Winterfell – The Next Morning
The sun had barely risen above the stone battlements of Winterfell when the Stark family assembled in the training yard. A veil of northern mist still clung to the ground, silvering the flagstones and casting the yard in a dim, ghostly light. The clang of steel echoed in the air as Ser Rodrik Cassel, gruff and focused, barked instructions to the young boys sparring with dulled swords.
Robb and Jon faced each other in the circle, sweat glistening on their brows as they traded blows. Though they were close in age, Jon moved with a sharper precision—something in him always fighting to prove himself.
Nearby, Lady Catelyn sat beneath a wooden awning, joined by the septa who droned on about a noblewoman's place in the world. Sansa listened with prim posture and rapt attention, her hands folded in her lap. Arya, on the other hand, sat slouched with her chin in her palm, eyes glazed and distant. The septa had tried twice already to scold her into attention, to no avail.
Lord Eddard Stark stood watching from the stone steps, Ice at his side, his face impassive as he scanned the yard. His thoughts were not with the training boys or the tedious lessons—but with the man who had yet to arrive.
"Where is he?" Ned muttered to Jory, who stood just behind him. "Send two men to fetch him. If he can speak like a king and strike fear into hardened men, he can at least be punctual."
Jory nodded and quickly moved to obey.
But moments after the men departed, the courtyard shifted. The air turned colder—not the brisk, sharp cold of the North, but a deeper, unnatural chill that crept into bone and thought alike. The hairs on the backs of necks stood upright. The ravens in the rookery took flight with shrieks. Even Ser Rodrik stopped mid-drill, turning with a narrowed gaze.
And then they saw him.
Jinx.
He walked slowly across the yard with measured steps, clad in his full black armor, every inch polished to a dull gleam that seemed to drink in the light rather than reflect it. His long coat swept behind him like shadows untethered. Upon his face rested that ever-smiling mask—inhuman and serene, its expression unchanged yet somehow oppressive. He made no sound as he walked. No clank of armor, no crunch of boots. Just silence… and presence.
The aura he gave off was not merely intimidation—it was death. Unspoken, unseen, but felt by every soul in the courtyard. A presence ancient and knowing, like something from the old stories told to scare children into staying in bed.
Catelyn's breath caught in her throat. Septa Mordane froze. Even the boys stopped sparring. Robb took an instinctive step back. Jon's eyes narrowed, muscles tensing.
But then—
"A-HA! You're here!" Arya shouted, darting from her seat.
"ARYA!" Catelyn called after her, her voice sharp with panic as she reached out to stop her daughter—but the girl was already gone, bounding across the courtyard toward the terrifying figure like he were an old friend.
Gasps filled the air. A few guards took cautious steps forward, hands brushing the hilts of their swords. But Jinx made no move to stop Arya.
She ran right up to him, brown hair wild, boots thudding against stone.
"You're really tall in your armor! And shiny! Is that your real voice or do you change it with the mask? Can I have armor like that too? And—and—why are you always so cold-looking—?"
Her questions came like arrows from a storm, rapid and endless. She bounced on her heels, beaming with excitement.
Jinx raised a single gloved hand.
The moment was so subtle, so calm, yet the courtyard seemed to hold its breath.
Then, in a voice smooth and composed, he said,
"Quiet, child. There will be time for your inquiries later. For now… I wish to see if your father's little 'test' is worthy of my attention."
Arya blinked—and then, to everyone's utter disbelief, nodded.
Without protest, she turned and skipped to the edge of the training yard, plopping down cross-legged and watching with rapt anticipation.
Catelyn's mouth parted in sheer confusion.
Robb stared, unsure whether to be impressed or horrified.
Jon looked to his father, gauging his reaction.
Eddard Stark, for his part, said nothing. But his hand slid ever so slightly closer to Ice, his sharp eyes locked on the being that called himself Jinx.
The courtyard remained wrapped in silence, the kind only deep unease could birth. Eddard Stark stepped forward, arms crossed, Ice heavy on his back like a judgment waiting to fall. The great sword wasn't drawn—not yet—but the weight of it mirrored the weight in his chest.
Jinx had taken position at the center of the yard, still as a sculpture, the black of his armor absorbing the northern light, his mask fixed in its eternal smile. The stark contrast between his motionless body and the fear he radiated made it seem as though Death itself stood before them, wearing the shape of a man.
Eddard broke the silence.
"You wanted a test. You'll get one," he said, voice low but firm. His hand motioned to the edge of the courtyard. "Ser Rodrik Cassel, master-at-arms of Winterfell, will spar with you. You will both use practice weapons. This is not a duel to the death."
