At dusk, Eddard set off back to Winterfell with the newborn, climbing the Red Mountains and heading for the Godswood. His journey led him to the ancient Oak Throne. His father told him that it had been raised by giants in days of old, but the savages said that the trees were once the giants themselves, cursed by Aegon the Conqueror. He didn't know which story was true, but the throne was wonderfully beautiful. A huge oak stood there, taller than a hundred and twenty feet. It was decorated with hard, golden stones, not at all like the grey granites of the Red Mountains. As Eddard passed through the trees, he caught sight of a pack of wolves. He stopped and picked up a stone. Wolves rarely attack humans, preferring to dodge them. The leader of the pack stood motionless, staring at the man with a wary eye. Eddard felt with absolute certainty that this wolf was not afraid of him. He held his ground for a while longer. Then the animal came towards him. He dropped the stone, turned and began to gallop. He knew that the wolves were running behind him, so he was really racing, jumping his horse over fallen trees and through the bushes. Fear of death seized him and he fled without hesitation. At last he reached the edge of the forest, where Winterfell was a stone's throw away. If he ran any further, they would both die. This realization gave him the strength to overcome his fear, and his thoughts began to clear. Just ahead, he caught sight of a low branch. Jumping up, he grabbed it and swung himself up onto it. The pack leader was already on his trail, and he too leapt, his teeth closing on the branch, biting it in two. Eddard scrambled up a little higher, and the wolves gathered around the tree, growling. Safe now, he was both angry with himself and the howlers. He broke off a dry branch and threw it among the wolves. The animals scattered and began to prowl up and down the tree. The man then heard the approaching horsemen. The wolves howled and went back into the forest. Eddard almost called out to the strangers, but an inner voice stopped him. He was not afraid, but he sensed danger. He cautiously crouched down on the thick branch and watched them ride into the nearby clearing. There were seven of them. They all carried swords and daggers. They were dressed in golden robes, their black horses tall, like those ridden by the Iron Wolves of the Starks. As soon as they dismounted, their horses were unhitched nearby. They sat down in a circle in the clearing, talking quietly, and it was only then that Eddard saw the rider on the white stallion. He recognised him at once. It was the Night King. The demon had been a myth since the time of the first Stark King. His face was white as snow in the setting sun. He wore shining silver armour, the crest of his house, the king frozen in ice, etched on his breastplate, and a cloak of wolf's fur patches on his back. At his side hung the legendary crystal sword with its ice grip. He rode into the circle and, perched on his battle-horse, stared down the warriors. They were truly startled by the King's appearance. They rose as soon as he dismounted, backed away and made a path for him as he headed for a fire pit. He drew his sword and thrust it into the ground in front of him. He stood silent for a moment, both strong hands resting on the hilt of his sword, his stained cloak flapping in the wind. The army of the dead gazed at his mottled cloak, representing the crests of the Seven Kingdoms: the pale grey wolf of the Starks, the green of Sky Garden, the black of the Iron Islands, the golden lion of the Lannisters and the blue of the Arryn, and even the red dragon of the Targaryens. His cloak alone said it all, this demon stood above the other kings. This demon was the High King of the Dead. The flames burning in the fire pit lit up his breast and leg, glowing red on the rings of his chain mail. The dead stood silent as he passed between them. Eddard watched what was happening, and a terrible horror came over him. The Night King never seemed more cruel than at this moment, when his people laid before him a newborn child wrapped in white rags. They were going to throw it into the fire pit. He saw this clearly. He drew his sword, determined to rush to the child's aid. They slowly drew their swords. Eddard waited until the last moment, then leapt in front of them. With the iron blade of his sword he struck the warrior in the face as he tried to strike the child. The knight fell to the ground unconscious.
- Come, then, traitors!" he said in a strong and low voice. - And I come alone. Come and die, you miserable worms!
Eddard's anger softened a little. He did not feel that he had attacked recklessly. At least six warriors charged him, shouting battle cries and driving the horses wild. The Night King blew his horn, ordering another charge, but then luck intervened and the iron sword pierced his rider's bridle. The king managed to throw himself off the dying beast and draw his sword. Eddard parried a thrust, smashed his fist into his opponent's face, causing him to stagger backwards, then risked a thrust. The Night King extended his left hand towards the newborn. Eddard ran, grabbed the crying infant, and leapt onto his horse. He turned his horse around, and while the other riders protected the king, he rode away from the pursuing dead. Eddard rode on, then dismounted and knelt beside the child, placing his hand on his forehead.
- It's a Karstark," he said quietly." - It may not be of my people, but I'll be damned if I'm going to hand it over to the torturers of Dreadfort. They wouldn't let him live anyway.
Eddard smiled.
- 'Fortunately, I hate the Boltons even more. Selfish bastards! You know, you are far too precious, young Karstark. I don't see one iota of difference between you and Jon Snow in considering you my son. It's our land. You will grow up among us. You will be warriors and then kings. For the army of wolves is unbeatable.
Eddard mounted his horse and rode along the edge of the forest, staying out of range of any dead archers that might be hiding. The Night King's eyes followed. The leader of the dead picked up his cloak from the ground, mounted his horse and rode back to his waiting warriors. His snow-white-bearded assistant looked disappointed, and with good reason.