Ok so third chapter, third new POV, and it's STILL not Harry (sorry). I'll get there in the end I swear. Next chapter. Surely. Not sure how happy I am with this one tbh, so I might edit it a lot late. Unbeta'd as always.

Chapter I - A Stranger Comes to Winterfell

Eddard

Though the blood was hours old, it washed off the blade as easily as if it were fresh. One of the wonders of Valyrian Steel; the precious weapons never lost an edge, rusted or showed any other signs of age, and could always be wiped clean with a little water. Ned found that there was no better place to scrub his sword than at the pool in the Winterfell godswood. Here, beneath the watchful gaze of the heat tree, the waters lapped away not only the blood and grime, but also Ned's sins, which had bloodied the blade in the first place.

He always spent time in the godswood after an execution, and today was no different. The wood was a dark and primal place, three acres of oaks and ironwoods, sentinels and pines, untouched by man He took no pleasure in his duty – no man should find it easy to take a life – but always carried it out without complaint. If Ned was not able to end the life himself, then who was he to pass the sentence? That was his way – the old way. The way of the First Men, whose blood still ran strong throughout the North. In the south things may be different, with their seven gods, fancy septs, and southron knights, but here things were simpler. Faith in the old gods still ran strong.

Each castle had a godswood, each godswood had a weirwood heart tree, and each weirwood a carved face; eyes carved by the mythical children of the forest, so the gods could watch over the men and the lands. They had stood since the dawn age, growing over many millennia, and would remain standing for thousands more, out lasting Ned, outlasting Robb, outlasting Robb's children, his children's children and so on and so forth.

Winterfell's godswood was especially old. The castle itself had sprung up around it. But even back then, before Winterfell, the heart tree had been here, with its melancholy face. Those eyes had watched over eight thousand years of Starks. They had seen the genesis of the family, when Brandon the Builder had laid the first stones of Winterfell, and watched the Stark kings rise and fall, until Torrhen had knelt and the Starks became lords instead. The weirwood had sat still even then, proving that the Starks had no divine right as kings. No gods had prevented them from kneeling; Aegon and his dragons had not been struck down. The Starks had remained as Lords Paramount of the North, their former kingdom entirely intact – Torrhen had ensured that they had lost nothing but a bit of pride – and the heat tree as well. Watching over the now Lord Starks and their families, until it had watch of Eddard's father, Lord Rickard, and in turn Eddard himself. Despite being part of the united seven kingdoms of Westeros, with their Andal religion tied so closely to the throne, the old gods had endured in the North.

But that was the North for you; it endured. The old gods endured. The weirwoods endured. The first men had endured, as lords and smallfolk, as mountain clansmen and crannogmen. Winterfell had endured, and with it the Starks.

Eddard would visit his gods after he had taken a life. He would carefully wipe the blood from his blade as he stared into the weeping eyes of the heart tree. He would bare his very soul before his gods, and they would wash his fears and doubts away with the blood. Today, his soul was more troubled than usual.

It wasn't that Ned was not used to taking a life – whilst executions were thankfully not common by any means, he had carried out his fair share in his twelve years as Warden of the North. Only in the North would you find Night's Watch deserters, and there were always criminals who refused to take the black. Men who would rather die then spend the rest of their life in service to a greater cause, shunning any chance to repent of their actions. It was always the worst of the worst that asked for death; the most vile, reprehensible of men. Unrepentant kinslayers, rapists and the like. It was ilk such as these, who had spat at Ned even as he had swung the sword, that he had put to death earlier.

These rapists where why he was so troubled; when Ned had separated their heads from their bodies, he hadn't been able to suppress a small amount of satisfaction. It was wrong to take pleasure in killing, and now he only felt sickened by the act. But back then, in the heat of the moment, he had felt a cathartic wave of gratification sweep over him as the light faded from their eyes, knowing that they would never again plague his lands. The moment had been fleeting, and Ned had immediately returned to his senses, and was left with only shame.