Rodrik stepped forward, steel-gray hair tied back, his face weathered but stern. His heavy gait was that of a seasoned warrior, his broad shoulders and callused hands showing decades of battlefield experience.
Jory followed a step behind, standing proudly in his uncle's shadow, his young eyes already filled with excitement.
But Jinx didn't move. Not at first.
Then he let out a slow, almost disappointed sigh that seemed to echo beyond the limits of the courtyard.
"Rodrik... and his nephew Jory." Jinx spoke each name like tasting it on his tongue. "Seasoned. Loyal. Honorable. Good swordsmen, both."
He lifted his chin slightly, tilting his mask skyward as if bored.
"And utterly beneath me."
Gasps rippled through the onlookers. Rodrik stiffened. Even Eddard's brow twitched at the open insult.
"You would insult my men?" Ned asked, tone cool but edged with warning.
"No," Jinx said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "I insult the idea of wasting time. These two would provide me with... perhaps a minuscule challenge. A flicker. A candle's worth of pressure."
Rodrik stepped forward, jaw clenched. "You speak boldly for someone who sat limp in a chair not a day ago."
Jinx chuckled, that same patient hum wrapped in mock amusement. "And yet here I stand, recovered. Whole. I wasn't asleep, Ser Rodrik—I was gathering the will to be merciful."
Rodrik scowled.
Jinx continued without pause. "If I am to be tested, then test me properly. Live steel. Not this dull iron meant for children and squires. I'll dull myself if I fight either of you with wooden swords. And how would that help little Arya learn anything of value?"
All eyes flicked to Arya, who beamed proudly from her seated position at the edge of the training yard.
Eddard's fingers brushed the pommel of Ice, though he didn't draw it. Yet.
"I will not risk the lives of my men for the sake of your ego."
Jinx tilted his head.
"Not ego. Standard." His voice was calm, but there was something beneath it—ancient, coiled, sharp. "If I wished to kill, you'd know. But I want to teach. Let them come with real steel, and I'll show you the difference between a warrior and a force."
For a moment, no one moved.
Then, to everyone's surprise, it was Jon Snow who stepped forward, eyes alight with curiosity and something more. "Let him show us," the boy said. "If he can do what Arya says, shouldn't we see it?"
"Jon—" Ned began, but stopped. He looked again at Jinx. At the mask. At the armor. At the stillness of a predator that needed no movement to frighten.
Then slowly, reluctantly, he turned to Rodrik.
"Prepare the blades. But no killing. And the moment this turns dangerous, we end it. Understood?"
Rodrik nodded stiffly.
Jinx said nothing. He merely walked to the center of the training yard, arms folded, and waited.
His smile never changed. But somehow, everyone watching was sure—
He was already smiling at their fear.
The sun peeked through gray clouds, casting pale light on the courtyard now ringed with spectators—guards, servants, even Maester Luwin peering through his spectacles with uneasy curiosity. At the center stood Jinx, still cloaked in his black armor, his smiling mask reflecting no emotion, only certainty. In his right hand, he held not a blade of steel, but a long wooden training sword, one he had insisted on with calm arrogance.
Across from him, Ser Rodrik and Jory stood with real steel—blades gleaming with fresh oil and tempered Northern edge.
Rodrik's grip was firm. His stance rooted. He was no fool. He had faced raiders, bandits, wildlings, and even Ironborn. This masked man might have tricks, but Rodrik Cassel had experience, and the North forged hard men.
"Ready yourselves," Eddard said from the sideline, his tone like iron cooled too fast. "Begin."
Rodrik charged first, hoping to end the match swiftly and preserve dignity.
But Jinx moved like mist.
A smooth sidestep. The wooden blade angled with effortless grace, tapped Rodrik's wrist with a whisper of force—just enough to sting—and disarmed the knight before his second foot had landed.
"Footwork," Jinx said, almost bored. "You lean too hard on your dominant side. You might as well scream where you're going."
Rodrik snarled and moved back, retrieving his sword with a growl.
Jory came next, swift and eager. His blade came in high, then low—a feint and an earnest strike. But Jinx deflected both movements with gentle parries, his wooden sword moving in elegant, circular sweeps—Form III: Soresu, the style of perfect defense.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
Each blow met by a block that flowed into the next, never breaking rhythm.
"Good tempo," Jinx said lightly. "But your strikes lack commitment. You fight like a man trying to impress, not to win."
He stepped in—just once—and tapped Jory's knee with the wooden blade. Jory staggered, and in a blink, Jinx was behind him, his weapon resting gently across the back of Jory's neck.
"Dead," Jinx whispered.
Gasps echoed around the yard.
Jory straightened, face red with a mix of shame and awe.
Rodrik came again, shouting this time, swinging with all his strength. Jinx pivoted, hand loose, posture relaxed. The wooden blade met steel and turned it aside as if Rodrik's strength meant nothing.
