The chamber was unusually full. Lord Jon Arryn, Hand of the King, had summoned all members of the Small Council, including King Robert Baratheon himself. Even Queen Cersei and her brother, Ser Jaime Lannister, were in attendance.
King Robert slouched in his seat, visibly irritated. "This better be important, Jon. I was in the middle of a hunt."
Jon Arryn stood, his expression grave. "Your Grace, lords and ladies, I have received a letter from Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell. Its contents are... extraordinary."
Grand Maester Pycelle scoffed. "More northern tales, no doubt. The Starks have always been prone to superstition."
Jon Arryn unrolled the parchment. "Lord Stark writes:
'To the esteemed members of the Small Council, I pen this letter with a heavy heart and a mind burdened by recent events. Two weeks past, my youngest daughter, Arya, ventured into the godswood and discovered a hidden chamber beneath a hill, some hundred meters from the heart tree. This chamber, unknown to any living soul, housed a throne of ice and bones, upon which sat a corpse.
As fate would have it, a group of bandits, having escaped our patrols, followed Arya into the chamber. When they threatened her, the corpse stirred, draining the life from the intruders and rising from its icy seat. The being identified himself as Jinx, once King of Winter, who reigned nearly four centuries ago before the Doom of Valyria.
Jinx claims to have aided the Targaryens in surviving the Doom, providing them with knowledge and power. He possesses a trinket bearing the Targaryen sigil, which plays a haunting melody unfamiliar to us.
He has begun training my children and myself in a force he calls 'the Force,' a power that transcends our understanding. I share this not as a tale, but as a warning and a plea for guidance.'
Queen Cersei laughed derisively. "The Runaway King? A children's story. Are we to believe Lord Stark has been duped by old wives' tales?"
King Robert's face turned red with fury. "Targaryen involvement? Even in death, they plague us!"
Varys interjected, his voice calm. "Your Grace, if there is truth to this, it could have significant implications. The resurgence of such a figure, especially one connected to the Targaryens, warrants our attention."
Jon Arryn nodded. "Indeed. We must investigate further. If this 'Jinx' possesses knowledge or power that could threaten the realm, we need to be prepared."
The council fell into a tense silence, the weight of the revelation pressing upon them. The shadows of the past had returned, and the realm would never be the same.
The silence that followed Jon Arryn's reading of Lord Eddard Stark's letter was suffocating. The words hung in the air like a storm cloud, waiting to break. King Robert leaned forward in his chair, gripping the arms as if he might snap them off. His face was a storm of emotions—anger, disbelief, and, beneath it all, a flicker of curiosity.
Robert Baratheon: "Targaryen. Again." He gritted his teeth. "What are we to believe? A dead king, buried beneath Winterfell, brought back by some strange power?"
Cersei Lannister scoffed, arms crossed, her usual arrogance radiating from her like a shield. "The Runaway King, of all things," she sneered. "The stories told to frighten children. If Eddard Stark truly believes this, it only confirms my suspicion—he's as foolish as his northern brethren."
Jon Arryn raised his hand, a gesture to silence Cersei's mockery. "Your Grace," he began, addressing Robert. "The truth in this matter is not so easily dismissed. If there is even the slightest chance that Jinx is real—and capable of wielding powers unknown to us—it is our duty to investigate."
Varys nodded thoughtfully, his fingers steepled. "Indeed, Lord Arryn is correct. The rumors I've received through my little birds align with the events described in Lord Stark's letter. Several reports have spoken of a man appearing from the dead, someone with a presence that unnerves even the bravest of men." He glanced around, his eyes locking on each member of the council. "One such tale spoke of a great serpent, a giant basilisk, emerging from the ground near Winterfell. I have heard whispers of it helping to construct strange hot springs, ones that are said to heal the body with remarkable speed."
Pycelle sniffed, disapproving. "Fanciful rumors, nothing more. There's no truth in the idea that this Jinx—whoever he is—could have anything to do with the Targaryens, or the so-called Force that Stark speaks of." His voice trembled with skepticism. "The Targaryens are gone. The only thing left of them is the blood they've spilled upon the throne."
Robert slammed his fist onto the table, his voice a low growl. "Enough of this nonsense, Pycelle! If this man is real, if he's really the King of Winter, and if he's training the Stark children—then by the gods, we need to know!"
Cersei turned her gaze to Robert, a sly smile playing on her lips. "And you believe this tale of a resurrected king will threaten the realm? How can we take this seriously, Robert? It sounds more like a desperate attempt to save face, to make the Starks seem more than just northern barbarians."
Jon Arryn took a breath, steadying himself. "Cersei, your skepticism is noted, but I remind you that we do not have the luxury of dismissing things based on pride alone." He turned to Robert. "This man—this Jinx—may be connected to the Targaryens, yes, but the letter speaks of something more important. Eddard says that Jinx is training not only his children but himself in something called the Force. It's an unknown power, Robert. One we know nothing about, but one that could change the course of history."
Robert leaned back in his chair, the initial anger fading, replaced by a more thoughtful expression. His brow furrowed as he considered Jon's words. "Force? What kind of power are we talking about here? Could it be dangerous?"
