meeting the stark family and explaing

Eddard was furious. That much was clear to everyone in Winterfell, from the lowest stableboy to the proudest bannerman.

But beneath that fury, festering like a fire in his gut, was fear. Not the kind of fear that crept up quietly in the night, but the kind that howled in a man's bones—the fear of losing something irreplaceable.

His daughter. His little wild wolf. Arya.

She was missing.

He had barked out orders with a ferocity that hadn't been heard since Robert's Rebellion. Guards scattered in every direction. Stablehands were thrown from sleep. Ravens were readied in case the worst came to pass. Anyone who paused, questioned, or hesitated even for a second was met with a promise: "Slack again, and you'll meet the block." No man in Winterfell doubted he meant it.

Not even his wife.

Catelyn had only seen him this close to breaking once—and even then, that fire had not blazed as fiercely. It had been years ago, after she had spoken—no, spat—cruel words about Jon Snow, suggesting the boy be "left out to the woods to die like a sick pup." The slap that followed had come faster than a thought. A hard crack across her cheek that echoed in the godswood and left her speechless. He had never apologized. And she had never asked again, though a piece of her resented that night in silence.

Now, watching him from afar, holding little Rickon tight while Robb and Sansa huddled nearby, she remembered that moment vividly—but this time, she felt afraid. Eddard Stark was no longer just angry. He was changed. The air around him cracked like a frozen lake beneath a stomping giant.

Then, they saw it.

His eyes.

Golden—burning like firelight through a wolf's gaze—then bleeding into silver like moonlight caught in winter frost. Robb and Jon, both still only boys, stared in stunned silence. Even Rodrik Cassel, grizzled and grey, and his stout nephew Jory, loyal and true, were shaken.

And still he said nothing.

He simply turned and marched.

Not toward the tower. Not toward the walls. Toward the godswood.

Something deep inside Eddard's soul screamed that was where she was. Arya. That wild, laughing spark of life. His daughter—closer to him than he'd ever admit. Not like Sansa, polished and poised. No, Arya was his mirror: stubborn, blunt, and always chasing the wind. He didn't understand it. But he felt it.

"Rodrik. Jory. With me."

The two men didn't question. They followed.

He didn't bother retrieving a torch. The full moon burned above Winterfell, and the godswood glowed in silver light.

He didn't even question why he brought Ice.

It felt natural. Inevitable. As if the old gods themselves whispered in the wind: bring the blade.

When he reached the locked gate to the godswood, the great iron chain and lock mocked him. In the past, he would've called for a key. Or a blacksmith.

But not tonight.

He dropped Ice into the snow beside him, took a deep breath, and gripped the iron gate with both hands.

And ripped.

The metal screamed. The iron chain snapped like twine beneath an avalanche. The lock cracked with a sharp pop and flew off, skittering into the darkness. Rodrik took an instinctive step back. Jory's mouth hung open.

"Seven hells…" Jory muttered.

Eddard didn't speak. He picked Ice back up, slung it over his shoulder, and stepped through the now broken gate, into the stillness of the godswood.

The weirwood trees watched him like ancient judges. The heart tree stood tall and bleeding.

Something was here. Something old.

The air was thick—not just with the bite of snow, but something heavier. Like magic. Like memory. Like the eyes of his ancestors were on him.

Rodrik and Jory entered behind him, the crunch of their boots softer now.

"Lord Stark," Rodrik whispered. "What… what was that?"

Eddard didn't answer.

Because the truth was…

He didn't know.

All he knew was this:

His daughter was in the godswood.

And so was something else.

It had only been five minutes since Eddard Stark entered the godswood—but to him, it felt like an eternity stretching out across a thousand winters. The air hung heavy with tension, the ancient trees whispering things only the old gods could understand. His breath was ragged, heart thudding against his ribs like a war drum, and his eyes scanned the forest with the desperate precision of a father on the brink of losing what mattered most.

Suddenly, he saw it.

A flicker of movement ahead—barely visible through the mist and curling shadows, perhaps a hundred meters away. Eddard's hand shot up in a silent command, and both Rodrik and Jory halted without a word. Ice, the greatsword of House Stark, whispered as it slid free from its scabbard once more, its weight grounding him even as his thoughts threatened to spiral into panic.

