the meeting

In the heart of the North stood Winterfell, a fortress older than the oldest songs still sung. Built of ancient grey stone and warmed by the heat of natural hot springs that pulsed beneath its foundations, it was the ancestral home of House Stark, rulers of the North since before the coming of dragons.

Within its walls, tucked safely into a room overlooking the godswood, lay Arya Stark, the youngest daughter of Eddard Stark, the Lord of Winterfell. The chamber was cozy, the bed piled high with soft wool and linen blankets, heavy enough to shield against even the fiercest northern winds. And under those layers, Arya slept soundly, wrapped in a dream as wild as her spirit.

For all her small size, Arya was known throughout the castle for being a storm in human form. Quick of foot and sharp of tongue, she was called wildling by some of the older maids, though never to her face. Her blood, they said, ran hot with the wolf's blood—a trait whispered to skip generations before blooming violently in those like Arya or her late aunt, Lyanna.

But tonight, the wild child stirred.

A voice—soft as snowfall, cold as breath on steel—drifted through the room like mist curling beneath a door. At first, Arya twitched but did not wake. The whisper came again, a wordless hum brushing against the edges of her dream. Then a third time, insistent yet distant.

On the fourth whisper, Arya's silver eyes snapped open.

She sat upright, her breath sharp in her throat, heart pounding like the drums in a feast hall. The chamber was still, quiet save for the sound of the wind brushing against the shutters.

"Who's there?" she called out, trying to sound braver than she felt. "My father is Warden of the North! Don't mess with me!"

Barefoot, she scrambled to the head of the bed, clutching a pillow as if it were a shield. Her sharp eyes scanned the shadows, alert and darting, until—

She saw it.

In the far corner of the room, draped along the floor like a coil of onyx rope, was a snake. Long, sleek, and as black as midnight, it was unlike any serpent she had ever seen. Its body stretched nearly four feet, with scales that shimmered faintly in the low light like polished obsidian. But it was the eyes that paralyzed her—the cold intelligence in them. It watched her, calmly, with no threat in its posture, no hiss or rattle. Just... awareness.

Arya screamed.

She had been told tales of ice-adders and green fangs, of southern vipers and their deadly venom, but none of those had prepared her for this. Yet—oddly—no one came. No rush of guards, no Septa Mordane storming in. The sound seemed to have vanished into the very stones.

Then, the voice came again.

"Calm yourself, child. I am not a threat to you."

Arya froze, her gaze snapping left and right, seeking the speaker. "Who said that?" she demanded, her voice cracking with fear.

Silence answered—until she noticed something peculiar.

The snake's mouth had not moved, but its gaze never left her. In the dim light, it blinked once. Slowly. Deliberately.

And Arya Stark understood.

The voice had not come from the room.

It had come from the snake.

Arya Stark stared, utterly bewildered, at the serpent coiled near the corner of her room.

The mere thought—a snake talking—was so absurd that she nearly laughed. But nothing about this felt like a joke. She had screamed, loud enough to wake all of Winterfell, and yet no one had come. No guards. No Septa. Not even a passing servant.

Arya was wild, yes, but she wasn't foolish. For her age, she was sharper than most adults gave her credit for. And she remembered what her half-brother Jon had once told her in confidence: her room, like those of the Stark family, was under constant watch—especially during the night. She was the youngest child, after all, and her bedchamber was right next to her parents'.

There was simply no way someone had entered without being seen. Which left her with the only explanation, as insane as it sounded.

She gulped. "Umm... Mister Snake," she said, voice trembling, "did you... just talk?"

The snake recoiled at her words, its head pulling back slightly as if she'd just insulted it. A series of quick, sharp hisses followed—but what startled Arya even more was that she understood them perfectly.

"First of all, child, I am a female."

"And yes, I am the one who spoke to you. I came because... he told me to find you. Said you felt familiar."

Arya blinked at the creature, now more confused than frightened.

"I... wait. He? Who is he?" she asked, brow furrowing. "If I may ask, Mrs. Snake?"

The serpent began slithering closer. Arya instinctively backed up on the bed, her small frame pressing against the wooden headboard. The mattress dipped slightly as the snake coiled onto it, stopping a few inches away. Its eyes glimmered in the moonlight, unblinking.

"Honestly, child, I do not know who he is."

"Only that he smells of something... ancient. Something that drew me to him."

"The same scent you carry now."

"He is in trouble, and I will need your help to find him."