By the pool in the godswood, Ned had managed to quell his troubles. It was over now. The deed was done. It would not do to dwell on it any longer; not when he had far more pressing matters for his time. The North would not govern itself. There were bandits plaguing the northern clansmen, whispers from the Dreadfort that Lord Bolton was scheming to claim some Manderly Land and winter was always coming.

Normally, Ned would be alone beneath the heart tree – find solace in his silent commune with the gods – but today he was joined by his two eldest children. Robb and Jon were three-and-ten now, no strangers to Northern justice; but they too had been shaken by the vile acts of the despicable scum that had died that morning, who had been unrepentant – cursing and spitting at Ned, even as they went to their graves. It was not the first execution they had seen, but it had been by far the most violent.

Ned was proud of them both. They had stood their ground well; refusing to let their discomfort show. Strong and stoic – true Northmen to the bone.

He was especially pleased with Robb. His eldest was developing into an upstanding young man – quick-witted, skilled with the sword and with a sense of honour as strong as his own. Robb would be a fine lord someday. Ned could not have asked for a worthier heir, even if Robb did not share his look. Robb's colouring had never mattered to Ned. His Tully look may be a point of contention to some of his more vocal bannermen, but Ned would not have cared if his son had been born with as ass' tail, so long as he was hale and healthy. Besides, the traces of the North were present enough, once one looked past Robb's Tully red hair and sky-blue eyes. The Stark linage was present in the shape of his nose, the turn of his cheeks and his stocky build, which reminded Ned of his brother, who had also once been heir to Winterfell.

Robb shared his southern colouring with all his siblings, save Arya, Ned's youngest girl – the spitting image of Ned's sister. And Jon, but that was different. That was to be expected. Jon, after all, did not have a Tully mother.

Jon and Arya shared a look that was more classically Stark – the brown hair, long face and grey eyes that Ned and his siblings had once shared as well. A small part of Ned was glad that the look would continue through the future generations, even if they would not bear the Stark name. Arya would take a new name upon her wedding, of course, and Jon would never be a proper Stark. He was cursed to bear the name Snow – the name gifted to all the bastards of the North, forever reminding them of their parents' sin. That did not stop Ned from loving Jon as much as any of his children, despite the expectation of the realm, and – to Ned's dismay – the wishes of his wife.

Jon too was fast becoming a fine lad, one that Ned was also immensely proud of. A bit sullen at times perhaps, but that could only be expected – despite all of Ned's wishes there remained a gap between Jon and the rest of the family; the gap of his birth, which could never be filled. Still, Ned knew that Robb would never be able to name a more loyal friend, a more steadfast supporter. They had taken to each other immediately the first time they met as babes, and had been inseparable since then. They had grown up as twins – sharing a room as recently as last year. As thick as thieves they had spent their days amongst the castle grounds – playing in the courtyards, training with Ser Rodrik, taking lessons with the maester and Ned himself, and causing mischief amongst the servants. Robb had been the instigator more often than not, much to Cat's disbelief. Ned's lady wife liked to believe that Jon's bastard blood had leading Robb astray. The mischief had been harmless, and both were good children at heart. They have grown so much, Ned thought, yet they still have so much more to learn. I only hope that I will be around long enough to guide them.

"How could someone be like that … that vile … that disgusting?" asked Robb, startling Ned from his musing. The question was one that Ned had asked himself, that he had no hope of understanding or answering. Part of him was glad for it; if he understood and sympathised with the motivations of those men, he'd be as sick as they were.

"There are many reasons why a man might commit a crime," Ned told his sons, turning his answer into a lesson for them. "A starving man will have no qualms stealing food, and a poor man can easily become a pickpocket. Men will kill for revenge, over slights to their honour and threats to their families. Yet there are some who are broken inside. Men who kill for sport, who force themselves upon unwilling women, with no justification for their actions – there is something wrong with them; something sick in their minds. No sane man can understand their actions. Take heart that you struggle to understand their motives; it proves you are not depraved like them."

