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Ned Stark
Ned stood atop the battlements of Winterfell, his leather jerkin and heavy fur cloak doing little to ward off the evening chill. Below, the courtyard bustled with activity - smiths hammering out last-minute repairs, soldiers sharpening blades, and squires running to and fro with messages and supplies.
His dark grey doublet, embroidered with the direwolf of House Stark, was newly made for the coming campaign. *Three days later*, he thought, *we march to war again*. The weight of Ice at his hip felt heavier than usual.
"You are thinking too much about this, grandson."
The deep, gravelly voice made Ned turn. Even after all these years, the sheer size of Lord Anden Flint still took him aback. The man towered at three meters, his massive frame wrapped in layers of black and grey furs, with a great axe strapped across his broad back. His white beard was braided in the old Northern style, and his steel-grey eyes held the wisdom of decades.
"How did you know what I was thinking about?" Ned asked with a slight smile.
"Hmph." Anden moved to stand beside him, his massive hands resting on the battlements. "You had the same look when Aerys demanded your head and Robert's. Like you're trying to understand madness."
Ned's smile faded at the mention of the Mad King. "And did you ever understand it?"
"There is nothing to understand about madness, boy." Anden's voice was harsh as winter wind. "Balon Greyjoy thinks himself a king. Pride and folly, nothing more."
They stood in silence for a moment, watching the preparations below. Finally, Ned asked what had been weighing on his mind: "Why did you legitimize Jon? Make him heir to Breakstone Hill?" He lowered his voice. "When we both know he's not truly a..."
"A bastard?" Anden finished, his voice a low rumble. "No. He's not. He's the product of a foolish prince and an even more foolish girl who thought their supposed love was worth thousands of lives." His massive shoulders tensed. "Their marriage was as fragile as an egg, if it even happened at all. Rhaegar abandoned his wife and children for your sister's pretty face, and the realm bled for it."
Ned winced at the brutal assessment, but couldn't deny the truth in it.
"But the boy," Anden continued, his voice softening slightly, "Jon is not guilty of their sins. He has the North in him, more than even Lyanna ever did. He reminds me of your father, Rickard. Strong. Determined." A rare smile crossed his weathered face. "And he actually listens when I tell him something, unlike some others I could name."
"I listened," Ned protested.
"Ha!" The laugh was like rocks grinding together. "You were too busy trying to be honorable to listen properly. Honor is good, boy, but it needs to be tempered with wisdom." He turned his fierce gaze on Ned. "That's why I legitimized him. The boy has both. He'll make a fine Lord of Breakstone Hill one day."
"And what of his... other inheritance?" Ned asked carefully.
Anden's expression darkened. "Let the dead rest, grandson. That throne has brought nothing but misery to our family. Jon is a Flint now, and that's all that matters." He straightened to his full, intimidating height. "Unless you object?"
"No," Ned said quickly. "No, I think... I think you're right. Jon deserves a name, a future."
"Good." Anden adjusted the massive axe on his back.
Below them, Jon and Robb were sparring in the yard, their wooden swords clacking together as Derek called out instructions. Jon moved with a grace that reminded Ned painfully of Lyanna, but his determination, the way he held himself - that was all Flint.
"He'll be fine while we're gone," Anden said, following Ned's gaze. "Your mother will watch over him. And he knows what to do if trouble comes."
"What did you teach him?" Ned asked, curious.
"Everything." Anden's smile was wolf-like. "How to fight, how to survive, how to think. Most importantly, how to know when to show mercy..." His expression hardened. "And when not to."
Ned wondered what had really happened with Jon in Breakstone Hill, why the boy didn't even flinch when the kidnapper was begging for mercy. He knew something had happened, but his mother refused to say what it was. He knew it involved Lady Bella, who was dead, and Jon. He wondered if whatever that happened had hardened the boy too much, too soon.
"Stop worrying," Anden commanded. "Focus on the war ahead. Balon Greyjoy needs to be taught that the North remembers, and winter comes for all who threaten it." He placed one massive hand on Ned's shoulder.
Ned hesitated before asking the question that had troubled his sleep. "What will you do if Jon learns the truth and wants the Iron Throne?"
Lord Anden's massive frame stiffened slightly, his grey eyes as hard as the winter frost. He remained silent for a long moment, watching Jon and Robb below. The boys had finished sparring, and Jon was showing Robb something about knife work.
