Chapter 90: A Precious Gift

Joffrey remained utterly confounded by what he had witnessed.

The ritual had appeared entirely ordinary—seeds consumed, words spoken—yet Leaf's consciousness had entered the weirwood network with an ease that defied explanation, as natural as a skinchanger slipping into the mind of a familiar beast. Like drawing breath.

His own mental presence had accompanied Leaf into the weirwood tree, experiencing the plant's singular perception of the world around it.

One could not help but admire how the weirwood served as the perfect recorder of history, never embellishing facts with opinion or judgment—far more reliable than the most diligent of human scholars, with their inevitable biases and imperfections.

But how had she accomplished it? How had Leaf traversed countless weirwood trees across vast distances, seemingly from nothing?

Retrospective magic could indeed alter the temporal viewpoint of historical observation, yet throughout Leaf's journey from one weirwood to another, Joffrey had detected no discernible trace of any magical working.

Does the flaw lie in my perception? he wondered. Or is the world inherently structured thus—a formless, imperceptible law that underlies all things?

He hoped fervently for the former explanation.

Joffrey knew his ability to perceive such powers continued to develop steadily. In recent months, the light emitted by magical energies had grown increasingly clear and brilliant to his eyes. He could now discern faint patterns within dense concentrations of magical energy, distinguishing individual particles as fine as motes of dust in a sunbeam.

Perhaps one day he would breach that final threshold, allowing his awareness to penetrate deeper into the world's mysteries—perhaps even to interfere with the runes themselves.

That would constitute true divine power.

Yet it remained possible that the Old Gods had employed some exceedingly advanced power to establish this fundamental law: that those born with the gift might, upon consuming weirwood seeds, become one with all weirwood trees across the realm.

Did the Old Gods truly possess such unfathomable power?

If so, how had They been consigned to the shadows of history? Were They merely dormant, awaiting some appointed hour?

Did the Old Gods yet live?

Joffrey had no answers, but one thing seemed increasingly clear—the weirwood network could not provide sufficient security for his purposes.

He reached a decision. The weirwood trees in the southern kingdoms must remain carefully restricted, and the Greenseers' abilities should be bestowed exclusively upon the Children of the Forest. Let the red eyes of the weirwood trees watch eternally northward, vigilant for the advance of the Others.

After all, winter was coming.

"To the Hand of the King, Warden of the North, Governor of the North, Lord Eddard Stark!" Tyrion Lannister proclaimed, lifting his goblet high, wine sloshing perilously close to the rim. "May his journey be safe and his mission fruitful!"

Beautiful music drifted through the grand ballroom of the Red Keep. Pairs of dancers moved gracefully across the polished floor, hands clasped firmly together as they gazed upward at the classical murals adorning the domed ceiling, spinning in elegant, practiced circles.

"Winter is coming," the assembled guests responded in unison, adopting House Stark's ancestral words for their toast. The irony was not lost on any present.

The laughter that followed held genuine mirth rather than mere courtly politeness.

Though Prime Minister Eddard had served but briefly in his office, it had been time enough to demonstrate his fundamental incompatibility with the intricacies of southern politics.

This direwolf, while perhaps not as ferocious as others who had ventured south in times past, proved equally unyielding—regarding with thinly veiled contempt any custom or practice that failed to align with his rigid northern sensibilities.

Fortunately, like all direwolves who had strayed too far south, this one too would soon return to his frozen homeland.

Winter is coming. What a perfect farewell indeed.

Lord Eddard stood in a secluded corridor adjacent to the main hall, acknowledging the assembled nobility with stiff courtesy.

The guests, satisfied with this brief acknowledgment, returned their attention to the festivities. Prime Minister Stark remained unchanged—a man suited only for the harsh simplicity of the North.

Eddard remained oblivious to their thoughts. Winter is coming, he reflected. That much, at least, was true.

He had no choice but to believe it. Having seen the Children of the Forest with his own eyes, having witnessed supernatural powers beyond mortal understanding, and with the disturbing reports from beyond the Wall, the threat from the far north could not be dismissed as mere fancy.

If the Others had not truly stirred from their ancient slumber, why would the King permit all Northern troops to march north rather than south to defend his contested throne?

On this point, at least, Eddard found himself satisfied with the young king's judgment. Joffrey still recognized the North's unique concerns, even if only to the extent of returning Northern warriors to their own lands.

The Mad King Aerys had never shown such understanding, believing that all things within the realm existed solely for his benefit. If Rhaegar had claimed the Iron Throne in those turbulent days, perhaps fewer lords would have raised their banners in rebellion, and the ending might have unfolded quite differently.

