Game of Thrones:Dawn of Ice and Fire.

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Chapter Forty: Shadows

Ned Stark sat in his solar, his hands clasped tightly as he listened to Jon recount what had happened in the Wolfswood. The fire in the hearth crackled softly, but the warmth it provided did nothing to ease the cold rage settling deep in Ned's chest.

Robb sat silent beside Jon, his face unreadable, his hands resting on his knees. The boy had always been expressive, easy to read, but now… now there was something different about him.

Across from them, Catelyn hovered, checking over both boys with motherly concern, her hands brushing against their arms and shoulders, searching for injuries. "Are you certain you're not hurt?" she asked, cupping Robb's face and scanning him for any sign of hidden wounds.

"We're fine, Mother," Robb murmured, though his voice lacked its usual confidence.

Jon, as always, remained still under her care, his expression carefully neutral. But Ned knew his son—he could see the slight tension in Jon's jaw, the way his fingers curled ever so slightly into fists.

Dacey Stark, on the other hand, was furious.

She stood near the table, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her face stormy. "That damn squid!" she spat. "You should have let me rip his head off myself!"

Benjen, standing beside her, let out a slow breath and placed a calming hand on her shoulder. But even he could not fully mask the anger in his own eyes.

"Theon was our responsibility," Benjen said, though his voice was tight. "Ned, what are we going to do about this?"

Ned exhaled through his nose, looking at the boys once more.

Theon Greyjoy was dead.

Robb had killed him.

And, gods help him, Ned could not bring himself to feel grief.

He had taken Theon in after the Greyjoy Rebellion, had treated him as his own, had raised him beside his sons. And yet, the boy had betrayed them.

Jon and Robb could have been dead.

If not for the direwolves, for Jon's instincts, for Robb's resolve…

Ned clenched his jaw, looking at Ghost and Grey Wind, who lay near the hearth, their massive frames stretched out in the warmth of the fire. Their fur was clean now, but Ned had no doubt that only hours ago it had been soaked in blood.

This was the second time the direwolves had saved his family.

The old gods had sent them. He was sure of it now.

He turned to his brother. "Benjen is right. No matter what happened, Theon was our ward. Robb did the right thing, but we must provide an explanation to House Greyjoy."

Dacey let out a sharp breath, shaking her head. "What is there to explain? The gods were merciful—the squid was dealt with before he could cause any real damage. The gods should sink the damn Iron Islands, along with all those filthy Ironborn!"

Catelyn shot her a sharp look. "Dacey—"

"I won't apologize," Dacey snapped. "That traitor lured them into a trap. He would have had their heads on spikes. And for what? Conspiring with some mad bastard? He deserved to die."

She turned to Robb, her voice softer. "You did what needed to be done."

Robb did not look at her. He only nodded, staring at his hands.

Jon, who had remained silent as the others spoke, finally leaned forward.

"Let's not complicate this," he said evenly. "We'll tell the truth—Ramsay Snow ambushed us in the Wolfswood. Theon died in the ambush, just like the rest of them."

Ned studied him carefully. Jon's voice was calm, his face impassive.

But Ned knew his son.

He knew Jon wasn't just speaking pragmatically.

He was speaking from experience.

He had already considered all of this. Already calculated the best path forward.

That realization sent an odd sort of chill down Ned's spine.

Jon wasn't a boy playing at war games.

He was a man who had seen what war required.

"Even if we do that," Benjen said, rubbing his chin, "the Greyjoys won't care. They'll still want vengeance."

"Then we make sure they never get the chance," Jon said simply. "We keep an eye on the Ironborn. Make sure we don't give them an opportunity to strike. If they come for us, we crush them before they can cause any harm."

There was no hesitation in his voice.

No doubt.

Just certainty.

Ned nodded slowly. "Agreed."

Jon and Robb stood, ready to take their leave. Ned watched his eldest son closely.

Jon was as composed as ever, but Robb…

Robb was not himself.

The boy had not spoken much, had barely looked anyone in the eye. He had killed before—on the battlefield at White Harbor—but this had been different.

This was Theon.

His friend. His brother.

Catelyn reached out, brushing Robb's hair back gently, but he barely reacted.

"Go rest," Ned said finally. "Both of you."

Jon nodded and left without another word.

Robb hesitated.

Then, with a small nod, he turned and followed his brother.

Ned let out a slow breath, leaning back in his chair.

Once the boys were gone, Benjen spoke first.

"We have to deal with this properly," he said darkly.

Ned nodded, his expression grim. "Agreed."

"If Ramsay Snow acted on his own," Catelyn said carefully, "then Roose Bolton may not have sanctioned this attack."

"And if Roose did?" Dacey asked.

Ned sighed.

That was the question, wasn't it?

Roose Bolton was cautious. He played the game slowly. If he had not moved against them during Robert's Rebellion, if he had remained loyal for this long… why would he act now?

And yet, the attack had happened.

Ramsay had boasted that someone had offered gold for Jon and Robb's heads.

Who?

Who wanted them dead badly enough to reach all the way into the North?

Ned rubbed his temples. "We send a raven to the Dreadfort. Summon Roose Bolton to Winterfell."

Benjen nodded. "And if he refuses?"

"Then we will know," Ned said simply.

The room fell into silence.

Finally, Dacey let out a breath. "One thing's for certain."

Ned raised an eyebrow.

She smirked, shaking her head. "We should all be thanking the gods for those direwolves."

Ned glanced at the hearth.

Grey Wind and Ghost lay there, watching them.

And for the second time that day, Ned whispered a quiet prayer of thanks to the old gods.