Form II: Makashi. The duelist's form. Elegant. Precise. Surgical.
Jinx danced around him—never fast, just efficient. He ducked low, spun, and struck Rodrik's ribs with a loud crack. Then disarmed him with a flick, sending his sword clattering across the yard.
Rodrik fell to a knee, winded, humiliated.
Jinx turned to the audience.
"Two swordsmen," he said mildly. "Steel drawn. I used a stick."
He looked down at his wooden blade, now with a faint dent where it had met Rodrik's side. Then, almost thoughtfully:
"Perhaps I should request harder wood next time. This one was too soft."
The courtyard was silent, save for Arya, who sat with wide, sparkling eyes, practically vibrating with excitement.
Eddard Stark, arms crossed, said nothing at first.
But inside, he was reeling.The air was still. The sounds of clashing blades, of grunts and footwork on packed snow, had faded.
Only silence remained.
Rodrik and Jory had returned to the edge of the courtyard, humbled and quiet. Arya was gripping the wooden railing, eyes wide with wonder. Maester Luwin, half in awe and half in dread, scribbled furiously in his parchment. Even the guards stood still, unsure whether they were watching a display of skill… or the awakening of something dangerous.
At the heart of it all stood Jinx—unmoving, relaxed, his expression unreadable beneath that smiling mask.
Until a click echoed through the courtyard.
Eddard Stark stepped forward, his face grim and unreadable, one hand resting firmly on the hilt of the massive greatsword at his back. In one smooth motion, he drew Ice, the ancestral Valyrian steel blade of House Stark. The sword gleamed with a dark, cold shimmer, like moonlight reflecting off frozen glass.
"You've had your fun," Eddard said, his voice like flint on stone. "But now you face me."
Gasps rippled from the onlookers.
Rodrik stiffened. Catelyn stood up abruptly, her breath catching.
"Ned—don't," she pleaded. "Please… don't fight him. You saw what he—"
But Eddard didn't turn.
He couldn't.
Something inside him stirred. A deep, ancient fire he had not felt since the rebellion—when he stood over the dead at the Tower of Joy. Since he had last crossed blades with Ser Arthur Dayne.
And Jinx could feel it. Even from across the courtyard, even beneath the haze of his hood, he felt it.
The flame.
The silence was broken by Jinx's laugh.
Low. Echoing. Cold with delight.
"Yes," he said, voice smooth as black silk. "This is what I've been waiting for."
He reached toward his belt, fingers moving with reverence.
From it, he drew something none had seen before—a hilt of strange, otherworldly make, black metal coiled in dark ridges, flanked by vents like the mouth of a beast. It held no edge, no blade… not yet.
Jinx raised it, then—snap-hiss.
A violent roar of sound cracked the air.
A black and magenta blade erupted from the hilt with twin crossguard vents, spitting energy like a barely contained storm. The weapon screamed with unnatural hums, its edges jagged with power, its light unnatural, corrupt, beautiful.
Everyone took a step back instinctively.
Even Ice seemed… subdued in comparison.
Jinx angled the weapon down slightly. The moment the blade touched the frozen dirt, it hissed—burning through stone and snow alike—leaving a molten scar in the earth.
Without a word, Jinx turned and sliced cleanly through a training dummy.
The straw-filled target exploded in half, its insides blackened and steaming. The severed top half landed with a soft thump, the cut clean as glass and burned.
Cries of shock and dread erupted across the courtyard.
Maester Luwin dropped his quill.
Catelyn screamed.
"Ned, stop this! That's not a sword—he's a demon!"
But Eddard heard none of it.
His gaze was fixed on Jinx. And something deeper stirred in his blood. Something he had buried long ago. A calling not of honor or duty—but of instinct. Warrior instinct.
Even Jinx, still as a grave monument, smirked beneath his mask. He could sense it.
"There it is," he said, voice like a secret unveiled. "You've felt it before. Long ago. That fire. You've buried it beneath titles and duty, but I see it now."
The crowd dared not breathe. Not even Arya.
Eddard brought Ice into both hands. His knuckles white.
"This is Winterfell," he said quietly. "And I will not let you make a fool of my house again."
The greatsword rose.
The crossguard saber lifted.
And in that instant—the cold of the North met the fire of another world.
The test had begun.
Steel clashed against energy.
Each strike of Ice met the humming blaze of Jinx's crossguard saber, and every blow sent sparks and flashes scattering across the training yard. Eddard Stark moved with the measured precision of a lord who had seen war, his swings purposeful, broad, and heavy. But Jinx—graceful, elusive, fluid—flowed like shadow given shape, his stance alternating between sharp parries and mocking retreats.