Varys spoke again, his voice calm and measured. "The little birds I've spoken to have described this man as someone who does not appear to be entirely of this world. The Force he speaks of could be something far beyond any of our understanding—whether it is dangerous or not remains to be seen. But we must proceed carefully."
Jon Arryn took a moment to collect his thoughts before continuing. "Lord Stark's letter also spoke of the creation of hot springs beneath Winterfell—springs not just for the Stark family, but for the soldiers and common folk. The effects are said to be restorative, capable of relieving fatigue in mere moments."
Pycelle scoffed again. "A healing spring? Mere superstition!"
But Varys shook his head. "I've heard similar reports from my sources. This Jinx has built these springs, with the help of a serpent, no less. The power to heal and soothe so quickly... it suggests a power far greater than we are accustomed to."
The room fell silent as the implications of these words settled over the council like a fog. Robert finally broke the silence, his voice low but full of intent.
Robert Baratheon: "If this Jinx is real, and if he has this kind of power... then we must tread carefully. I will not let any man—no matter his origin—threaten my kingdom."
Cersei shifted in her seat, her gaze sharp and calculating. "You speak of power, Robert. But what if Jinx is simply a means to manipulate Eddard Stark? What if this is just another ruse to gain control of Winterfell? I will not allow the Starks to play games with us, especially not with our bloodlines at stake."
Jon Arryn looked at her evenly. "That may be true, Cersei, but we cannot dismiss the possibility that this Jinx—this resurrected king—is a threat to the realm. Eddard believes him, and that alone is enough to warrant our attention."
The council members exchanged uneasy glances, each of them feeling the weight of the situation. The resurrection of a king—an ancient king tied to the Targaryens—was an event that could change everything.
Varys' voice broke the tension again. "Your Grace," he said to Robert, his eyes sharp. "There is much we do not know about Jinx, but we have reports of his activities. I believe it would be wise to send a delegation to Winterfell, to learn more of this... 'Force,' and what exactly Lord Stark is dealing with."
Robert nodded slowly, his mind working through the possibilities. Finally, he turned to Jon Arryn. "You're right, Jon. This is something we cannot ignore. We'll send a small group to Winterfell, investigate, and learn all we can. But if this man proves to be a danger..." He trailed off, his hand tightening on the hilt of his warhammer. "Then we'll deal with him ourselves."
Jon Arryn nodded. "Understood, Your Grace."
As the meeting came to an end, the council was left with a quiet sense of unease. The return of Jinx, the once-dead king, and his strange power were not just a tale from the far north—they were a reality that could shake the foundations of the realm itself.
The late afternoon sun bled gold across the stone walls of Winterfell, casting long shadows upon the yard. Steel clanged, boots scraped against packed earth, and breaths came in sharp gasps. A crowd had formed, ringing the training ground like crows to a feast. Servants, guards, and even a few noble-born onlookers watched in awe and hushed anticipation.
In the center, Lord Eddard Stark fought—not with grace, but with raw, determined fury.
His breath steamed in the cold air as he swung his dull-edged sword, muscles straining against the relentless pace. Across from him stood a tall figure robed in black and crimson leathers, his long coat trailing behind him like a living shadow. His name was Jinx—the once-forgotten king, now reborn. He moved like liquid shadow, a smirk tugging at his lips with every strike, every parry.
"You're holding back," Jinx said, his voice like ice cracking over a fire. He side-stepped another swing, tapping Ned's blade aside with a flourish. "You're not a boy anymore, Stark. The battlefield won't pity an old wolf with a limp and a code."
Eddard gritted his teeth, swinging again. Faster. Harder. The force was there, but the rhythm—chaotic.
"You think you're still that honor-bound boy from the Rebellion," Jinx hissed, blades clashing like thunder. "But the world's moved on. Honor doesn't stop arrows. It doesn't bring your brother back. And it sure as hell won't save your children."
A flicker passed through Eddard's eyes—bright yellow, like sunlight caught in amber. Then silver again.
The crowd murmured, unsure if what they saw was real.
"Careful," Jinx mocked, weaving around a particularly wild slash. "Your anger's showing. How noble of you to try and cage it, even as your bones scream for blood."
Eddard's reply came in steel and fury, sword singing a deadly tune. He pushed forward, teeth bared, sweat streaking down his brow.
But Jinx was a ghost, untouchable. His parries were half-mocking, always a hair's breadth away from taunting. "You're predictable, Ned. Like your gods. Like your father's lectures. You know what else is predictable?" He ducked and drove a boot into Eddard's ribs, sending him staggering. "Your defeat. And your legacy dying with your children."
That did it.
Something cracked.
Eddard let out a snarl—a sound not wholly human—and his eyes flashed gold again, but this time with a red rim bleeding in from the edges, like wildfire lapping at the sun.
Gasps rippled through the onlookers as Eddard surged forward, the air around him growing unnaturally hot, breath turning from mist to smoke. Each swing now was devastating—blows that would have shattered shields and split men in half had they been struck with true steel.
He fought not like a lord, nor even like a knight.
He fought like something ancient.
A force of nature.
A beast.
But Jinx didn't move.
He blocked and dodged with ease, as if reading the next blow before it was born. His voice remained calm, low, and piercing.