Unbidden, Lyanna's voice echoed through the corridors of his memory, as clear as the day she had spoken the words: Ned, promise me...

Eddard's thoughts turned to Jon, the child born of his sister and Rhaegar Targaryen. If Robert had ever learned the truth, he would have descended into murderous rage. Even if Joffrey were to discover Jon's true identity, the boy would find no acceptance from the young king.

How Eddard longed to bring his sister's son back to the North, to the safety of Winterfell—but what reason could he possibly give without revealing the dangerous truth?

Jon had already secured a position as an officer in the City Watch of King's Landing. His duty was to fight for the King, not to flee north with his supposed uncle.

Eddard had considered persuading him to resign his commission, but whenever he encountered Jon, that face—bearing such a haunting resemblance to Lyanna—shone with such earnest desire to distinguish himself that the words died in Eddard's throat.

Besides, winter approached relentlessly. Which offered greater safety—the North or the Red Keep? Which posed the graver threat—the Others or mere steel? Eddard could not say with certainty.

His thoughts drifted to his other children—Bran, Arya, and Sansa.

Sansa was betrothed to the King; her fate was sealed. She would remain in the Red Keep, perhaps never again to feel the bracing winds of the North upon her face.

Bran and Arya could have returned home with him. Yet when Eddard had sought their preferences, their responses had confounded him.

Bran yearned to become a knight of the Seven Kingdoms, to don the white armor and cloak of the Kingsguard; he had refused to depart.

Arya proved equally stubborn, reluctant to abandon Jon and Bran, and even more resistant to the prospect of returning North only to await some arranged marriage. She insisted on remaining in the Red Keep, declaring her ambition to become a warrior-woman like Queen Nymeria of old.

Eddard had not pressed the matter; he could not bring himself to shatter his children's dreams, no matter how impractical they might seem.

Yet concerns gnawed at him nonetheless.

How could he not worry? His children would remain in the Red Keep—that viper's nest of intrigue—without parental guidance, with only Cersei Lannister to watch over them.

Eddard's gaze drifted toward Queen Regent Cersei, seated upon the dais overlooking the ballroom.

At this moment, she appeared the very image of perfection—the benevolent mother of the Seven Kingdoms, gracious and dignified, utterly unlike the erratic, vindictive woman Robert had so often described in his cups.

Eddard harbored no illusions about which persona represented the truth. Most unfortunate of all, this woman served as Regent, wielding power in the young king's name.

Compared to Cersei, even the capricious Joffrey seemed more like a competent ruler.

"Lord Stark," came the King's voice from behind him.

"Your Grace," Eddard turned and offered a proper bow.

Joffrey approached with disarming warmth. "You are our guest of honor tonight. Why do you stand alone in shadow? Many of our guests fear you find the celebration wanting."

Not a flicker of a smile crossed Eddard's solemn features. "The banquet is more than adequate, Your Grace. My thoughts merely turn northward."

The King sighed with what appeared to be genuine regret. "The fault lies partly with me. I have focused too intently on the southern conflict, neglecting to provide the North with proper support. I pray this unfortunate war concludes swiftly."

"Rest assured, Your Grace," Eddard replied, though certainty eluded him. "While the North has little strength to spare, Lord Tywin and Houses Tully and Arryn will not remain idle. Renly's rebellion cannot succeed."

The King placed a hand upon his shoulder, the gesture almost paternal despite the disparity in their ages. "I must impose upon your good offices, Lord Stark. You maintain close ties with both Tully and Arryn."

Eddard seemed to grasp the king's meaning. "Your Grace, I shall certainly do all within my power. I believe—"

His words died mid-sentence as a peculiar sensation washed over him. Something fundamental had shifted within his perception.

The King slowly withdrew his right hand from Eddard's shoulder, a faint smile playing across his lips. "A pleasant feeling, is it not? This represents the highest manifestation of divine grace—a parting gift I bestow upon you."

A strange blue luminescence appeared within Eddard's field of vision, persisting despite his attempts to blink it away or shake his head clear.

So this is divine grace.

An intangible power stirred within his body, and he quickly realized that this force would maintain the blue curtain of light indefinitely.

Is that the extent of it?

The King's smile remained gentle, almost beatific. "Lord Stark, mind your health carefully. The gods have need of you, as does the world itself."

"Remember," he added, voice dropping to little more than a whisper, "light is eternal."

Eddard felt a profound weight settle into his heart—the sensation of tangible and intangible fetters closing around him.

Robert, Sansa, Bran, Arya, Jon, honor, duty, faith, oaths... and now this coldest of divine graces.

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