Rodrik and Jory drew their blades as well, steel catching glimmers of moonlight bleeding through the canopy. The three of them moved forward—slow, careful, tense. Every step brought the figure into clearer view.

At fifty meters, Eddard's breath caught in his throat.

It was her.

Arya.

His daughter—his wild little wolf, stumbling forward from the shadows like she'd been spit out from the bowels of the forest itself. Her hair was wild, her face streaked with dirt and sweat, and something in her eyes looked far older than a girl of eight summers should ever carry.

But she was alive.

The sword slipped from his hands, landing with a muted thud into the mossy earth beneath him, forgotten.

"ARYA!" he roared.

And then he was running.

Not as Lord of Winterfell, not as Warden of the North—but as a father.

He sprinted forward, faster than he thought his legs could still carry him, pushing past brush and roots without care. Every heartbeat shouted the same prayer to the old gods: Let her be whole. Let her be safe. Let her be mine.

And when he reached her, when he dropped to his knees and gathered her trembling form into his arms, all the fury and fear he carried melted into something raw and wordless. Her body was cold. Her eyes wide. But she clung to him as tightly as he clung to her.

She was home.

But, as in all things, no good moment lasts forever.

The peaceful silence was abruptly broken by a voice—calm, dry, and thoroughly unimpressed—cutting through the air and reaching all four pairs of ears present.

"While I can't exactly see what's happening, I assume it's heartwarming… family reunion, tears, the usual," the man lying motionless on the ground drawled lazily. "But is anyone going to help me, or am I just expected to rot here all night?"

His tone was that of a man both thoroughly bored and mildly irritated—one who clearly felt no urgency despite the tense atmosphere around him. What frustrated Jinx most wasn't the touching reunion he couldn't witness—it was the gnawing irritation of not knowing exactly when in the timeline of Game of Thrones he had landed. He couldn't get a clear look at Arya, and while her youthful voice hinted at a certain period, it wasn't enough. For someone who'd once been one of the most powerful beings in the galaxy, and a diehard fan of the series in his first life, the simple fact of not knowing was infuriating.

Eddard, snapping back to his senses, immediately stepped in front of Arya, gently but firmly pulling her behind him. Rodrik and Jory were at his side in an instant, swords drawn, ready to strike at the unmoving stranger.

Ned's voice came sharp and commanding, honed from years of battlefields.

"Identify yourself! Why were you with my daughter?"

All three men stood tense, braced for any movement. But the stranger remained perfectly still, lying slumped against the roots of the heart tree, not even tilting his head to acknowledge them.

Then, the air shifted.

"First of all…" the man's tone dropped with a hint of amused irritation, "Let's put these children's toys away."

Before their eyes, both Rodrik's and Jory's swords ripped themselves from their grasps, torn away by an unseen force. The blades hovered briefly in the air before slamming harmlessly into the earth several feet away. Rodrik and Jory staggered back in shock, their faces pale. Eddard instinctively pulled Arya closer, his grip tightening around her small shoulders.

"Better," the man said, sounding infinitely more satisfied. "Now, as for who I am… you can call me Jinx Slytherin. That's all I can offer for now." There was a short pause before his tone turned casual again. "My current… predicament has left me too drained to move. But if little Arya here wouldn't mind continuing to drag me back, it'll make for a good start to her training."

Ned's jaw tightened. He opened his mouth to demand further answers, but before a single word could escape, Arya had already slipped out of his grasp.

"Arya!" he barked, his voice edged with alarm.

To his absolute disbelief, Arya simply huffed and trudged forward, grabbing Jinx by the arms again and resuming her efforts to pull him across the ground, as though this was the most natural thing in the world.

Rodrik and Jory exchanged stunned glances, both men clearly rattled by the display of unnatural power. But it was Eddard Stark who stood the most dumbfounded—his chest tight, not from fear… but from utter bewilderment.

The wildest of his children, the one who rarely listened to him, the Warden of the North, was now willingly listening to a complete stranger.

Eddard pressed a hand over his heart, feeling its pounding fury and confusion.