"But still," Robb murmured. "To do what they did, and be pleased?"

Ned let the question hang. It was best that Robb thought about this himself, for a time.

Silence returned to the godswood as easily as it had been broken. Only the trees spoke now, the wind rustling through the dense canopy above their heads. The eyes of the heart tree remained staring as always, but for a moment Ned thought they looked proud. He was imagining it, to be sure, but he hoped the gods approved of his lesson. It was a good one; one Robb and Jon needed to learn. Some men were beyond saving.

"Father…"

Jon spoke now, his voice timid and uneasy. "Is it wrong … am I wrong … for being glad that they died?"

Ah. This was a much harder question. Ned truly did not know the answer himself and yet, staring into Jon's troubled grey eyes, he knew he had to say something.

"Jon, I ask myself those exact words. It is a question that we may never really know the answer to. What do you think; are you sickened by your thoughts?"

If Ned could not give Jon a good answer, he could at least show him that he wasn't alone in his troubles. Jon sat back, pondering the question. Robb did as well. They would be fine men, Ned decided. He had raised them well.

Before either of the boys could think of an answer, they were distracted by a loud popping noise. The sound was sudden and abrupt, and unlike anything Ned had ever heard before. Before he could even being ponder what could have caused it, a splash erupted from the pond behind him.

Water leapt all over Ned's back, soaking his furs. It was icy cold – the pool, deep as it may be, was not connected to any of Winterfell's hot springs – which only quickened Ned's reaction time. He spun round, grabbing Ice, ready face any foe that dared threaten his family in his own castle. The black waters, normally tranquil, were rippling with rage for being distributed and a figure was beginning to sink below the surface.

"By the gods, he fell from the sky!" Robb exclaimed, but the words barely registered to Ned. He was too busy staring at the unconscious boy, who didn't look a day older than Robb or Jon, as he disappeared beneath the dark water.

Oh well, Ned thought. I'm already wet anyway. He dived into the water.

Luckily, the child was small, and silky material of his garb was not too waterlogged. Once Ned had grabbed a hold of the him, it was simply a matter of wrapping his arm his waist, and kicking up towards the surface.

Within a minute, Ned was back beside the pond, laying the boy across the misshapen roots of a nearby oak tree.

"He fell from the sky," hissed Robb in amazement. "The sky!"

"No," said Jon. "He appeared out of the air, below the canopy. He barely fell ten feet."

"What? That's impossible."

"I saw it with mine own eyes."

Ned ignored them both, instead opting to check the boy for a heartbeat. It did not matter how the boy got here. He was here now, and that was important. The could puzzle out his origins later, once they made sure he was alive enough to answer their questions. The pulse was there, thought it was weak.

"He's still breathing," declared Ned. "Robb, Jon, fetch Maester Luwin. Tell him to come at once."

Neither boy made a move, too transfixed by the strange new arrival.

"Go! Now!" he hissed, and they both soon sped off towards the castle, disappearing amongst the trees, leaving Ned alone with the strange child.

The child was short for his age, if Ned had to guess. He'd pin his age somewhere between Robb's and Sansa's – perhaps two-and-ten? The boy's hair was slick with water, so it might normally be brown, not the black it appeared. There was an odd lightning-shaped scar on his forehead. It looked red and angry. Ned wondered how the boy had received it.

The child's clothes were odder still. He wore a fine black robe, with a red and gold lion crest affixed above his heart. Those were Lannister colours and the lion a Lannister creature, yet the boy looked like no Lannister, Ned had ever seen. His hair was the wrong colour, for one. He could not be a Lannister servant; the robe was too fine for him to be anything but highborn. He had an odd long piece of fabric tied around his neck, the ends stretching down along his chest. It was coloured red and gold too, and looked too fine to not be part of his dress. Ned had never heard of any fashion like it – not even in tales of Dorne or Essos.