"Jon is still a boy," Anden finally rumbled, his voice low enough that only Ned could hear. "But if the day comes when he truly wants it - not from anger, not from pride, not for revenge, but from genuine conviction..." He turned those ancient eyes to Ned. "Then House Flint will follow their heir to the bitter end."
Ned felt his stomach twist. "You would support his claim?"
"Ah." Anden's lips curved in a knowing smile. "You don't like that answer, do you, grandson?" He shifted his weight, the battlements creaking under his massive hands. "Tell me true - what would you do?"
Ned ran a hand over his face, feeling every one of his years. "I pray he never wants it. The last time House Stark involved itself with the Iron Throne and the South..." He trailed off, memories of Brandon and Father rising unbidden. "We almost ceased to exist."
Anden was quiet for a long moment, watching Jon demonstrate the knife work below. "You fear the crown's shadow over the boy," he stated rather than asked. His massive hand reached up to stroke his braided beard. "Let me tell you something about fear, grandson. I've lived long enough to see what it does to men - both those who submit to it and those who fight it."
He turned those ancient, steel-grey eyes to Ned. "The crown is like a mountain peak shrouded in storm clouds. Some men look up at it and let their fear of the climb keep them in the valley their whole lives. Others are so determined to prove they're not afraid that they rush up blindly and fall to their death." His voice deepened, carrying the weight of decades. "But a wise man? A wise man neither avoids the mountain nor charges it. He studies it, learns its paths, prepares for its challenges. And when the time comes, he decides whether the climb is worth the risk - not out of fear or defiance, but with clear eyes and a steady heart."
Ned felt something shift in his chest at those words. "And Jon?"
"We teach him to be that wise man," Anden said simply. "Whether he eventually decides to climb that particular mountain or not... that will be his choice to make. Our job is to make sure he has the tools and wisdom to make it well."
Something in those words eased the tension in Ned's shoulders. It was true - Jon was still young, and whatever came would come. Better to focus on raising him well than fretting about possibilities.
"Speaking of family," Anden said, clearly deciding the topic was closed, "when is Benjen arriving with his new wife and son?"
Ned went slightly pale, and Anden let out a rumbling laugh at his expression. "Still afraid of Barbrey's sharp tongue, are you?"
"She hates me," Ned admitted. "And not without cause." The guilt of William Dustin's death at the Tower of Joy still weighed heavily on him. He had promised to bring her husband's bones north, but because of his grief and in his haste to protect Jon, he had failed her. Now she was his goodsister, and her hatred had only grown sharper with time.
"Aye, she has cause," Anden agreed bluntly. "But she's family now, and winter is coming. Even the sharpest tongue must eventually yield to the cold." He adjusted his axe. "Though I wouldn't mention the Red Mountains of Dorne if I were you."
"I hadn't planned to," Ned said dryly. "They should arrive tomorrow. Ben writes that young William is already showing signs of being as stubborn as both his parents."
"Good. The North needs strong blood." Anden's eyes tracked a group of soldiers practicing shield formations below. "Though the gods help us all if he has his mother's tongue and his father's brooding nature."
Despite himself, Ned smiled. He could already imagine the boy - a combination of Benjen's solemn nature and Barbrey's fierce pride.
Tomorrow - Winterfell
The cold autumn wind swept through Winterfell's courtyard, carrying the scent of pine and frost. Banners bearing the direwolf of House Stark snapped in the breeze, while servants scurried about, preparing for the arrival of Lord Benjen's family. Jon stood beside Robb, both boys dressed in their finest clothes, though Jon had managed to keep his Kukri knife concealed beneath his cloak.
Two-year-old Arya squirmed in Lady Catelyn's arms, her dark hair as wild as her spirit. "No! No! Jon!" she called out, reaching toward him with pudgy hands.
Jon couldn't help but chuckle. "She certainly knows what she wants."
"And who she wants," Robb added with a grin. "Mother's arms aren't good enough anymore, it seems."
Lady Catelyn's lips tightened, but she said nothing. Jon noticed how she deliberately avoided looking in his direction, though that suited him fine. He'd grown past caring about her approval during his time at Breakstone Hill.
"I heard Lady Barbrey is quite beautiful," Robb whispered, leaning closer to Jon.