"So this is what you've buried all these years? This rage?" he said, voice like wind through tombstones. "You've held it down so long you forgot what it felt like. But you let it out... and now look at you."
Another wild strike. Another miss.
"Do you think Brandon would be proud to see you like this?" Jinx asked, voice colder now. "Do you think Lyanna would look on you and smile, or would she flinch at the monster her brother has become?"
Eddard faltered. Just slightly. But it was there.
"And Ashara," Jinx continued, now circling like a wolf, "Ashara Dorne—the woman you could never save. She gave you her heart. Would she want it in the hands of a savage?"
Eddard's blade dropped an inch.
"Would she?"
And there it was.
Like a flood pulled back into the sea, the wildness in Eddard's movements began to still. His chest still heaved, his body trembled—but his eyes began to shift.
Yellow dulled. Red ebbed.
The silver returned.
Not completely, but enough. His next swing was not wild but precise. Controlled. Swift.
"Good," Jinx said, cracking his neck as the crowd leaned in. "Now you're learning."
The clash resumed, but now it was a duel, not a storm. Eddard matched Jinx's pace—not in finesse, but in sheer weight of presence. Each strike had purpose. Each breath measured.
Jinx smiled, and this time it wasn't mocking—it was satisfied.
Around the training yard, there was silence.
Then, quiet applause. Shocked whispers. Some guards exchanged looks as if they had just witnessed a tale that bards would carry for generations.
And from one of the balconies, Arya Stark stood with her hand clutched to the stone ledge, her eyes wide. She'd never seen her father like that. Neither had Jon Snow, standing beside her with clenched fists and awe in his gaze.
"What... what was that?" Arya whispered.
Jon didn't answer.
Because deep down, he feared he already knew.
The sweat had dried on his skin, but Eddard Stark's arms still trembled from the memory of the duel. He sat beneath the weirwood tree, its face carved and bleeding red sap, the ancient eyes staring into him like judgment. The cool breeze brought no peace. The storm inside hadn't settled yet.
Footsteps, soft but deliberate, broke the silence. Jinx stepped into view, his long coat swaying like a shadow. No weapons. No tricks.
"You nearly took my head off with that last strike," he said, voice more mellow now.
Eddard didn't look at him. "You provoked me into madness."
"No," Jinx said, settling down beside him. "I provoked you into honesty."
A silence stretched between them.
"I saw something in you today, Stark," Jinx continued, leaning back against a root. "Not just the beast... but the balance. Rage tempered by sorrow. Strength laced with shame. You are too damaged to walk the light… but not broken enough to fall into the dark. You're balanced. Perfectly. Like a sword forged in two fires."
Eddard's brows furrowed. "You spent the last two weeks scorning the Light Side. Mocking it."
"Because most who follow it are blind fools," Jinx snapped, voice sharp as a whip. "Emotionless priests drunk on self-denial. They preach control while ignoring what makes us human. Love. Rage. Fear. Attachment. But if you're strong enough to feel those and not be ruled by them..."
He tapped two fingers to Eddard's chest. "Then you're something more."
Eddard finally looked at him, eyes narrowed. "What are you saying?"
Jinx gave a crooked grin. "I'm going to train you, Ned. Not as a Jedi. Not as a Sith. But as something in between. Someone who can teach your children the truth—that balance is not standing in the middle... it's learning to carry both weights without sinking."
Eddard blinked. "And the others?"
"Arya first. She's like me. Fire and wind wrapped in a wolf's heart. I'll teach her both sides of the Force. She'll need it. Robb and Jon… they'll get fragments of the Dark Side. Just enough to fuel their need to protect this family. But not enough to burn them alive."
Eddard looked away again. "You're playing with wildfire."
"No," Jinx said with a bitter laugh. "I am wildfire. And so are you."
In the Hallways – Outside the Training Yard
Catelyn Stark stood frozen at the threshold of the courtyard, watching the last of the crowd disperse. Her hands clutched at her shawl, still shaken by what she had witnessed. Eddard's outburst had been terrifying—a side of him she had never seen. Not in war, not in heartbreak, not even in the bitter quiet of their arguments.
"He lost control," she whispered.
"No, Mother," said Robb, who stood beside her with arms crossed. His voice was steady but low. "He found something."
"It didn't feel… holy."
"It wasn't," came Jon Snow's voice from the shadows. He emerged slowly, eyes still full of the fire from before. "But it was honest."
Catelyn tensed at Jon's presence but said nothing. Robb glanced toward him, brows tight in thought.
"Do you think Jinx planned it all?" Robb asked. "To unleash that part of Father?"
Jon nodded. "He's been pushing him for days. Every insult, every spar… it wasn't training. It was a hunt."
Catelyn shivered.
"You should both be careful," she said, her voice brittle. "This man—Jinx—he is not a teacher. He is a weapon that teaches others to become the same."
But even as she spoke the words, her eyes turned toward Arya, who stood in the snow not far away, a strange calm across her face. She had watched every second of the duel. Not with fear.
With fascination.
In Arya's Room – Later
The door creaked open softly. Arya sat cross-legged on her bed, "You're not sleeping," Jinx said, stepping inside like a shadow summoned.
"I'm not tired."
He tilted his head. "You liked watching your father fight like that."