Arya just stared—wide-eyed and blank-faced—as the words settled in. She was five years old. She barely knew how to thread a needle properly. And now here she was, in the dead of night, talking to a serpent who somehow spoke in her head and claimed to be searching for a man who smelled like her?

A man she didn't know.

A man who was apparently in danger.

She tilted her head slowly.

"So... you're telling me," she said, her tiny voice flat with disbelief, "that I, a little girl who's not even allowed to use a real sword yet, am supposed to help a strange man I've never met... because you smelled something?"

The snake blinked slowly.

"Yes."

Arya narrowed her eyes.

"Well... that's stupid," she muttered.

Arya stared at the snake with mounting suspicion, her small arms folded tightly over her chest beneath the folds of her woolen nightshirt. Her bare toes curled against the cold stone floor. "You still haven't told me why he said I feel familiar."

The serpent's tongue flicked once, tasting the air, and its violet-tinged eyes narrowed—not with menace, but something that almost resembled thoughtfulness. For a long moment, Arya thought it wouldn't answer at all.

"He said he would only reveal it upon meeting you himself," the snake said at last, its voice like a whisper of wind through dead leaves. "He needs to be certain. To confirm his suspicions. His memories are… fragmented. Like ice shattered on stone."

Arya frowned. That didn't help. It only raised more questions—too many—and she hated questions without answers.

She opened her mouth to argue, but the serpent was already gliding off the edge of the bed, slipping to the floor with fluid grace.

"Come, child. Time is short."

Arya hesitated. Her lip caught between her teeth. Jon would've told her to stay in bed. Her mother would've locked the doors and summoned a dozen guards. Even Robb would've sent her back to sleep with a pat on the head and a warning about wolves in the night.

But something stirred deep within her—deeper than curiosity, deeper than fear. It was instinct. A whisper older than words. And it told her that this moment mattered.

With a quiet sigh and a muttered grumble, Arya swung her legs over the bed and padded after the serpent.

The halls of Winterfell were cloaked in an unnatural hush, deeper than the usual nighttime silence. The torches flickered faintly along the walls, casting long shadows that danced like ghosts along the stone.

Arya moved quickly but silently, trailing just behind the snake's inky form as it slithered through the corridors like black water.

Then they reached the outer hall—the one that passed by the guards stationed outside the family quarters—and Arya froze.

Four men lay sprawled across the stone floor.

She recognized them. They were Stark men. Men who often gave her honey cakes and ruffled her hair in the mornings. Now they weren't moving.

Her breath caught in her throat. "Are they… dead?" she whispered, horror creeping into her voice.

The snake didn't stop.

"No. Merely asleep."

"Asleep?!" she hissed. "They don't look asleep!"

The serpent halted and turned its head to look at her. "It is a gift my kind carries. I met their eyes—and they slept. They will wake before the sun does. Confused, but unharmed."

Arya crept forward slowly, cautiously. One of the guards had his mouth slightly open, like he was snoring. His chest still rose and fell in rhythm.

She swallowed. "You can do that just by looking at people?"

"Only when I choose."

Arya didn't know if she should be impressed or terrified. Probably both.

"Right," she muttered, brushing past the motionless men and hurrying to catch up.

They continued through the castle like shadows. The serpent led her through a narrow servant's passage she'd only used once before—during a game of hide-and-seek with Jon. From there, they slipped through a crooked iron gate that creaked on old hinges. Arya winced at the sound, but the snake moved as if the very air parted for it.

They emerged outside at last, into the cold night air.

The sky above was streaked with clouds, and the moon's light filtered down in pale beams through the snow-covered branches. The wind bit at Arya's toes and tugged at her nightshirt.

To her surprise, the snake began gliding toward the godswood.

Arya blinked in confusion. The godswood was sacred—and locked after dark. Only her father ever entered it at night. Her mother certainly never did. Catelyn Stark still clung to her southern gods—the Seven—even though she'd married the most powerful man in the North. Even at five, Arya found it strange. Unsettling, even.

The old gods watched through weirwood eyes. They didn't care for polished altars or golden idols. They were the gods of snow and silence, of blood and bark and bone.

That was why Arya never felt close to her mother. She didn't understand the North—not really. Sansa had inherited that southern softness, that southern belief in castles and songs and lace. Arya never did. She was her father's daughter.

Sometimes, people called Sansa the perfect southern lady.

But in whispers, Arya had heard it said: She was the perfect northern one.