"Gods help me," he muttered. "The world has gone mad."

And in that frozen godswood, beneath the eyes of ancient weirwoods, it felt like the old gods were watching—amused and silent—at the beginning of something far greater than any of them yet understood.

It took an hour. An agonizing, frustrating hour.

Eddard Stark had offered to help. Rodrik had insisted. Jory had even tried to hoist the stranger over his shoulder, but each time they reached to assist, that same eerily calm voice would call out from the slumped figure.

"No. This is her burden. A test of resolve… the first of many."

And somehow, through sheer stubbornness and pride, Arya Stark—his little wolf—dragged the strange armored man all the way from the godswood to the Great Hall of Winterfell. Her cheeks were red, arms sore, legs trembling, but her silver-violet eyes burned with determination. She refused to stop. Refused to yield.

By the time they reached the main courtyard, the commotion had spread through the keep. Servants whispered in corners, stablehands gawked from behind wooden beams, and sentries exchanged confused glances, unsure whether to intervene or stay out of the way.

Eddard had barely crossed through the main gates when the large oak doors to the Great Keep opened—and his family came rushing out.

"Arya!" Catelyn's voice cracked with emotion. She rushed forward, her nightgown barely covered by a hastily thrown-on shawl, arms outstretched to embrace her daughter.

But Arya startled everyone by snapping sharply, "No! Stay back!"

Catelyn froze mid-step, the color draining from her cheeks. Robb, only eight but already growing tall, stood beside Jon, who held onto his half-brother's sleeve with wary confusion. Little Sansa clung to her mother's gown, wide blue eyes brimming with fear.

It was Catelyn who spoke first, her voice sharp and fearful. "Arya… what—what is this? Who is this man?"

Arya wiped sweat from her brow, still gripping the stranger's armored wrist as she dragged him up the stairs with every ounce of strength her small body could muster.

"I don't know exactly," Arya panted, "but… he's mine. He's my teacher."

That single statement left everyone silent.

When they entered the Great Hall, Eddard ordered the heavy doors sealed behind them. No servants. No retainers. Just his family, his trusted men, and the stranger lying there like an unmovable shadow on Winterfell's ancient stones.

Eddard paced before the hearth, gripping the pommel of Ice, its familiar weight comforting but hollow in the presence of unknown power. His jaw tightened before he turned to face the armored figure.

"Enough riddles," Eddard demanded, voice cold, "You will explain yourself. You will tell me exactly what this… training is, and what your intentions are with my daughter."

For a moment, the hall fell into silence, the fire crackling faintly in the great hearth.

Then a low laugh spilled from the prone man's lips. Amused. Calm. Dismissive.

"Oh, how amusing," the man mused, "The mighty Warden of the North thinks he can command me." His voice dripped with something ancient, far older than Eddard's authority. "Child of iron and wolves, you are a thousand years too young to order me to do anything."

Ned's throat closed up with a tight knot of fury—but he said nothing.

Not because he wanted to remain silent, but because that unseen force still pressed upon his senses—the memory of swords wrenched from loyal men's hands by nothing but a thought lingered like ice on his spine. Ned had witnessed war, bloodshed, and cruelty, but this… this was power beyond his knowing, and that terrified him in ways he couldn't admit aloud.

He glanced sideways at Rodrik and Jory, both of whom still eyed their empty scabbards uneasily, hands twitching like men standing naked before wolves.

Ned's grip tightened on Ice, but even the ancient Valyrian steel seemed inconsequential now.

"I don't care for titles or your family banners," the man continued lazily, his head resting against the stone as if he were lying in a featherbed. "The only reason you're not dead where you stand is because your daughter showed strength most grown men fail to muster. That earned my interest."

Eddard's jaw clenched, but he forced his tone into steadiness. "And your name?"

A pause.

Then, casually, the man answered, "You may call me… Jinx. Jinx Slytherin. And before your maester wastes his breath on old records, no, you'll not find me in any book or tale within these walls. I am… not from here."

Eddard's frown deepened, but it was Robb who spoke first, stepping forward with hesitant curiosity. "Not from… where?"