"He looked… free," she said quietly. Then added, "And dangerous."
Jinx sat across from her, face unreadable. "One day, Arya Stark… you will be more dangerous than all your brothers combined."
She looked up, eyes wide. "Because you'll teach me the Force?"
He smiled faintly. "Because you already know what it means to want power not for yourself… but to protect those who cannot protect themselves. That's what makes the Dark Side lethal in your hands. But you'll learn both. Light and dark. Balance, Arya."
"Will I be a Jedi?"
"No." He reached into his cloak, withdrawing a small obsidian pendant shaped like a fang wrapped in gold.
"You'll be something the Jedi fear."
(timeskip)
The sun had begun its descent behind the ancient battlements of Winterfell, casting long, golden shadows across the courtyard where Arya Stark stood alone — save for Jinx, who observed her from atop a moss-covered stone near the old armory.
Her brow was drenched with sweat. Her hands trembled slightly from effort. A dozen stones lay scattered around her feet, all having danced in the air at one point — then clattered down, one after another.
"You're letting your frustration guide your hand," Jinx said lazily, arms folded behind his head.
"You said to feel," Arya snapped back. "I'm feeling everything right now!"
"Yes. But not directing it." He stood and began to walk in a slow circle around her. "The Force is not some invisible rope you tug — it's a current. You let it flow through you, not against you. It doesn't respond to temper tantrums."
Arya huffed, planted her feet, and closed her eyes again.
Jinx let the silence stretch. The world narrowed around her. Her breath slowed. The sounds of the yard — the distant clang of metal, the murmuring of soldiers, even the rustling of the weirwood leaves — all faded into a muffled hum.
She reached out, but not with her hands.
And this time, the stone before her vanished.
Jinx blinked.
No — it didn't vanish. The stone was still there… but its presence had faded. Its shadow had blurred, becoming imperceptible. And Arya — still standing still, eyes closed — was flickering at the edges like heatwaves on sand.
Then she moved.
And the air seemed to warp where she had been. She slipped sideways, silently, without disturbing the snow underfoot. For a moment, she was barely visible, like a ghost dancing through moonlight.
And then she reappeared — fully, all at once, ten paces from where she started, her eyes glowing faintly silver.
Jinx exhaled through his nose, intrigued.
"Interesting," he murmured.
Arya opened her eyes and looked at him, breathing fast.
"Did I… disappear?"
"You did more than that," he said, stepping forward. "You slipped through the Force itself. That was no simple cloak — that was instinctual phase manipulation. A technique I've only seen once before, in someone who lived and died long before your line was ever born."
He circled her slowly, nodding to himself.
"It's called Shadow Slip. That's your unique ability. Your affinity lies in cloaking, evasion, subtlety — not flashy attacks or brute strength. A ghost blade. Very rare. Very dangerous."
Arya's eyes lit up with something between pride and curiosity.
"Teach me more."
"I will," Jinx said. "But I won't throw you into the depths without a raft. For now, I'll teach you the basics — Force Cloak. It's a simpler version of what you just did. Less flashy, more energy-efficient. A downscaled tool — but one that you can master, control, sharpen."
He stepped back, hands behind his back again. "But remember, Arya: your ability is a gift. Not a crutch. Shadow Slip is beautiful, but also draining. Learn when to use it… and when not to."
Later That Night – The Courtyard Balcony
The stars had fully emerged now, dotting the black sky with quiet fire. Winterfell slept, its walls glowing dimly from the lanterns and hearths within.
Jinx stood on the balcony overlooking the training yard, arms resting on the stone railing, eyes lost in thought.
Jon Snow approached from behind, his boots crunching lightly in the snow.
"You're always awake when no one else is," Jon said softly.
Jinx didn't look at him, but a small smile crept to his lips. "Sleep's a waste when your dreams never change."
Jon stepped beside him, folding his arms. "Can I ask you something?"
"You already have."
Jon rolled his eyes slightly, but pushed forward. "The Dark Side… is it evil?"
That made Jinx turn.
His gaze was heavy, like a man who had lived centuries more than he claimed. "No," he said. "It isn't. And neither is the Light Side good by default. The Force doesn't care about your morality — it simply is. The difference lies in how you approach it."
Jon furrowed his brow. "But the stories say—"
"The stories were written by zealots," Jinx interrupted. "The Dark Side draws power from emotion — fear, anger, obsession. If you master it, if you bend it to your will, it becomes a powerful tool. But if you let it master you…"
His fingers tapped lightly against the stone. "Then it corrupts. Turns men into monsters. Makes them slaves to wrath and paranoia."
Jon looked down. "And the Light?"
Jinx snorted. "The Light teaches serenity. Peace. Control. But in excess? It strips away what makes you human. You become unfeeling. Bound by rules and honor that ignore the real cost. Like your father."
Jon stiffened.
Jinx softened slightly. "Don't get me wrong. Eddard Stark is a good man. But the Light has blinded him. Made him rigid. And that will break him unless he finds balance."
Jon was quiet for a long time. The snow started falling again, soft and slow.
"So where do you stand?" he asked.
Jinx smirked. "In the middle. The edge between shadow and flame. That's where true power lies. That's where I'll train Arya — both sides. I'll teach you and Robb bits of the Dark Side, too. But with purpose. Precision."