And she wore that like armor.

She cast one more look back at the castle behind her—its towers tall and silent beneath the winter moon—before stepping forward into the dark woods.

The serpent did not slow, and neither did Arya.

Something waited in the godswood.

And she was ready to meet it.

(Timeskip)

It had taken nearly an hour for Arya and the snake to sneak their way into the godswood—a feat far more difficult than she had expected. The sacred grove was sealed behind a tall, wrought-iron gate and encircled by thick stone walls, both of which were constantly patrolled by guards. It made sense, Arya thought grimly; after all, this was one of the most hallowed places in all of Winterfell, revered by her family and countless generations before them. The old gods watched from this place—or so her father had always said.

But through a mixture of clever maneuvering, luck, and the snake's strange, almost uncanny sense for avoiding detection, the two managed to climb the gate and slip through the shadows.

Now, under the pale gaze of the moon, Arya moved cautiously between familiar trees. Their gnarled limbs stretched high and solemn, whispering quietly as the breeze swept through. She followed the snake without a word, her tiny feet barely making a sound on the mossy earth. Her heart thudded louder than her steps.

After ten silent minutes, they arrived.

A clearing opened before her—the very heart of the godswood. And there it was.

The heart tree.

The ancient weirwood stood tall and proud, its white bark almost glowing under the moonlight, with its carved red face eternally weeping sap like blood. It was the most sacred thing in the entire North, maybe all of Westeros. A place where prayers were heard, oaths made, and blessings whispered to the wind.

But tonight, something was wrong.

Laying his back against the ancient trunk, unmoving, was a man Arya had never seen before.

He was clad in strange, dark armor that shimmered with an oily sheen, like forged shadow. A hood obscured his face, casting it in shadow, but even from this distance, Arya could feel something… different. Something ancient. Something familiar.

She was certain—completely certain—that she had never met this man. Yet deep inside her chest, something stirred. A connection. A thread. A faint pull, like how a needle finds its way to thread without thinking.

She didn't know who he was.

But somehow, some way—this stranger felt like a part of her.

As soon as the snake saw the figure resting beneath the heart tree, she slithered forward with clear purpose, her dark scales glinting under the pale moonlight. Without hesitation, she coiled loosely around the motionless body, draping herself like a living ornament across the black armor. Then, to Arya's surprise, the snake spoke.

"She is here, master," the serpent hissed softly.

Arya blinked. The voice wasn't sharp or sibilant—it was smooth, low, and strangely calm. Before she could process what she'd heard, the man responded.

His voice didn't echo like it should have. It was more like a whisper that bypassed her ears and spoke directly to her mind—quiet but perfectly clear.

"Thank you, Snake. I felt your presence the moment you entered the woods..."

He paused, and Arya felt a strange ripple in the air, like a breath being drawn in without lungs.

"It bothers me to keep calling you 'Snake.' From now on, I'll name you Nyx, after the goddess of night from where I'm from."

The voice—soothing, measured—was feminine in tone, which confused Arya even more. The figure hadn't moved an inch since she arrived. He still sat slumped like a lifeless statue, back resting against the heart tree's blood-streaked bark. No shift of posture, no twitch of a finger. Yet he was speaking—alive.

The snake, now Nyx, tilted her head upward as if pondering the name. Then, with a slow, graceful nod, she accepted it.

Arya hesitated for a moment, clutching her cloak tighter around her. Then she cleared her throat softly and stepped forward, her voice carrying the hesitant, curious tone only a child could manage.

"Umm… sorry to interrupt your conversation with… Nyx, was it? But I'm kind of curious. Why—and how—did you end up here? My father and brother say something like this shouldn't even be possible. And… why have I been called?"

The man laughed—but it was a strange laugh.

Arya couldn't see his face. She couldn't see his shoulders shake, or any movement at all. Yet somehow, she knew he was laughing. The sound danced around her like a breeze in autumn leaves—warm, ancient, and a little sad.

"Hahaha… I miss that childlike innocence," the man said, his whisper-like voice carrying effortlessly across the clearing. "Back when I too believed places like these were impregnable to a Force-sensitive."

He remained completely still, unmoving atop the heart tree as if one with its bark, yet his voice held the warmth of a long-lost memory. "But I'll satisfy your curiosity, child. The moment I awoke beneath these gods, I felt a thread pulling at me—a connection I couldn't ignore. And now that you're standing here before me... it's clear. You're my daughter. Though not in the traditional sense."