The boy's right hand was clutched tightly around a fine stick, around a foot long. It was well polished, the base of it carved into a handle. Was it a toy of some kind? It couldn't be a weapon – the end wasn't even pointed. Whatever it was, it was obviously important to the boy, for his grip was strong even in his unconscious state.

His other hand was clenched around another trinket. Ned wasn't sure what, but there was a golden chain spilling from the fist. Fine gold too; the chain was beaded together expertly. It looked like it belonged to a necklace of some sort, and was broken at the ends. Had the boy ripped it from around someone's neck?

The strangest part about the boy's garb were his eye coverings. Two circles of glass – one for each eye, which were surrounded and joined by a material Ned had never seen the like of before. It was smooth to the touch, yet was no wood or metal he knew of. Two prongs of the material extend from either side, down to the child's ears, to hold the contraption in place. Ned to make out tiny hinges at where they met each circle. Hinges that small must must have been made by a skilled craftsman.

Whoever this boy was, he did not lack for coin. Unless, the thought crept unbidden into his head, he stole them. Unless his is a thief – his robes could be stolen from Casterly Rock for all I know! But if he was stealing from the Lannisters, why sneak into Winterfell? It didn't add up.

How did he sneak into Winterfell, for that matter? He had fallen into the pond, but from where? It was as if he had appeared out of thin air. But that was ridiculous.

Ned heard feet scrambling over the leaves and roots of the forest floor, and soon enough, Robb and Jon burst back into the clearing, the Maester a few feet behind. His wife, Lady Catelyn was with them.

"Whatever is going on, Ned?" she asked, her eyes searching Ned's face for an answer. "These two run bursting into the keep, calling for the Maester, bowling over Hullen and the cook, crying some nonsense about boys falling from skies … who is that?" Catelyn paused, catching sight of the newcomer in Ned's arms.

"I do not yet know," said Ned, even as Robb began bursting about how it was not nonsense, and Hullen was fine, thank you very much.

"Master Luwin, if you please." Ned nodded to the boy as Robb prattled on. From the sounds of it, he and Jon had roused half the castle. The maester bent down, and began to examine the stranger.

"He seems healthy enough," said Luwin, after finishing his examination. "We should get him in the castle though, before he catches a chill."

The maester eyed Ned's dripping wet hair. "You too, my Lord. It's nearing sunset, and it'll be cold out tonight.

Ned nodded his acceptance. "Robb, Jon, help me carry the boy. Luwin, Cat, prepare some chambers in the East Wing. But keep it quiet. Until we know more about him, the fewer people we trouble with him the better."

He looked pointedly at Jon and Robb. "That goes for you two as well. Don't go running to Bran and Arya about this. Not yet."

When no-one moved to obey his commands for the second time that evening, Ned could not help but be a little frustrated. "Am I the Lord of Winterfell or not?" he ground out, teeth clenched.

That got them moving quick enough.

With the help of his sons, transporting the sleeping boy was an easy task. By the time they made it to the castle, Cat and Luwin had set up the necessary chamber, and the boy was stripped of his wet clothes and laid beneath some warm blankets. Ned changed too, into some warm furs. It felt quite good to finally be in dry clothes again and he was finally read to tackle the questions posed by the boy's appearance.

He sent Jon into the godswood to retrieve Ice. Thankfully the boy left without a complaint, though Ned knew he would rather stay. But if Catelyn insisted on being present, it was best Jon was otherwise occupied.

"He didn't really fall from the sky, did he?" his wife asked, staring down at the boy. In amongst the blankets of the bed he looked a great deal younger and quite peaceful. His hair, now dry, had turned out to be black after all; it was an unruly mess, a tangled raven's nest spiking out in every direction.

"I wasn't watching," said Ned dryly. "I'm afraid my back was turned."

"I saw it," Robb cut in, sticking to his story. "He appeared out of the air, and fell into the godswood pool."

"Robb," Catelyn chided. Her voice was reproving, her disbelief evident in her tone. "Boys do not simply fall from the sky."

"I know what I saw," his son insisted.