Jon's eyes narrowed. "So we can use the Dark Side… without falling?"
"Only if you're stronger than your emotions," Jinx said. "You don't deny them. You command them."
He clapped Jon lightly on the shoulder. "And I think you've got the right heart for that, Snow. Just don't forget it."
As Jon turned to go, Jinx looked up at the stars again.
"Balance isn't a destination," he whispered. "It's a tightrope. But some are born to walk it."
The room was dimly lit, save for the flickering candlelight casting shadows on the stone walls. The cold winds of the north howled faintly outside, the wind's mournful cry matching the somber tone of the hour. The hour of the wolf had long since passed, and Winterfell's great hall had quieted. Yet, Eddard Stark, Jinx, and Maester Luwin gathered around a long oak table in the maester's chambers. Catelyn, sitting beside her husband, barely spoke a word, her brow furrowed in thought.
Eddard glanced at the flickering candle before him. "Why must these meetings always be held so late?" His voice, calm but weary, betrayed the fatigue that came with his duties.
"Because the hour is right for plans that will change the course of the North," Jinx replied, a cryptic glimmer in his eye. He remained standing, and with deliberate precision, he reached into his satchel and pulled out three rolled scrolls and a weathered map. "Time is a resource we've none to waste. And the North's future is too important to delay."
The room fell silent as Jinx unrolled the map of the North on the table, his movements sure and practiced. The map was an intricate masterpiece, more detailed than any map Winterfell had seen before. Every mountain pass, river bend, and forest grove was accounted for, and where it lacked details, Jinx filled in notes, adding annotations that only someone who had walked every inch of the land would know.
Maester Luwin leaned in, his sharp eyes scanning the map. "I've never seen a map so… complete. Where did you get this?" His voice was tinged with both awe and suspicion.
Jinx simply smiled. "I created it long ago, when I was… king of the North. A different time, but it seems to be quite useful now."
Eddard's gaze shifted between the map and Jinx. His eyes narrowed, as though trying to discern whether the map held some hidden meaning beyond its mere geographical value. But before he could speak, Jinx unfurled the first of the two remaining scrolls.
This one had the title "Blast Furnace Design" written in neat, confident strokes. Beside the words, there was a rough sketch of a large furnace with pipes and hoppers — an industrial marvel. Eddard raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued.
"What's this?" Eddard asked, his voice tinged with both skepticism and interest.
Jinx tapped the scroll. "This," he said, his voice heavy with weight, "is the key to significantly increasing your production. It's a more powerful furnace that, if built properly, can increase your metal production by at least tenfold. Both in quantity and in quality."
Eddard exchanged a glance with Maester Luwin, who nodded solemnly, as though he could see the potential in the idea, even though he couldn't entirely grasp its full scope. "Tenfold?" Eddard asked, his voice soft with disbelief. "That's… an impossible leap."
Jinx's eyes flashed darkly. "Not impossible. Just… difficult. It's all about the efficiency of the design, the heat, the pressure. I used to have the best forges in the North. This is a way to make sure the Stark family stays strong for generations. I've seen these systems in action. Trust me, Eddard."
Before Eddard could respond, Jinx unrolled the second scroll, this one labeled "Glass-Making: A Guide". The scroll was far more detailed, with a step-by-step guide on how to build a furnace, prepare materials, and achieve the perfect glass. The notes were clear and precise, but it was the last part that caught Eddard's attention — the instructions on how to work with crystal-clear glass, stronger than any known to the kingdoms.
However, as Jinx held the scroll, he subtly moved to block it from Catelyn's view, casting a glance over his shoulder, ensuring that she couldn't see the contents.
Catelyn caught the motion, but said nothing, her sharp eyes still lingering on her husband.
Eddard couldn't help but notice the subtle move. He raised a brow, his curiosity piqued. "Why hide that from Catelyn?" he asked.
Jinx simply gave him a knowing look. "Not yet. Trust me, I'll explain when the time comes."
Eddard let it slide, turning his attention back to the guide. "So what is it you're suggesting, Jinx?"
Jinx took a deep breath, glancing at Maester Luwin, who had begun to scrutinize the glass-making guide, his hands gently tracing the instructions. "The North is the poorest of the Seven Kingdoms, dead last in wealth. That's unacceptable in my eyes. There's too much potential here, and yet it's left untapped. I've brought you two of the most profitable plans I've devised in my life."
Eddard leaned forward, his gaze unwavering. "Go on."
Jinx nodded and continued. "The blast furnace will increase your output of iron and steel by a massive margin. In turn, you'll be able to forge weapons, tools, and armaments faster and at a higher quality than any other house in the North. It's a game-changer."
Maester Luwin looked up from the scroll, his eyes wide. "If this works, it could change everything for the North. We'd have a supply of steel like no one else."
"Exactly," Jinx agreed. "And the glass-making?"
He slid the glass guide toward Luwin and Eddard, his voice lowering with significance. "You can produce the finest glass in the world, better than anything currently available. The sands for it can be bought from Dorne, but the rest is here. The North's natural affinity for the Force will help make it crystal clear, more durable than anything you've seen. It's a way to make your glass trade just as valuable."
