The weight of twenty namesdays pressed down on Torrhen Stark like the unending winter he so often dreamed of. Twenty years since the silent bargain struck at the Neck, the Pact of Ice and Fire that bound the direwolf to the dragon. He had chosen survival, not glory, and the echoes of that choice still resonated through the halls of Winterfell.
Brandon, his son, mirrored his tension as they stood outside the birthing chamber, the flickering torchlight painting their worried faces in stark relief against the ancient stone. The muffled cries from within spoke of the primal struggle of life entering the world.
"The maester said it's going well... but it's been hours. Too long," Brandon muttered, his pacing agitated.
Torrhen remained a stoic figure, his black furs absorbing the dim light. "The North doesn't yield to time, nor do its women. She'll come through. And so will the child." His voice, though low, held the unwavering certainty of the northern winds.
"Gods, I hope you're right. I've seen peace, but never trusted it. It always feels like quiet before a storm," Brandon confessed, his gaze fixed on the heavy oak door.
Torrhen's eyes flickered towards the chamber. "Because it is. Peace never lasts. The dragon and wolf share a fire for now, but winter waits — and not just the turning of seasons. I've seen it."
Brandon stilled. "The dreams again?"
Torrhen gave a slow, heavy nod. "Not dreams—not truly. Visions. They come in fragments. Fire devoured by shadow. A cold so deep it cracks stone. Wolves running through snow that bleeds. A darkness in the sky... no stars. And something older than death, walking in silence."
A chill seemed to grip the corridor. "The Long Night," Brandon whispered, the words carrying the weight of ancient dread.
"Or something like it. A second one. I saw the Wall broken. The dead are marching south. Even dragons fell in my dreams — frozen and shattered."
Unease tightened Brandon's features. "Then all of this… everything we've done, the kneeling, the peace… is it all for nothing?"
Torrhen's gaze sharpened. "No. I bent the knee to buy time. Time to prepare. Time to survive. That boy — your son — may be the turning point. I don't know why, but he is important. His name echoes in the trees when I dream. Theon Stark. A name the old gods do not ignore."
Brandon swallowed hard. "He'll grow strong. I'll see to it."
"He must be more than strong. He must be wise. The North cannot afford lords who only raise swords. It needs leaders who listen to stone and wind, who remember what we are. Winter is not a season. It is a warning."
Brandon nodded solemnly. "And if your visions are true... then the North must be more than a shield. It must be the sword."
Just then, the heavy door creaked open. A young steward emerged, his chest heaving. "My lords... It's done. Twins. Strong lungs. The mother and children live."
A shaky breath escaped Brandon's lips. A small, weary smile touched Torrhen's face. "Then let the North mark this night well. For tonight, Twin Starks is born... and the future begins its long road."
Later, within the dim warmth of the birthing chamber, the embers in the hearth cast dancing shadows on the stone walls. The air was thick with the comforting scents of woodsmoke and the crisp tang of the winter air seeping through the ancient stones. The newborn twins, Theon and Jonnos Stark, lay nestled in their cradle, tiny bundles of life against the roughspun blankets.
Torrhen sat by the window, his gaze drawn to the snow-dusted branches of the Godswood, his weathered face etched with contemplation. Brandon stood beside the cradle, a newfound tenderness in his eyes as he looked upon his sons.
"Look at them, father. They already bear the mark of the North. Strong as wolves."
Gilliane Stark, pale but radiant, spoke from her seat by the hearth, a quiet pride coloring her voice. "And they're as different as day and night. Theon... he's a force. He cries like a storm, loud and clear, and his eyes — they shine silver when the light strikes. But Jonnos... his eyes are darker, deeper, like they're pulling in the very shadows of the room."
Torrhen turned from the window, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow. "Aye, Theon's eyes... they almost look like liquid silver when the light falls on them, like the moonlight on snow. There's something in that boy that calls to the old blood. But Jonnos... his eyes are darker still. Not grey, but almost black. They absorb the light, like they're looking into the void."
Brandon raised an eyebrow. "A strange pair, isn't it? One with eyes that shine like the storm, and the other like the night. Which one do you think will carry the weight of Winterfell, father?"
Torrhen paused, his gaze distant, as if peering into the swirling mists of the future. "It's not always the brightest light that burns the longest, Brandon. Theon will have fire — that much is clear. But Jonnos… he may be the one to carry the weight of the North's shadows. He's quieter. There's a stillness in him that could be a gift… or a burden."
A sudden, sharp cry pierced the quiet – Theon, his tiny voice demanding attention. The sound echoed through the chamber, primal and strong, and outside, the wind seemed to answer with a fierce howl.
Gilliane looked towards the window, a flicker of concern in her eyes. "Do you hear that?"
As if on cue, a long, mournful howl rose from the Godswood, sharp and clear. The wolves were answering the newborn cries, a sound as ancient and familiar as the stone walls of Winterfell.
Torrhen nodded slowly, a deep resonance in his voice. "The wolves hear them. They are already calling to the boys. To Theon, who cries like thunder... and to Jonnos, whose silence is like the stillness before a storm."
Brandon glanced at the window, a troubled expression on his face. "Do you think the wolves know something we don't? The pack is bound to our family... to Winterfell."
Torrhen's gaze remained fixed on the distant trees. "The North has always been alive with spirits we don't always see. The wolves are the soul of Winterfell. They'll know what the children are before we do." The howling from the Godswood faded into the wilderness, as if the ancient forest itself was absorbing the sound.