Arya's jaw dropped.

Her five-year-old mind struggled to process what he had just said. Still, indignation overtook confusion, and her voice rang out, high and sharp.

"How could I be your daughter!? My father is Eddard Stark—Lord of Winterfell, head of House Stark, Warden of the North! I can't be the child of someone I've never even met!"

Her hands clenched at her sides, face flushed with anger. She wasn't just parroting what she had been told—she knew it. Maester Luwin had told her the story of her birth many times: how her mother had cried with joy, how her siblings had welcomed her, how she looked like a true Stark—dark hair, pale skin, and the fierce will of her late aunt Lyanna.

Well… except for her eyes.

That was the only thing different. Her eyes were a strange mix of silver and violet. No one else in her family had eyes like that.

"Calm yourself, child," the man said gently, still not moving an inch. "I said you are my daughter—not in the way flesh begets flesh, but in spirit. You wouldn't yet understand if I explained it in words… but I can show you something."

Before Arya could question him, all the stones around the clearing began to tremble. Then, as if commanded by invisible strings, they floated upward and spiraled through the air. Her eyes widened as they twisted and fused together, forming a giant stone serpent nearly two meters long. The snake hovered, then crumbled silently into dust.

But where it fell, something else emerged.

From the dust and earth, a new form rose—cold, glistening, and eerily familiar.

A statue.

Made entirely of black ice.

Arya gasped, stumbling backward and falling onto her rear. Her breath caught in her throat. The statue… it looked exactly like her—down to the wild strands of hair, the small, determined frown on her face, even the faint scar near her brow she'd gotten last winter.

For a moment, all was still. Then, Arya slowly stood, her fear melting into wonder as she stepped closer, inspecting the flawless detail of her frozen likeness.

She looked up at the man again, heart pounding with questions she didn't yet know how to ask.

Arya's voice trembled with a mixture of awe and confusion.

"H-how… how can you do this? I've heard stories of magic before, but the septa always said it was the Devil's work—mere parlor tricks compared to the Faith of the Seven."

Her words tumbled out in a rush, innocence and youthful certainty wrapped together.

But the man on the heart tree—the still figure in black armor—felt a fierce, bitter sting at those words. To him, calling something greater than the Force a parlor trick was more than ignorance. It was a denial of everything that had shaped his soul.

And suddenly, from his stillness, a dark storm erupted.

A titanic wave of Force energy exploded outward—raw, violent, and unforgiving—shaking the very earth beneath Winterfell's ancient godswood.

Arya barely had time to scream before the ground bucked beneath her feet, sending her sprawling onto the cold forest floor.

The wind whipped fiercely through the towering weirwoods, their blood-red eyes weeping thick, dark sap like tears. The eerie cries echoed not just through Winterfell but across the entire North.

Far away, in the distant halls of House Karstark, deep in the biting cold of their rugged keep, Lord Harald Karstark was jolted awake. The ground beneath his chambers quaked violently, knocking books and weapons from shelves. His heavy oak door rattled on its hinges as the bedposts creaked ominously.

Harald scrambled upright, heart pounding, his hand resting on the hilt of his greatsword. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows across the stone walls. Outside, his bannermen stirred, some calling out in alarm.

He rushed to the window and stared into the blackness, the earth rumbling still beneath his feet.

This was no mere tremor. Something unnatural was happening.

At the seat of House Bolton, deep within the grim halls of the Dreadfort, Roose Bolton was overseeing a lesson with his bastard son. The boy was learning the grisly art of flaying—his small hands gripping a sharpened knife under Roose's watchful eye.

Suddenly, the stone floor heaved violently, knocking both from their feet. The lesson was forgotten as a long, low groan rolled through the castle's ancient stones. Torches flickered, and the dark banners above them swayed as if in a storm.

Roose's eyes narrowed with suspicion. He helped the boy to his feet but felt a cold dread settle deep in his gut.

Something had stirred. Something old and powerful.

Far to the east, in the ancestral home of House Umber, the great halls shook with an alarming intensity. The massive wooden beams groaned, and the Umber family members—hulking warriors dressed in fur and leather—were thrown from their beds in the middle of the night.

Loud crashes and shouts echoed as they scrambled to secure their home.

Lord Umber, a towering man with a wild mane of hair, bellowed orders to his men, but the ground continued to quake relentlessly.

The ancient gods seemed restless tonight.