"Aye, and I heard her tongue is as sharp as Valyrian steel," Jon replied, watching their father shift uncomfortably at the head of the receiving line. Lord Anden stood behind him, his massive frame casting a shadow that seemed to stretch halfway across the courtyard.
"Seven hells," Robb shuddered. "No wonder Father looks like he's preparing for battle rather than greeting his brother."
Before Jon could respond, the gates creaked open. Benjen Stark rode through first, his black cloak billowing behind him. He looked older than Jon remembered, his face weathered by the harsh northern climate, but his eyes still held that familiar warmth.
Behind him came a lady on a chestnut mare, her posture straight as an arrow. Lady Barbrey wore a dress of deep burgundy, almost black in the weak autumn sun, with fur trim at the collar and sleeves. Her beauty was striking, but there was something sharp in her features, like a blade wrapped in silk.
Following them on a gray pony came young William Stark, his eyes wide with wonder as he took in Winterfell's towers and walls. The boy had his father's dark hair and his mother's proud bearing, even at five years old, and despite being young, his hair was already reaching his cheeks.
"Gods, look at Father's face," Robb murmured as Benjen dismounted.
Instead of approaching Ned immediately, Benjen turned and helped his wife from her horse with practiced grace. The gesture earned a slight softening of Lady Barbrey's severe expression and a poorly suppressed giggle from Robb.
"Quiet," Jon elbowed his cousin, though he was fighting his own smile.
Benjen's eyes widened slightly when he spotted Lord Anden's towering form. "Grandfather? I didn't expect..." He caught himself and bowed. "It's good to see you."
"Stand straight, boy," Anden rumbled. "You're not so old I can't take you over my knee."
A flash of amusement crossed Barbrey's face before it vanished behind her carefully maintained mask.
"Brother," Benjen said finally, turning to Ned. Five years had passed since they'd last stood face to face. "Winterfell looks well."
"You're still as scrawny as ever, little brother," Ned replied, then stepped forward and pulled his younger brother into a fierce embrace. "Gods, I've missed you, Ben. Five years is too long between visits. You should have come sooner - Winterfell hasn't been the same without you."
"Lord Stark," Barbrey's voice cut through the air like winter frost. She curtsied perfectly, every movement precise. "Thank you for welcoming us to your home."
Jon watched his father stiffen slightly. There was something in Lady Barbrey's tone, something that made the words sound more like an accusation than gratitude. Ned's face remained carefully neutral as he replied, "Winterfell welcomes its own, my lady."
Young William bounced forward, unable to contain himself any longer. "Father, look at the towers! They're even taller than you said!" His enthusiasm drew smiles from everyone, even Lady Barbrey's severe expression softened as she placed a hand on her son's shoulder.
"And who might this young warrior be?" Lord Anden's deep voice rumbled as he stepped forward, his massive frame making William's eyes grow even wider.
"William Stark, my lord," the boy answered proudly, then remembered to bow. "Though Mother says I'm as wild as the wolf on our banners."
"Does she now?" Anden's eyes crinkled with amusement. "Well, we'll have to see if you live up to that reputation. Your cousin Jon here has been training with me. Perhaps you'd like to learn as well?"
William's face lit up, but before he could respond, Lady Barbrey's hand tightened slightly on his shoulder. "My lord is too kind," she said smoothly, though her eyes had grown harder. "Though perhaps we should let William rest from the journey before making such plans."
The tension in the air grew thick enough to cut with a knife, until Arya chose that moment to finally wriggle free of her mother's grasp. She toddled straight toward Jon, arms raised in demand. "Jon! Up!"
Jon scooped her up without hesitation, earning a delighted squeal from his little sister. The simple action seemed to break the tension, and even Lady Barbrey's severe expression cracked slightly at the sight.
"Well," Benjen said, clearing his throat, "it seems some things haven't changed. Jon still has a way with the little ones."
"Some things have changed more than you know, uncle," Jon replied quietly, thinking of Lady Bella and the lessons he'd learned at Breakstone Hill.
Something in his tone made Benjen look at him more closely, but before he could respond, Ned stepped forward. "Come, brother. You must be tired from your journey. We've prepared rooms in the Guest House, and there will be a feast tonight to welcome you home."
As the group began to move toward the keep, Jon caught Lady Barbrey studying him with an unreadable expression. When their eyes met, she didn't look away. Instead, she gave him a slight nod, as if confirming something to herself.
