." 

The evening wore on, the feast a tapestry of stories and alliances forged over wine and laughter. Yet Talion's eyes remained vigilant, noting every shift in the room's energy. Roose Bolton's quiet presence lingered like a shadow at the edge of the gathering, his pale eyes betraying nothing yet seeing everything. 

Eddard moved gracefully among the guests, his demeanor earning quiet admiration. Benjen, though less polished, showed a determination to stand out, his efforts endearing him to some and exasperating others. Lyanna, fearless and spirited, charmed everyone she spoke to, her presence a reminder that the Stark family's strength lay not just in its men but in its women as well. 

As the firelight flickered on the stone walls, Talion allowed himself a moment of quiet reflection. The North was strong, but it was also fragile—a delicate web of loyalties and rivalries. He looked to the young Starks and felt a renewed sense of purpose. They were the future of this land, and he would do everything in his power to prepare them for the trials ahead. 

The feast carried on late into the night, the bonds of the North strengthened over shared stories and laughter.