Gilliane spoke softly, her voice almost a prayer. "They've answered. The gods have heard. The children will carry the weight of Winterfell in their blood, one way or another."
Brandon sighed, running a weary hand over his face. "I only hope we're ready. They're born with the weight of the North in their veins. Who knows what path they'll walk?"
Torrhen's voice was firm, though his eyes held a hint of uncertainty. "The North will shape them, as it shaped me. But their hearts will decide their fate. Let them walk the path they choose. For now, we protect them. For the storm that's coming… it will find no rest until it's over."
Another cry, softer this time, came from the cradle – Jonnos. It was almost a whisper, yet it echoed in the quiet room with an unsettling clarity.
Gilliane offered a small smile, though a shadow of fear lingered in her eyes. "Both of them... will be strong. I know it."
Torrhen finally turned from the window, his gaze softening as he looked at the twins. "Yes. Strong enough to face whatever comes. Strong enough to survive the darkness. We will guide them… but the wolves will show them the way."
As dusk settled over Winterfell, casting long shadows across the Lord's Solar, Torrhen and Brandon stood in the flickering firelight, the weight of their responsibilities heavy in the silence. Torrhen's aged frame seemed to sag under the burden of leadership, while Brandon, though younger, carried the same hard lines of duty etched onto his face.
"It's been a long road, Brandon," Torrhen began, his voice a low rumble. "The birth of the twins brings hope, but there's little enough to go around these days. The North... it struggles. Winter's toll has drained our coffers. The smallfolk are just starting to leave their shelters and head back to the fields. But it will take more than the thaw to recover what we've lost." He paused, his gaze sweeping the room as if seeking solace in the ancient stones.
Brandon's eyes hardened. "The North was never rich in coin, Father. We trade what we can, and we farm what we can, but we've always been strong in our unity, in our people. But now... with the wounds of the winter fresh, there's not much to look forward to."
Torrhen nodded solemnly. "Aye, we've been through worse, but the path ahead will be long and fraught with difficulties. We'll need to keep the bannermen united, but I fear their loyalty is fraying. Some have begun to question... well, the price we paid." His gaze met Brandon's, heavy with unspoken concerns. "And not just with coin, but with honor."
Brandon's jaw tightened, his voice growing more intense. "You're speaking of the kneeling. Some of the old lords still haven't forgiven you for bending the knee to Aegon. They still whisper behind closed doors. The ones who claim we should have fought, should have resisted, should have bled for the North."
A flicker of frustration crossed Torrhen's weary face. "I know. I hear the whispers, too. They say the North is lost, that we've surrendered everything." He exhaled deeply, sinking into a nearby chair, his hand resting heavily on the carved wood. "But I did what was necessary. We were outnumbered, outmatched. To defy Aegon and the Targaryen dragons would have been the end of the North. I bent the knee to save our people, to preserve what was left of the North, to keep our traditions intact. It was not weakness. It was the hardest thing I've ever done." His voice softened, tinged with the lingering ache of that momentous decision. "But before that... there were voices in the hall, voices in this very Solar that said we should fight. You remember, don't you?"
Brandon frowned, a memory clouding his gaze. "I remember. I remember when Brandon Snow—your brother—suggested we go to the enemy's camp, during the hour of the wolf, and use the weirwood poisons to kill Aegon's dragons. He was adamant. Said it was our only chance to take the dragons down before they even had a chance to fight." His hands clenched into fists. "He was ready to sacrifice everything... even himself. He said he could slip into the Targaryen camp undetected, poison the dragons. I didn't believe him then, didn't know if he could pull it off. But I know he was determined, more determined than any of us, even you."
A shadow of regret darkened Torrhen's eyes. "Brandon Snow... He was always a man of action. Reckless, perhaps. But driven." He paused, his thoughts turning inward. "I remember the night he came to me before the council, after we'd already received word of Aegon's landing. He proposed the plan, told me it was our only way to stop the dragons. He was furious that I was even considering surrender. He said that if I bent the knee, we would be dishonoring the North forever." His tone grew quieter. "It wasn't an easy decision, Brandon. He begged me not to kneel, said that no matter what, we should fight." He shook his head, rubbing his temple as if trying to erase the memory. "But I could see the flames in his eyes, the fire of a man who'd already made his choice, who was ready to die for it. And I... I couldn't let him throw away everything. I couldn't send him to die in some Targaryen camp for a plan that might not have worked."
"I don't think he would've cared," Brandon said softly, a hint of sorrow in his voice. "He would've gone, regardless. And maybe... maybe he was right. Maybe we should've fought." He looked away, towards the darkening sky. "Now he's out there. In Essos. With the Company of the Rose. A mercenary, living among men of no honor, no cause." He shook his head as if to dispel the image. "But he's alive. And for that, we should be grateful."
Torrhen sighed, his voice heavy with weariness. "I've heard from him. He's well, according to his letter. He's found his place among the sellswords, it seems. But I still wonder if I made the right choice. I wonder if we were too quick to bend the knee." His voice lowered to a near whisper. "But I did what was necessary. For the North. For our people."
Brandon nodded slowly, his tone resolute. "I know you did, Father. You did what you thought was best." He met his father's gaze, a flicker of pride and respect in his eyes. "The North will survive. We always do. Even if some of our blood is spilled in the process."