"What was that about?" Robb whispered as they followed the adults.
Jon shifted Arya in his arms, the little girl now contentedly playing with the wolf's head pin on his cloak. "I'm not sure," he admitted. "But I have a feeling this visit is going to be more interesting than we thought."
"No!" Arya declared firmly, making both boys laugh.
Above them, a raven circled the broken tower, its cry echoing across the courtyard like a warning.
Later
The Great Hall of Winterfell blazed with warmth and light, hundreds of candles casting a golden glow over the feast laid out before House Stark. The savory aroma of roasted meats mingled with the sweetness of honey cakes and mulled wine. Servants moved efficiently between tables, ensuring cups remained full and platters stayed laden with delicacies.
At the high table, Lord Eddard Stark sat with his brother Benjen to his right. The years had been kind to both men, though fine lines had begun to appear around their eyes – laugh lines for Benjen, worry lines for Ned.
"The Barrowtone have prospered," Benjen was saying, taking a deep drink of Arbor gold. "Though I suspect that has more to do with my wife's management than my own efforts."
"You always did prefer a sword to ledgers," Ned replied with a slight smile.
"Speaking of swords," Lord Anden's deep voice rumbled from Ned's left, "have you bothered to keep up with your training, boy?" He leaned closer to Benjen, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper that still carried clearly. "Or have you been too busy under the sheets?"
Benjen's face turned as red as the wine in his cup, causing Anden to throw back his head in thunderous laughter. Even Ned couldn't suppress a chuckle at his brother's discomfort.
Further down the table, Lady Lyarra beamed at her younger son. "Marriage seems to agree with you, Ben. You look well-fed, at least."
"That would be my doing," Barbrey interjected smoothly from Benjen's other side. "Someone has to ensure he doesn't waste away while brooding in that solar of his."
"And how are you finding married life, Lady Dustin?" Lyarra asked warmly. "Is my son treating you well?"
Barbrey's sharp features softened slightly. "He has his moments of adequacy," she replied, though there was genuine affection beneath the barbed words.
At the lower tables, young William Stark sat between Jon and Robb, his legs swinging freely as he regaled them with tales of his adventures at Barrowton.
"And then the stable master's cat had kittens right in Father's boots!" William exclaimed, gesturing so enthusiastically that he nearly knocked over his cup of watered wine. "Father had to wear his old boots to court that day, and Mother said he looked like a hedge knight who'd lost his hedge!"
Jon caught the cup before it could spill, earning a grateful look from Robb. "Your mother seems to have quite a way with words," Jon observed diplomatically.
"Oh yes!" William nodded vigorously. "Mother says that most men need to be told things twice – once nicely, and once so they actually listen. Father says that's why he fell in love with her, though Mother says he just didn't know any better at the time."
Robb nearly choked on his wine, while Jon tried to maintain a straight face. "And what does your father say to that?"
"He usually just kisses her," William wrinkled his nose. "It's gross."
Across the hall, at another table, Sansa sat with her mother and Lady Dustin, her back straight as a rod as she tried to embody everything she'd learned about being a proper lady. She'd been excited to meet Lady Dustin, imagining her to be like the elegant southern ladies from her stories.
"The lemon cakes are lovely, Lady Dustin," Sansa ventured politely. "We had the lemons shipped specially from Dorne."
"Did you now?" Barbrey's eyebrow arched. "Well, I suppose if one must waste good coin on fruit that won't grow in our soil, at least these are palatable. Though I've always found it curious how northern lords scramble to imitate southern customs while the southrons wouldn't deign to adopt a single northern tradition."
Sansa blinked, taken aback by the sharp response. She glanced at her mother for guidance, but Catelyn's face had gone carefully blank.
"The North remembers," Catelyn said diplomatically. "But surely there's no harm in enjoying the best of both regions?"
"The North remembers," Barbrey agreed, her voice taking on an edge. "Though some seem to remember selectively. Tell me, Lady Stark, do your children know the old tongue? Or are they too busy learning to curtsey and dance the southern way?"
Before Catelyn could respond, William's voice rang out across the hall. "Mother! Jon says he'll teach me to use a sword tomorrow! Can I? Please?"
"May I," Barbrey corrected automatically. "And we'll see. Though perhaps you should ask your grandfather – he seems to have strong opinions about proper training."