Eddard glanced over at Catelyn, whose sharp gaze never wavered, though she remained quiet. He sighed inwardly and turned his focus back on Jinx.
"And the workers?" he asked, realizing that there was a deeper complexity to Jinx's plan.
Jinx's eyes darkened slightly. "That's the real challenge. The workers will need to be trained in these methods. But more importantly, they'll need to be loyal to House Stark. Without loyalty, this will all be for naught. Finding leaks in the North is like finding a leaf in the ocean. It's impossible."
Eddard's face hardened slightly at Jinx's words, his mind already running through the logistics of the plan, but he knew Jinx spoke the truth. The North was a land full of secrets, and the loyalty of its people was fragile at best.
"You were right to bring this to us," Maester Luwin said, still mulling over the implications of what Jinx had presented. "But training the workers, keeping them loyal, that will be a challenge in itself."
Jinx smirked. "Leave that to me. I've had experience with such things. I've built kingdoms and armies. The loyalty will come when they see what's in it for them."
Eddard, though skeptical, could see the vision in Jinx's eyes. "You've given us much to consider. But it's a bold plan, Jinx. If we fail, it will be disastrous."
Jinx's smirk grew wider. "Failure is not an option."
With that, the meeting continued in silence, the weight of Jinx's words hanging heavily in the room.
The candlelight flickered once more as Jinx reached for the final scroll, unrolling it slowly with a sly smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. The others leaned forward, expecting more blueprints or strategies of industry—only to pause, brows furrowing, when they were met with… a list of ingredients.
Eddard, Luwin, and even Catelyn stared, puzzled. The parchment was covered in ingredients ranging from mundane to exotic: rye, juniper berries, mountain spring water, honey, fermented barley, even snowmelt infused with pine resin.
But then their eyes reached the top of the page.
"Alcohol."
There was a long pause.
Eddard blinked, his brow raised. "You brought us to the hour of the wolf to show us… alcohol recipes?"
Maester Luwin cleared his throat politely, adjusting his spectacles. "Er… distilled recipes, Lord Stark. Quite detailed ones at that."
Catelyn gave Jinx a flat, mildly disapproving look. "Surely this could've waited until daylight."
Jinx chuckled, not the least bit embarrassed. "I assure you, it's more important than it looks."
He leaned over the scroll, running a finger down the recipe list with the reverence of a man reading sacred scripture. "Back when I was king of the North," he began, his tone nostalgic, "I made a friend—an unlikely one. A man named Vlad Tempest. Head of the most powerful house on Skagos."
Eddard frowned slightly. "There are no powerful houses on Skagos. Just clans."
Jinx smirked. "That's what they want you to think. Vlad's castle looked like it was plucked from the Rock itself. Lavish red velvet halls, stained glass mosaics of Old Valyria, and suits of golden armor lining his walls. If you met him, you'd mistake him for a Lannister in exile."
Luwin looked surprised. "A Lannister… from Skagos?"
"A lord in every sense but name," Jinx said, shrugging. "But more importantly, he introduced me to my one true vice: alcohol. Not just any alcohol, though. The finest brews, the strongest spirits, the smoothest meads. I became obsessed—not with drinking, but with perfecting. And when I was designing my Chamber of Secrets"—
He gestured vaguely in the direction of the godswood, where that very chamber now lay hidden—"I began experimenting. I researched, brewed, tested. Ten recipes. All unique. All created with northern ingredients. All perfectly tailored for the tastes of a true Northman."
Eddard crossed his arms, eyeing the parchment again. "So you want us to start… brewing?"
"Not just brewing," Jinx said seriously, his grin vanishing into something more businesslike. "Branding. Establishing a legacy. If you can produce strong, quality northern spirits, you can open an entirely new vein of trade. Even the Iron Bank respects a lord with a monopoly on drink."
Luwin nodded slowly. "Alcohol has always been a lucrative trade. But it's volatile—literally and economically."
"Not if we control the recipe, the production, and the distribution," Jinx said. "With loyal workers in hidden distilleries under the guise of new grain storage, no one will suspect anything. It won't just bring money—it'll bring influence. Everyone from tavern keepers to kings drinks something. Why not let them drink Stark spirit?"
Eddard sighed, rubbing his temples. "We've gone from maps and glassmaking to moonshine."
"To empire," Jinx corrected gently. "Trust me, Ned. These three scrolls? They're the foundation. Glass. Steel. Spirit. That's the triangle of wealth. And the best part? No one will see it coming."
Catelyn finally spoke, her voice soft but steady. "And you kept this from me because…?"
Jinx gave her a wry look. "Because I didn't want you to talk Ned out of it before I had a chance to explain."
The room was quiet for a moment.
Then, Eddard let out a long breath. "Seven hells. If even half of this works…"
Jinx nodded. "Then the North will rise not by war or gold—but by craft. And drink."
The snow fell gently outside the training yard, blanketing the stone paths of Winterfell in a soft white hush. The moon hung high above the great walls, casting long shadows across the ancient keep. It was well past the evening meal, and most of the castle had gone quiet, save for the low hum of wind and the occasional crackle of a torch.