Jinx chuckled again, the sound echoing through the hall. "That, little lord, is a story far too vast for tonight."

Catelyn remained pale, arms wrapped around Sansa, her knuckles white as she glared at Jinx like he were a snake in the nursery. Jon lingered near the back, eyes narrowed in silent fascination.

Eddard finally stepped forward, towering over the prone figure.

"If you are truly no threat," Ned said carefully, "then you will rest under my roof and answer my questions when the time comes. But if you bring harm to my family—"

"—I could have killed your men a dozen times over before they reached me," Jinx cut in sharply, his tone momentarily hardening. "But I didn't. Because I don't want to. You, Lord Stark, I respect… for now. Because of her."

His eyes—sharp, violet-tinged beneath a fringe of dark hair—flicked toward Arya.

Eddard studied him in silence, then finally turned away.

"Jory," Ned barked, "Prepare a guarded chamber. Rodrik, station men outside with orders not to intervene without my command. I will decide tomorrow what is to be done."

Arya's eyes burned with stubborn defiance as she stood protectively near Jinx, chest heaving from her long ordeal.

And for the first time in many long years… Eddard Stark wasn't sure if the gods had sent him a gift—or a storm.

The next morning, Winterfell's Great Hall felt heavier than usual. The long tables were pushed back to make room for the gathered council. A cold wind rattled the windows, though inside, the hearth burned hot and high, casting restless shadows against the ancient stone walls.

Eddard Stark sat at the head of the high table, Ice resting at his side like a silent warning. His face was carved from northern granite—stern, unreadable—but behind his cold exterior was a storm of unease.

Beside him sat Maester Luwin, quill and parchment ready, with Rodrik and Jory standing at attention. Catelyn stood further back with Robb, Jon, and Sansa seated quietly, watching everything unfold. Arya, perched on a high stool, looked defiant and curious in equal measure.

And then there was him.

Jinx Slytherin.

Still unable to stand on his own, the guards had half-dragged, half-carried him to a sturdy wooden chair before the lords of Winterfell. He sat there now, slouched but eerily composed, armored body relaxed, violet-tinted eyes cool and calculating.

Eddard spoke first, his voice calm but commanding.

"You sit beneath my roof, stranger, and I have given you shelter. But I will have my answers now."

Jinx shifted slightly in his seat, mouth curling into a faint smirk.

"And you shall have some… but not all. I'll not give you lies, Lord Stark, but there are things I won't reveal—not yet, perhaps not ever."

Ned's jaw tensed. He hated riddles, but he had lived long enough to know some men could not be forced to reveal their truths.

"Then tell me what you will," Ned said evenly. "Where are you from? Why were you lying half-dead in my godswood? And what are your intentions toward my daughter?"

Jinx's head tilted just enough for the light to catch the sharp angle of his cheekbone.

"Far away," he said simply. "Much farther than Essos, farther than Asshai. A land beyond all known maps, where even your grand maesters' parchments crumble into myth. A land of vast power, war, and endless ambition."

Maester Luwin's brow furrowed, quill hovering hesitantly over his parchment.

"And who were you in this distant land?" Luwin pressed, curiosity breaking through his scholarly mask.

Jinx's smile deepened slightly.

"The third most powerful man," he said, voice rich with amusement. "Answerable only to two greater than me—one a sovereign, the other… something far worse." His tone darkened just enough to stir a quiet tension around the room.

Ned's fingers tapped lightly against the hilt of Ice.

"Powerful enough to tear swords from the hands of men and shake the bones of the earth?"

Jinx nodded lazily. "Powerful enough that armies would hesitate before speaking my name aloud. Though that power is… fractured now. My strength is not what it was."

"Clearly," Rodrik muttered under his breath, eyeing the stranger's immobility.

Jinx chuckled, unbothered. "Yes, old knight. My body is broken, my power flickering… but my will remains untouched." He turned his head slightly, eyes locking on Arya. "And will is the root of all strength."

Ned's glare hardened.

"And your intentions? With my daughter."