Lord Anden grunted approvingly. "The boy shows spirit. Better than his father at that age – Benjen was too busy trying to play hide and seek with himself."
"I seem to recall you were the one who gave me the idea," Benjen protested. "You told me Brandon used to do it all the time."
A shadow passed over the gathering at the mention of Brandon's name, but Lyarra quickly steered the conversation to safer waters. "William reminds me so much of you at that age, Ben. Always running, always curious."
"He has his mother's wit, thank the gods," Benjen smiled fondly at his son. "Though hopefully with less of her tendency to tell lords exactly what she thinks of them."
"Someone has to," Barbrey sniffed. "The amount of preening and posturing at the last harvest feast was ridiculous. Lord Locke actually tried to convince me his new sword was made from genuine Valyrian steel."
"And what did you say?" Lyarra asked, though her twinkling eyes suggested she already knew.
"I told him if that was Valyrian steel, then I was the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and he was welcome to bend the knee." Barbrey took a delicate sip of wine. "He hasn't spoken to me since."
"I can't imagine why," Ned muttered under his breath, though not quietly enough to escape his goodsister's sharp ears.
"Perhaps because some men prefer pretty lies to uncomfortable truths," Barbrey replied sweetly. "Though you'd know more about that than most, wouldn't you, Lord Stark?"
The temperature in the hall seemed to drop several degrees. Catelyn's knuckles went white around her cup, while Sansa looked between the adults with growing confusion.
"Mother!" William's voice broke through the tension once again. "Jon says there's a ghost in the First Keep! Can we go look for it tomorrow?"
"What your cousin means," Barbrey said firmly, "is that the First Keep is old and dangerous, and not a place for young boys to go exploring."
"But Mother-"
"No buts. I've seen enough Stark men with more courage than sense to last a lifetime." She shot a pointed look at Ned. "Though some would say that's a family trait."
Lord Anden's deep chuckle diffused some of the tension. "The girl has you there, Ned. Remember when you and Brandon decided to spend the night in the crypts to prove you weren't afraid?"
"I remember finding them both hiding in the kitchen at midnight," Lyarra added, her eyes twinkling. "Claiming they were just hungry, of course."
"The ghosts must have been hungry too," Benjen grinned. "Since half the pies were missing the next morning."
As the conversation turned to childhood memories, servants began clearing away the main course to make way for desserts. Fresh platters of honey cakes, apple tarts, and sugared plums appeared on the tables.
William eyed the sweets eagerly, but a sharp look from his mother made him sit still and wait to be served. "Mother says a lord must show restraint," he explained seriously to Jon and Robb. "Even when there are honey cakes."
"Your mother seems to have many opinions on how lords should behave," Robb observed carefully.
"Oh yes! She says most lords have more hair than sense, and more pride than either." William beamed, clearly proud of remembering his mother's words. "But she says Father is different because he actually listens to her. Sometimes."
At the high table, Benjen was updating Ned on the situation with the mountain clans. "They've been restless lately. More raids than usual, though nothing we couldn't handle."
"The wildlings have been growing bolder as well," Ned replied. "The Night's Watch reports more organized attacks on the Wall."
"Perhaps if the Watch spent less time pretending to be soldiers and more time actually patrolling, they'd be better prepared," Barbrey interjected. "Though I suppose it's easier to play at being heroes than to do the actual work."
"The Watch serves a vital purpose," Ned said stiffly.
"So I've heard. Repeatedly. Usually from men who've never spent a day on that ice wall themselves." Barbrey's smile was sharp as a knife. "But then, we all have our duties, don't we, Lord Stark? Some more pleasant than others."
As the feast wound down, William had begun to nod off at the lower table, his head drooping toward his half-eaten dessert. Jon caught him before he could face-plant into the honey cakes.
"I think someone's ready for bed," he called out.
"Past ready," Barbrey rose gracefully. "Come, William. Say goodnight to your family."
The boy stumbled through his goodnights, receiving hugs from his grandparents and a kiss from his father. As Barbrey led him away, he could be heard asking, "But Mother, if there really is a ghost in the First Keep, wouldn't it be our duty as Starks to make sure it's friendly?"
"The only duty you have right now is to your bed," Barbrey's voice carried back. "Though I'm sure your cousin will have plenty more inappropriate suggestions tomorrow."