Robb Stark and Jon Snow sat together atop a low wall overlooking the yard, legs swinging, wooden training swords leaning beside them. Their cheeks were still flushed from sparring earlier, but their eyes were bright—not with exhaustion, but with something far more consuming: wonder.
Robb broke the silence first.
"Did you see what Jinx did earlier with the big sword? How it glowed blue like… like moonlight?" he asked, wide-eyed. "It looked like something from Old Nan's stories."
Jon nodded quickly. "Aye. And when he made that ice knife float and catch fire and spin like a top? I thought Maester Luwin was going to faint." He glanced sideways at Robb. "Do you think we'll ever be able to do things like that?"
Robb grinned. "Jinx said he'd teach us. Bit by bit. Just not all at once. He says some of it's… dangerous."
Jon looked down at his boots, thoughtful. "He told me it's called the Force. Like… something that lives inside everything. Even us." He paused. "That we can use it. Not just for fighting, but to feel things. To see before they happen. To protect."
Robb kicked his heel against the wall absently. "I want to learn to protect people. Like Father. Like Jinx." He glanced at Jon. "I want to be strong. So no one can ever hurt the family."
Jon's voice came quieter. "Me too."
They both sat in silence for a moment, listening to the snow falling around them. A crow called somewhere on the wall.
"Do you think we'll really be knights someday?" Robb asked.
Jon hesitated. "Maybe not knights. But something better. Something… different." He looked toward the distant godswood, where Jinx had disappeared with Arya not long ago. "Jinx says there are more ways to protect than swords. And more kinds of strength than muscle."
Robb smiled. "Still, I wouldn't mind having a glowing sword."
Jon laughed. "Or being able to throw someone across the yard with your hand."
"Or lift a boulder without touching it."
"Or leap over a wall!"
Their laughter echoed for a moment before falling quiet again, the solemnity of their dreams sinking back in.
"Do you think we'll really be strong enough?" Jon asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Robb didn't answer at first. He looked out over Winterfell—the castle that had stood for thousands of years, the home their family had protected for generations.
Then, with steady confidence, he said, "If Jinx thinks we can… then we will. For the North. For our family."
Jon nodded. "For our family."
They bumped shoulders—brothers, not by blood, but by something deeper. And in the hush of snow and stone, beneath the ancient towers of Winterfell, two boys sat dreaming not of crowns or glory, but of strength, of loyalty, and of the quiet, sacred vow to protect all they held dear.
The hour was late—the kind of late where the cold bit a little deeper and even the flames in the hearth crackled more softly, as if whispering to one another. Inside Eddard Stark's solar, the fire's glow cast long shadows along the stone walls. A tray with the remains of hot tea sat untouched beside old maps and open scrolls, while the fur-draped chair across from the Lord of Winterfell was now empty—Catelyn having retired, and Maester Luwin having departed to prepare for the coming day.
That left only two men in the room: Eddard, and the man who had once been king in the North before the Wall had even been raised.
Jinx was leaning lazily in the corner, arms folded, gazing into the fire as though it spoke a language only he understood. The heavy silence stretched long between them, not uncomfortable—no, not between two men who had crossed blades and secrets alike—but heavy, as if something unsaid had been simmering beneath their earlier conversation.
Eddard finally broke the stillness.
"Why did you hide the glassmaking instructions from my wife?" he asked, voice low but not yet confrontational. "You laid the plans bare for the blast furnace and even the alcohol… but not that."
Jinx didn't answer at first. He stared into the flames as though weighing his words, like a blacksmith waiting for steel to turn the right shade of orange before striking.
Then he spoke. "Because the ingredients for the alcohol are all here in the North."
Eddard tilted his head slightly, his frown deepening.
"Most of it grows within a few days' ride of Winterfell," Jinx continued, his voice calm, as though reciting a fact from memory. "The grains, the berries, the special frost-moss that gives it the sting—it all grows in lands held by loyal lords who have no interest in selling northern secrets. Even if someone wanted to replicate it, the ingredients spoil before they reach the southern cities."
He turned his head and met Eddard's eyes, cool and unwavering.
"But glass…" Jinx exhaled through his nose. "Glass can be made anywhere. With coin. With trade. And while not as pure as ours—" he tapped the glass sheet laying beside the scroll, "it can be made. And once it's made, it can be copied. Improved. Sold. The secrets of the North—" he gestured toward the hidden recipe, "—aren't ours anymore once they leave this land."
Eddard was silent for a long moment. Then, slowly, his brows drew together as understanding dawned.
"You think Catelyn would tell her father."
It wasn't a question.
Jinx didn't hesitate.
"I know she would."
That stung more than Eddard wanted to admit. He leaned back slightly, arms crossing, readying an argument, a defense. But before the first word escaped his lips, Jinx cut in again—his voice quiet, steady, even a little sad.
"She's a Tully, Ned. She was raised in Riverrun. Her loyalties are not as deep in this soil as yours. Or mine."
Eddard's jaw clenched. "She's my wife. She loves our children. She loves this house."
Jinx nodded once. "I never said she didn't. But love doesn't always silence duty." He straightened from the wall and stepped toward the hearth. "Maester Luwin told me your wife holds to her house's words—Family, Duty, Honor."