Jinx sighed, his armored shoulders shifting. "To teach her. To sharpen her as one sharpens steel—to give her the tools to survive, to protect what matters to her, and to stand when others would fall." His voice lowered. "In your world of thrones and swords, of schemes and monsters, she will need more than a sharp blade. She will need resolve."

Silence fell over the hall. The crackling hearth seemed louder in the stillness.

Catelyn's voice cut through, tight and distrustful.

"You speak of yourself as a warrior, but you are chained to a chair like a cripple. You cannot even lift a sword."

Jinx's expression didn't falter. "My body betrays me for now, my lady… but strength takes many forms. You should know that well, being married to a man whose reputation alone keeps lesser lords in line."

Eddard's stare didn't break.

"Words are wind, Jinx Slytherin. Prove your value—or you will not remain under this roof."

Jinx tilted his head back, that same smug grin curling at his lips.

"Very well, Lord Stark. Allow me rest and recovery… allow me a place to regain my footing… and I will show you what I can offer your House."

Ned studied him, weighing every word, every gesture. His gut twisted with both caution and curiosity. There were few things he hated more than uncertainty—but something told him this man, broken or not, could not be ignored.

Finally, Eddard stood.

"Rodrik, Jory—escort him to a guarded chamber. He will rest. But his every move is watched, his every word accounted for."

Jinx didn't protest, allowing himself to be lifted once more. "I'll make you believers soon enough," he said with a lazy smile, before being carried from the hall.

Arya watched him leave, her young heart thumping with excitement and wonder.

Eddard's eyes, however, lingered in the empty air where Jinx had sat, grim and thoughtful.

The heavy doors of the Great Hall creaked shut, and the murmurs of servants faded into silence. The council chamber was quieter than usual—too quiet, as if the very stones of Winterfell were listening.

Eddard Stark stood by the window, gazing out at the lightly falling snow dusting the courtyard. The wind rattled the panes, but it wasn't the cold that gnawed at his thoughts. Behind him sat Catelyn, her arms folded tightly over her chest. Ser Rodrik Cassel stood rigid, his weathered hands resting on the pommel of his sword. Jory lingered nearby, shifting uncomfortably, while Maester Luwin sat with parchment spread before him, quill poised yet untouched.

Ned's voice broke the silence first, low but edged with steel.

"I do not trust him."

Catelyn's lips pressed into a thin line. "Nor do I," she said sharply. "You saw what he did. To Rodrik, to Jory… the chains… the gate. No man should have such power."

Rodrik grimaced, the memory still fresh. "It felt like… the world shifted around me. My sword flew from my grip without warning. It was like the air itself turned against me."

Jory nodded grimly. "I've fought knights, brigands, and ironborn raiders. I've looked men in the eye who wanted me dead… but that man, sitting broken as he was—he frightened me more than any blade at my throat."

Eddard finally turned from the window, his gaze falling on Maester Luwin.

"Luwin… what say you? You are the scholar among us. Have you read of anything like this?"

Luwin's fingers drummed nervously on the desk before he spoke. "My lord, I have scoured every text in Winterfell's library, and the Citadel's ravens bring me many more. But… this Jinx Slytherin… his name appears nowhere. Not in Essos, not in the shadowed lands of Asshai, not in the oldest tales of the First Men or Valyria." His frown deepened, voice tinged with unease. "And his… abilities… are unlike any maester's record of known magic."

Eddard's jaw tightened. "Even the Valyrians… their dragons, their sorceries—none of it comes close to what I witnessed last night."

Luwin swallowed. "Perhaps, my lord… we are dealing with something beyond the world we know."

A thick silence fell again, broken only by the crackle of the hearth.

Catelyn stood then, her voice sharp as frost. "You said it yourself, Ned. We don't know who this man is. He could be some exiled sorcerer from beyond the known world. His power could destroy everything we have built. And Arya…" Her voice caught, fury rising in her chest, "he's already wormed his way into her heart. She listens to him. She fought to bring him here. That is no small danger."

Eddard's expression darkened.

"I saw it too. She wouldn't even let her own mother touch her. I do not like the sway he holds over her."

Rodrik's grip tightened on his sword. "Say the word, my lord, and I'll put an end to this before the sun sets."