In the swamps near Greywater Watch, the quiet, secretive home of House Reed, the elders awoke to tremors shaking their timbered walls.

The normally serene marshlands roiled with unnatural waves of energy. Branched reeds bent and snapped.

Meera and Jojen Reed, though still children, shared a knowing glance. The old magic was stirring.

Their father, Howland Reed, was already preparing, his eyes fierce and resolute.

Winterfell's heart was calling.

At White Harbor, the seat of House Manderly, the coastal lord felt the tremors through the very stone foundations of his castle.

Wyman Manderly, stout and determined, stood fast amid the chaos. Servants scrambled to steady furniture and secure doors.

"This is no common quake," he muttered, eyes narrowing. "The old gods' wrath, or worse."

On Bear Island, Jorah Mormont was thrown awake as the floor shook beneath his chamber.

His loyal bannermen rushed in alarm. Jorah's face was grim.

"Prepare the men," he commanded. "Winter is not just coming. It's here."

Back in Winterfell, the heart of the North, the quake's force threw open heavy doors, shaking guards from their posts and sending torches crashing to the stone floors.

Inside the great castle, Lady Catelyn Stark awoke with a gasp, clutching the bedpost as the walls trembled. Her heart pounding, she called out, "Eddard!"

Lord Eddard Stark, already risen, rushed through the halls. His mind raced with worry for his children.

He approached Arya's chamber with urgent steps, but as he swung the heavy oaken door open, his blood ran cold.

A guard lay motionless on the floor, eyes closed, unmoving. The room was eerily silent except for the faint creak of the shaking castle.

Ned's hand went to the hilt of Ice as he cautiously stepped inside, searching for signs of life.

Outside, the quake continued to shake the foundations of Winterfell—an earthquake of such magnitude that even the ancient stones seemed to weep.

Back in the godswood, the tremors gradually subsided. The man—Jinx—sat motionless against the weeping heart tree as the final quakes faded into a ghostly silence. The wild winds eased, the shaking ceased, and only the sound of branches rustling overhead remained. He inhaled deeply through his nose, held it for a long moment, and exhaled a trembling sigh. His voice was quieter now, weary.

"...Forgive me," he said, his tone carrying the weight of shame. "I did not mean to frighten you."

Arya had remained frozen where she fell, sitting on the cold earth. Her heart still raced from the ground's violent lurch. She looked up at the man—no, the being—who had just shaken the entire world around her with a flare of rage. But his voice was calm now, fragile, even kind.

"Come," he said, still leaning against the heart tree. "Remove my hood."

Arya blinked, uncertain. A full minute passed in silence as she stared at him. Her legs trembled slightly as she stood, but her curiosity overrode her fear. She walked cautiously across the disturbed roots and dead leaves, then slowly reached for the dark, heavy hood.

When she peeled it back, her breath caught in her throat.

"You're a woman!" Arya yelped, stumbling backward with wide eyes. "How—? You look like—!"

The figure chuckled softly, the sound low and tired.

"Sorry to burst your bubble, child," he said, only his lips moving—his eyes were distant and unfocused. "But I am, in fact, a man. I was simply born with... features that grew more feminine over time. Enough that most mistake me, as you have. I have no breasts, and the rest... well, I assure you, I'm still a man."

Arya's mouth opened, but no words came. She didn't know what to say. The idea that someone who looked like that could wield such overwhelming power fascinated her more than it confused her. If he could do that... could she?

Before she could ask more, he sighed again, the bark behind him creaking under his weight.

"I think you've been gone long enough, Arya Stark. My little tantrum surely woke your family. You'd be wise to return to them before they panic," he said, calmly.

Arya nodded slowly, but she didn't move.

"I ask only one thing," he continued. "Help me come with you. I haven't the strength to move on my own."

His voice was gentle, but the request gave Arya pause. She hesitated until he added:

"It is the only way I might convince your father to let me train you. To teach you what I know. That is, if you're still interested in learning what I did tonight."

Her heart fluttered at the words. Teach her? To do that?

"I am!" she blurted without thinking.

Determined, Arya moved to his side and wrapped her arms under his—struggling to lift him. He was lighter than he looked, yet still heavy for her young frame.

He noticed her effort and offered a small, grateful smile. "I can't help much," he said, "but I can make myself a little lighter."

Arya felt the shift immediately. It was as if his body became half its weight—almost like dragging a large, half-empty sack of grain. Still a challenge, but no longer impossible.

"Thank you," she panted.