The names rang like bells in Eddard's ears. He had heard them enough during his marriage to recognize the deeper implication.
Jinx looked him straight in the eye now, no longer the ancient king, no longer the cryptic warrior, but simply a man with hard-earned truths.
"If you were in her position, would you not do the same?"
That question cut through Eddard more deeply than he expected.
Would he? If the North needed something Riverrun had? If Winterfell's survival depended on it, and he had grown up by the rivers instead of the snow?
He didn't answer. He couldn't.
Jinx didn't push him further. Instead, he moved to the table and slowly rolled the last scroll closed, tying it with care.
"We're building something new here, Eddard. Something lasting. It's not about keeping secrets for power's sake—it's about keeping the foundation strong. And foundations… leak. When too many hands are carving into the stone."
He turned, his shadow long and strange against the firelight.
"I'll share the glass-making when the North is ready to protect it. Until then… it stays between those who bleed winter into their bones."
Eddard exhaled through his nose, the fight in him slowly ebbing. He wasn't sure if he agreed—but he understood.
Outside, the wind howled like a whisper from another age. Inside, two men—one born of ice, the other shaped by it—stood shoulder to shoulder again, not in battle, but in burden.
And somewhere in the darkness of Winterfell, the North stirred with a promise long forgotten—and just now beginning to awaken.
Sansa Stark couldn't sleep.
Her thoughts, lately so full of confusing changes, strange guests, and whispered plans between adults, refused to quiet themselves in the stillness of her bed. Her blankets were warm, the fire in her chamber still crackling softly—but her mind stirred like leaves in a northern gale.
So, without waking her handmaiden or alerting the guards, she slipped out of her room barefoot, wrapped in a thick shawl. She planned to tiptoe down to the kitchens—surely one of the night workers would take pity and sneak her a bit of honeycake or warm cider.
But just as she passed Arya's corridor, something caught her eye.
A glint.
A sharp, silvery gleam that flashed like a whisper of moonlight against steel. It came not from Arya's chambers—but from that room. The one Arya had stumbled into the day before. The one she called "their ancestor's workshop."
Sansa hesitated. That place had made her uneasy when she first stepped inside with Arya. It was filled with strange tools, things she didn't understand, and had a heaviness to it—like old magic resting just out of reach. But the curiosity that had always lurked behind her carefully-practiced smile tugged harder now.
She padded closer.
The glint had come from deeper in. And now that she stood just beyond the doorway, she noticed something she hadn't yesterday. A narrow door tucked behind a shelf—barely noticeable unless you were looking for it. It was open just a crack.
Drawn as though enchanted, Sansa slipped through the gap.
The air shifted. Cold and heavy, not with dust, but memory.
Without her touching a thing, the moment her foot crossed the threshold, torches lining the walls ignited—not in a burst, but one after the other, in a smooth, eerie cascade. Sansa gasped, clutching her shawl tight, heart pounding. Her first instinct was to flee.
But what she saw stopped her cold.
Paintings.
Dozens. Some small, others massive—framed in gold, copper, or obsidian-black metal. Portraits of people she didn't recognize, landscapes more beautiful than any tapestry. Castles that didn't exist in the Seven Kingdoms. Islands floating in the sky. Trees taller than mountains. Wolves made of shadow and ice.
But it was the three paintings encased behind enchanted glass that stole the breath from her lungs.
They were more vivid. Sharper. Alive in a way that made her feel like they might move if she blinked.
The first painting was of a woman so stunning, Sansa felt herself ache with envy and admiration. She had raven-black hair that flowed down her back like a waterfall of ink, a dark blue gown with threads of silver sewn into starlike constellations, and deep violet eyes that stared with regal sorrow. Her skin was pale, smooth, and her posture proud. She looked like a queen out of the old stories—no, a goddess.
The second stood in stark contrast—yet equaled her in grace. This woman had silver-blonde hair, as soft and bright as spun moonlight, wearing a lighter gown of flowing silk. Her lavender eyes were gentler, kinder, but no less commanding. She smiled slightly, and somehow that made Sansa feel safer and more exposed all at once.
Then the third painting.
Six children.
Four girls, two boys.
A perfect blend between the two women—half bore raven-black hair, the other half silver-blonde. Some had purple eyes like twilight storms, others had silver eyes like polished moonstone. Each child was beautiful beyond anything Sansa had ever seen, like they had been sculpted by the gods rather than born by mortals.
She moved closer to the glass, eyes wide.
They were all smiling in the painting—gathered on a snowy hill, with stars twinkling behind them and a strange tower in the background unlike any Winterfell turret. They looked happy… protected.
Loved.
Sansa didn't know how long she stood there. Minutes? Hours? The chill of the room and the flickering torchlight made it feel like a dream, one she would wake from at any moment.
But in her heart, she knew these weren't just paintings. They were memories. Perhaps even glimpses into truths that no one had dared speak aloud. Stories of a time long past. Of a bloodline long forgotten.
And in the silence, a single thought slipped into her mind, unbidden.
"Who were you?"
Because whoever they were… they were connected to her. To Arya. To all of them.
And if Jinx had painted this…
It meant something far greater was unfolding.
Something ancient. Something hidden.
And Sansa Stark had just taken her first step into it.