After they'd gone, Benjen shook his head fondly. "She'll have him up half the night now, telling him proper ghost stories so he won't go looking for real ones."
"She seems... devoted to his education," Catelyn offered diplomatically.
"Barbrey believes in preparing children for the real world," Benjen said. "Even if her methods are sometimes... direct."
"That's one word for it," Ned muttered into his wine.
"She makes him happy," Lyarra said firmly. "And she's given us a wonderful grandson. That's what matters."
The feast gradually drew to a close, with lords and ladies drifting away to their beds. As servants began clearing the tables, Benjen lingered with his brother.
"It's good to be home," he said quietly. "Even if some wounds haven't quite healed."
Ned nodded, understanding in his eyes. "The North remembers," he said simply.
"Yes," Benjen agreed, watching as the last candles were snuffed out. "Though sometimes I wonder if that's always a blessing."
Tomorrow
A thin blanket of fresh snow covered Winterfell's main training yard, the white powder crunching beneath boots as the boys moved across the packed earth. Steam rose from the hot springs that ran through the castle's walls, creating a misty veil in the crisp morning air. The grey stone walls of the Great Keep loomed behind them, while the armory's smoke mingled with the low-hanging clouds.
Jon adjusted William's grip on the practice sword, their breaths visible in the cold. Robb leaned against the wooden fence near the master-at-arms' station, idly kicking at the snow gathered around the posts.
"Like this," Jon demonstrated, his Kukri knife visible at his hip as he moved. "Thumb wrapped, but not too tight. You want to be able to move with the blade, let it become part of your arm."
William's dark hair, so like his mother's, fell across his eyes as he concentrated on the stance. "Better?"
"Much," Jon nodded, brushing some snow off his shoulder. "Now show me that swing again."
From the covered walkway that connected the Great Keep to the armory, Barbrey watched, her dark dress making her seem like a shadow against the ancient stone. Her fingers traced the iron railings, frost melting beneath her touch. Benjen approached quietly, his boots nearly silent on the wooden planks.
"I leave on the morrow," he said softly, watching their son below.
"How fitting." Her voice was honey over steel, her breath forming small clouds in the cold air. "Another war, another batch of Northern bones to be scattered across the south."
Benjen sighed, his hand resting on the frost-covered railing. "Barb-"
"Do make sure you return, my love," she cut him off, never taking her eyes off William as he attempted another swing, sending snow flying from his practice blade. "I'd hate for our son to visit an empty grave, like I do."
"Ned did what he could at the time. Things were-"
"Complicated?" Her laugh was sharp as winter frost, echoing slightly off the stone walls. "Oh yes, very complicated indeed. So complicated that only Lyanna's bones found their way home." Her eyes drifted to Jon below, tracking his movements as he demonstrated a proper defensive stance. "Though I suppose some... living reminders made the journey North as well."
Benjen's jaw tightened, his gloved hands gripping the railing. "What exactly are you suggesting?"
"Suggesting? Nothing at all, dear husband." Her smile was razor-thin, her dark eyes glinting like ice. "I'm merely noting how the gods have blessed us with such... memorable keepsakes of that time. Those distinctive purple eyes, for instance. Quite remarkable in a Stark bastard, wouldn't you say? My mistake, he is Jon Flint now."
Below, William fumbled a parry, sending more snow flying as he stumbled. The sound of wooden swords clacking against each other echoed through the yard.
"Seven hells," William muttered, seeing his parents. "They're at it again."
Jon and Robb exchanged glances, their faces reddened from the cold. "How can you tell from here?" Robb asked, pushing himself off the fence.
William pointed upward, snow falling from his practice sword. "See Father's face? That's his 'trying not to argue with Mother' look. I'd know it anywhere."
Above, Barbrey's voice dropped even lower, nearly lost in the winter wind. "Just ensure you return, my love. I'll not have my son's father's bones abandoned in some southern ditch because your brother once again decides which deaths deserve proper Northern rites."
Benjen touched her arm gently, his leather glove brushing against her dark wool sleeve. "I'll return. I promise."
"See that you do." For just a moment, her sharp edges softened as she watched William below, his small figure determined despite the cold. "Our boy needs his father." Then her familiar bitter smile returned, frost forming on the railing where her hand had been. "And I'm quite done with visiting empty graves."
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