Ned lifted a hand to halt him. "No." His voice was calm but firm. "No blood in the hall of Winterfell… not unless the old gods demand it. Not yet." He paced slowly, thinking, calculating. "He is powerful… but broken. His body is frail, his strength faded. Whatever he was, he is only a shadow of it now."

Luwin cleared his throat softly. "My lord, if I may… the risk is grave, yes… but imagine if this power could be… guided. Contained. If Arya learns to master it under your watchful eye… perhaps it becomes a shield, not a sword raised against us."

Catelyn glared sharply. "Or it devours her whole. You would have our daughter dance in shadows, maester?"

Eddard's stare lingered on the embers in the hearth. "We cannot afford to make hasty choices… but we cannot afford naivety either. For now, we watch. We learn. The moment he oversteps, I will end it myself."

Rodrik bowed his head. "As you command."

Catelyn's lips tightened, but she said no more.

Jon and Robb had been sent away, Sansa back to her chamber—but Arya… Arya was already tangled in the web of something ancient and dangerous.

Ned's hand rested on Ice, the ancient steel cold beneath his palm. His heart weighed heavy with the burden of a father and a lord.

"Keep men on his door at all hours. If he moves without permission, I am to know of it immediately." His voice was low but absolute. "We guard our house… but we keep our eyes open. Winter is coming… and I fear it carries more than just cold winds this time."

After the slow and awkward ordeal of being carried through Winterfell, Jinx was unceremoniously laid onto a modest bed in the high tower chamber. The room was spartan—stone walls, iron sconces holding flickering torches, a single small hearth to fight off the northern cold. Two guards deposited him without ceremony, their expressions a mix of fear and forced duty, before promptly exiting the room.

The iron-bound door slammed shut behind them with a deep thud, followed by the harsh scrape of the bolt sliding into place.

Jinx lay there, unmoving, his body still weak and hollow. His head rested against a rough pillow, the ceiling above him draped in shadow. For a long moment, there was silence—save for the gentle crackle of flame and the whisper of northern wind against the ancient stone.

Then, a sigh.

Low, hoarse, and weary.

"These fools…" Jinx muttered, the corners of his mouth twitching into something resembling amusement, though it lacked warmth. "They don't even grasp how far earth is from heaven…"

His eyelids fell shut, but his mind sharpened. He inhaled deeply, exhaling through his nose as he reached inward—into himself—into the tendrils of power that had long lain dormant.

The world around him slowed. Sounds faded into nothingness.

Jinx's focus extended beyond the cold stones of his chamber, sinking deep into the marrow of Winterfell itself. He reached out, feeling the life pulsing through the great fortress—the frantic energy of guards pacing outside his door, the subdued stillness of noble blood resting uneasily in their chambers… and deeper still… below.

There it was.

Far beneath the feet of lords and ladies, hidden by layers of stone and history: the dungeons. The forgotten, the condemned, the festering refuse of Northern justice.

His lips curled lazily. "How kind of you… old gods… to leave me such convenient offerings…"

Jinx's breath slowed, the barest ripple of the Force unfurling from his body like an ancient tide. Invisible but crushing, his will slithered through Winterfell's bones, coiling around the dank cells below.

And then—he pulled.

Far beneath, in rusted cages, men startled awake. Hardened criminals, thieves, murderers, men who had taken blood and coin alike—all suddenly seized by a creeping, unrelenting cold. Their limbs jerked violently, back arching as an unnatural force twisted into their very souls.

It began as a sickly glow leaking from their chests—a dark magenta light, viscous and writhing like smoke made of poison. Then came the screams, raw and broken, echoing uselessly against stone walls that no guard stood near enough to hear. The higher floors of Winterfell were secured, the noble family protected, but the depths of the dungeons were left to rot in silence.

Flesh began to sink in on bone. Skin dried and cracked. The magenta vapor slipped from mouths agape in agony, seeped from empty eye sockets, bleeding through the bars, through the ancient walls, through the veins of the castle itself.

Upward it traveled—up stairwells unseen, through forgotten cracks in the foundation, whispering along corridors and through chilled air vents—until it reached him.

Jinx.

Laid motionless on the bed, but no longer powerless.