They made their way slowly through the woods, Arya tugging, Jinx leaning slightly into her pull, his boots scuffing against leaves and earth. The moonlight lit their path in broken patches.

After a few minutes of strained silence, Arya remembered something and looked over her shoulder.

"By the way, my name's Arya Stark. What's yours?"

The man let out a soft laugh. "Ah. My apologies for not introducing myself earlier," he said, voice wistful.

"I am Jinx... Slytherin."

He tilted his head toward the night sky, his pale, hauntingly androgynous face bathed in moonlight. His lips curved faintly as his eyes remained fixed upward—not by choice, but because they hadn't moved once since the quake.

The stars reflected in his gaze.

(3rd pov)

The great hall's doors slammed open with a thunderous crack.

"RODRIK! JORY! ROUSE EVERY DAMN GUARD IN THIS KEEP!" roared Lord Eddard Stark, his voice cutting through the morning chill like a warhorn at dawn. His boots slammed against the stone floor with a speed and fury that caused the gathered servants to scatter like frightened birds. "MY DAUGHTER IS GONE! I WANT EVERY INCH OF WINTERFELL SEARCHED!"

Catelyn, still in her nightgown, stood rooted to the spot near the hearth, hands clutched to her chest. She had only ever seen her husband like this once before—and the memory stung. The day she had spoken of Jon Snow's fate in a moment of bitterness and despair. The slap had come so fast and so hard it knocked her into silence. Ned had never struck her before or since. He never apologized either.

Yet she knew that pain was not born of cruelty. It was the flame of a father, fiercely protective and unmovable.

But now… now that fire had become a storm.

"Any man who so much as slows his step will find himself bound for the block," Ned growled, his voice ice-cold with fury. "Am I understood?!"

Ser Rodrik Cassel, the old but sharp master-at-arms, stood frozen for only a breath before answering. "Aye, my lord. Jory, get every man awake. Search the godswood first. Then the walls, the battlements, the towers, the kitchens—everywhere."

"Yes, Ser!" Jory barked, racing off like a hound unleashed.

"Robb," Ned snapped, turning to his oldest son, who was pale but standing firm. "Arm yourself. You'll lead the second sweep with Rodrik. Stay sharp."

"Yes, Father," Robb said, his voice steady despite his wide eyes.

Jon Snow stood beside him, face pale, uncertain. He was only eight, the same age as Robb. His hand reached for his half-brother's instinctively.

But it was Catelyn who flinched when Ned turned again. She took an involuntary step backward. His fury was not directed at her, but the heat of it scorched the room all the same.

Sansa, barely five, whimpered and clung to her mother's leg, sensing something terribly wrong.

"My lord," Catelyn ventured, voice gentle, "perhaps she's just wandered off. A child's adventure, nothing more…"

"Don't," Ned growled, so quiet and sharp it silenced the hall. "Don't make excuses for this. Arya does not vanish. She's no fool, and she does not simply wander in the night."

His head turned toward the open door that led out toward the snow-covered courtyard—and beyond, the godswood.

It was then that all who stood nearby froze.

Just for a moment.

His eyes.

They flashed—golden, like twin suns erupting from his skull, ringed in crimson. And then, in the blink of an eye, they shifted again—to silver, luminous and cold like moonlight on steel.

Even Ser Rodrik took a step back.

"What in the Seven—" Jory muttered.

Jon's breath caught in his throat. He wasn't sure what he'd seen, but he had seen it. And something inside him stirred.

Catelyn's blood went cold. She remembered the legends. Old northern tales. Tales she had once dismissed as superstition. Her voice caught in her throat.

Eddard Stark, however, showed no sign of being aware of the change.

"Rodrik," he barked again. "Send men into the godswood. Quietly. Carefully. And armed. If anything so much as breathes wrong, I want it surrounded."

"Aye, Lord Stark."

Ned finally turned back toward Catelyn and his children. He knelt briefly before Sansa, brushed her hair back gently, and whispered, "Go with your mother. I'll bring Arya home."

He rose, his eyes—now back to their usual storm-grey—fixed on the door.

And just before stepping into the snow, he muttered under his breath in a language none of them had heard before. Not the Old Tongue. Not Valyrian. Something else.

Something… older.

Jon Snow shivered—not from cold, but from something else.

A presence. A calling. A memory that didn't belong to him, whispering from some forgotten corner of his soul.

The godswood waited.

And Eddard Stark walked into it like a wolf who had just scented blood.