"This one may have, Catelyn," Ned added. He glanced down at the boy and then at Robb" Or he may have fallen from the branches of the Heart Tree. However, he got here, he is a stranger to Winterfell."

The three Starks started down at the boy, as he slept on, unaware of the confusion he was causing.

"That device on his robes," Catelyn finally said. "A red and gold lion. Is he Part of House Lannister?"

It was Maester Luwin, who answered, holding the robes in question. "You would not be amiss for thinking so, my lady. But the design is slightly different from any House Lannister and beneath it – well, these are not the Lannister words. I confess, I've never seen the tongue they're written in. The alphabet it's in looks similar to ours, but not exactly. There are several differences. If this boy is trying to be a Lannister, he is a poor imitation."

Catelyn's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "You believe he is a mummer then? A catspaw, sent to sow discord between us and the South, by pretending to spy for the lions. Half the realm knows of my lord husband's disdain for Lannisters."

Catelyn spoke truly; of all the great houses of Westeros, Ned was least fond of House Lannister, save for perhaps House Greyjoy, who had actually risen up in rebellion. Ned had never forgiven Lord Tywin for his actions during the sack of King's Landing at the end of Robert's Rebellion. The look on his face when he presented the bodies of those children to Robert…

"If he was meant to turn us against the Lannisters," Robb spoke up. "You'd think he'd have a more accurate disguise. If we could see through it this easily, he's a very poor spy."

Robb was right. If the child truly was a Lannister spy, he would not be wearing their house colours, imitation or no. If he was pretending to be such, his Lannister garb should have been perfect, so they would have had no cause for suspicion, and hoodwinked more easily.

"Perhaps we should consider that the child is not from any great house of Westeros," suggested Luwin in a thoughtful tone. Ned glanced down the boy again. It made sense. "His style of dress is unusual, unlike any westerosi fashion I know of. Yet, these robes are too fine for him to be anything but highborn. This … eye-glass … is particularly well crafted, but the design is unfamiliar and its purpose unclear to me."

The maester held the aforementioned item up for Robb and Catelyn to inspect. "Some of the elder maesters in the citadel use circles of glass to aid in their reading – akin to a myrish lens – perhaps these serve a similar purpose. Yet, the material around the glass … I've never seen the like of it before."

No-one had any answers for Luwin. The eye-glass contraption and the robes were are as strange to them as they were to him.

"That scar," Catelyn murmured, bending down over the bed to better inspect the child's head. "A cut like that would have been made with purpose. Poor child. Could it be a brand of some sort?"

"A brand?" repeated Robb, eyes widening in horror.

"It certainly seems deliberate, yes," the maester agreed. "A lightning-bolt scar. The lightning bolt is actually very similar to one of the ancient runes of the first men. If only we knew what it meant."

"It seems," Ned said, looking the other three in the eyes as he spoke. "It seems that we will find no more answers here tonight, not unless the boy wakes. Perhaps it is best we all retired, and thought about this with fresh minds come the morn."

Catelyn and Luwin were quick to agree with him. Robb was not so easily dissuaded. "I'll stay, and watch him in case he wakes. He might be confused, and we don't want him to run."

Ned sighed. A watchful eye would not be remiss, but he was hesitant to leave his son in the company of a stranger with unknown intentions, even if it was a child.

"Alright," Ned relented. "But Jory shall stand guard by the door. You shall inform me the moment he wakes. I will be present when he is first questioned."

Once Robb nodded his acceptance, the others left the room. Ned couldn't help but glance back at the boy, as he stood in the doorway. Ned had another idea of the child's origins; one he did not dare voice in front of his wife, for her love of the Seven.

If Robb and Jon were speaking true, and the child had actually appeared out of thin air, then he had appeared beneath the branches of the heart tree. If that wasn't a sign from the old gods, Ned did not what could be. The possibility terrified Ned. If the boy had been sent by the gods – as a champion of sorts – what could be so dire in Wintefell's future, that the gods themselves would seek to interfere?

Ned would sleep uneasy tonight.