The magenta energy coiled into the room, swirling like a soft storm before sinking into his chest, merging with his core like an old friend returning home.

And then—

Flick.

His index finger twitched.

A slight motion. Barely perceptible. But for Jinx, it was monumental.

A smirk curved along his mouth, sharper this time, predatory.

"One finger… and soon… the rest will follow," he whispered, his voice soft but brimming with promise.

His body remained slack, but his spirit stirred. Every second that passed, every wretched soul drained below, brought strength back to his veins, life back to his limbs, and purpose back to his will.

Winterfell would soon understand the depth of the storm they had welcomed into their halls.

And the North… the North would never be the same again.

The morning began with quiet normalcy in Winterfell. The first rays of pale northern sunlight filtered through the stone windows, reflecting off the snow-covered courtyard. In the Great Hall, Eddard Stark sat at the high table, breaking his fast with his family. The children sat quietly—Robb and Jon exchanging quiet conversation, Sansa nibbling politely, Arya pushing food around her plate with restless energy. At the lower tables sat Jory Cassel and Ser Rodrik, speaking in hushed tones over steaming cups of broth.

The peace shattered when the heavy doors of the hall were thrown open with a loud bang.

A guard stumbled in, breathless, his cheeks flushed from both cold and shock. His armor clattered with every frantic step until he dropped to a knee before Lord Stark.

"Forgive the interruption, my lord," the guard gasped out. "The… the dungeons… I—"

Eddard's fork hovered in mid-air, his jaw tightening as a sense of dread coiled in his chest. "Speak," he ordered, his voice already turning cold.

The guard swallowed. "The prisoners, my lord… the men we held these past moons… they—they're gone."

The room fell silent. Even Arya paused mid-bite, eyes narrowing.

Catelyn's hand went to her chest. "Gone?" she asked, confused.

The guard's face turned paler. "Not gone… not escaped. They're… they're dead. All of them. Withered like old husks. Dried-out corpses… their faces—twisted like they died screaming."

The Great Hall filled with a suffocating silence.

Eddard's jaw locked, his knuckles whitening around the goblet in his hand. He needed no investigation. No further confirmation.

There was only one culprit who could be responsible.

Without a word, he rose from his seat, his chair scraping harshly against the floor. He reached for Ice, the ancient sword waiting by his side, and lifted it with grim purpose.

"Rodrik. Jory. With me."

The old knight and his nephew stood instantly, their chairs forgotten as they followed their lord.

Catelyn stood as well, worry etched across her face, but Ned only glanced at her briefly.

"Keep the children here. No one leaves the hall," he commanded before striding toward the stairway with his men close behind.

The walk through Winterfell's halls felt heavier with each step. They climbed the tower swiftly, their boots thudding sharply against ancient stone, their breath fogging in the chill. Two guards stood stationed at Jinx's chamber door, shifting nervously, their hands tight around their spears.

"Open it," Eddard ordered, his voice like a blade.

The guards obeyed instantly, unlocking the iron-banded door with shaking hands. The bolt clattered to the side, and as the door creaked open, an unnatural cold rolled out, licking at their skin and sending an immediate shiver down their spines.

Eddard, Rodrik, and Jory stepped inside—and instantly, all three froze.

The air was unnaturally cold, the hearthfire reduced to pitiful embers. The room felt thick, oppressive, the kind of cold that settled not just in the flesh, but in the marrow of bones.

And there he was.

Jinx sat comfortably atop the bed, no longer slumped and helpless, but upright and poised, his dark hood casting shadows over his face. That infamous mask—forever carved into a smile—covered his features. His gloved fingers flexed idly, arms resting casually on his knees.

Then his head tilted at an unnatural angle, slow and precise, like a predator acknowledging fresh prey.

"Ah," Jinx drawled, his voice calm but echoing unnervingly in the chilled room, "Good morning… gentlemen."

Rodrik's grip tightened around the hilt of his sword.

Jory swallowed hard, his palm damp with sweat.

And Eddard Stark's heart thundered in his chest, Ice resting heavily in his grasp.

There was no question anymore.

Jinx Slytherin had begun to wake up.