The watching crowd stood frozen—Rodrik, Jory, Catelyn, Maester Luwin, the children, the guards. Arya was gripping the railing with both hands, eyes wide and breath held. Robb stood beside her, speechless. Even Sansa, terrified yet unable to look away.
Eddard roared, slamming Ice downward. Jinx sidestepped effortlessly, his saber hissing as it carved a shallow gash in the stone with a lazy flick.
Then, Jinx pivoted low, swept Eddard's legs clean from beneath him with a precise twist of his foot—and before Eddard could even register the fall—
CRACK.
Jinx back-kicked him mid-air.
The Lord of Winterfell crashed across the training yard, a plume of dust rising in his wake as Ice skidded several feet away, clattering near the courtyard wall.
Gasps echoed across the square. Robb stepped forward. Catelyn screamed Eddard's name. Rodrik and Jory charged—but Jinx raised a single hand without looking.
The very air rippled.
A wall of invisible pressure exploded outward. Both men were sent sprawling to the dirt as an unseen barrier shimmered across the courtyard's edge, halting all who would intervene. The guards who rushed forward slammed against it like flies on glass.
Jinx's boots crunched softly on the frosted ground as he approached the fallen Stark. He crouched low beside him, face hidden behind that terrible smiling mask, the saber now deactivated but still in hand.
"Do you know why you lost today, Lord Stark?"
Eddard groaned, clutching his side, the wind knocked from his lungs. "No..." he managed hoarsely.
Jinx tilted his head.
"Because your body fights like a wolf, but your mind holds a sword like a priest." His voice was quiet, almost sympathetic. "Your form is refined. Disciplined. Honorable. Too honorable. Not even the Jedi fought so bound by ceremony."
Eddard's face was pale, sweat beading on his brow, but his eyes burned—not with shame, but confusion.
Jinx continued. "I had a chat with your Maester Luwin. A man of learning, that one. Shared quite the history."
He stood slowly, pacing before the crumpled Lord of Winterfell.
"Your father rode south for justice—only to be burned alive." His voice grew colder. "Your brother followed, trying to save him. He was strangled by a device that shattered his body while he watched." Jinx turned, staring down. "Then you… went to war."
The courtyard was deathly silent.
"And in the end, you still didn't save your sister." The words fell like a blade. "I wonder…" he said softly, as if to himself. "If you had embraced your true nature—if you had fought like a beast, not a man—would she still be alive?"
Eddard's eyes widened. Something ancient stirred within him. A scream of grief buried long ago. Of ashes. Of loss. Of failure.
CRACK.
The air exploded.
A wave of raw energy blasted outward from Eddard's body, catching Jinx in the chest and hurling him backward. He landed on his feet, skidding a few paces with a low grunt. Dust whipped in every direction.
Everyone gasped.
The barrier shattered.
Maester Luwin dropped his scroll. Robb stumbled. Even Arya stepped back, her breath catching.
Jinx straightened, brushing off his cloak, utterly unfazed—but his smile, hidden behind the mask, had widened.
"There it is," he said softly. "There's the wolf beneath the lord."
Eddard Stark lay panting on the ground, his hands trembling. But his silver eyes were locked onto Jinx—and in them burned the fire of something awakening.
Jinx turned slightly, arms out.
"Lesson one, child of winter: power never asks permission."
And with that, he turned and walked back to the center of the training yard, leaving a stunned Stark family and a shaken Winterfell behind.
Winterfell — Eddard's Solar, Late Evening
The fire snapped in the hearth, casting long shadows along the stone walls. The sky beyond the arrow-slit windows was an ink-drenched blue, stars barely piercing through the clouds. But inside, the room felt far colder than the northern winds outside.
Catelyn Stark stood near the desk, her face flushed with fury, her voice cutting through the quiet like a whip.
"He's dangerous, Ned! You saw what he did. To you. To Rodrik. To Jory. To the training yard! And now Arya—she listens to him! She obeys him! When has Arya ever listened to anyone?"
Eddard sat in his great carved chair, one hand resting over his mouth, the other on the armrest. He said nothing.
Catelyn paced. Her voice rose with every step.
"She was dragging that... that thing through the snow like it was her sworn duty! He's bewitching her! Filling her head with nonsense—magic, power, gods know what else! This man arrives half-dead in our godswood, and now you let him spar in the courtyard like some honored guest?"
Eddard still said nothing.
"Are you even listening, Ned? Or has he gotten to you too?"
That stung more than she realized.
Eddard let out a slow breath through his nose and turned his head slightly. The firelight caught the edges of his face—older than it had been a day ago, weathered not by time but by something deeper.
"He asked me a question," Eddard said finally. His voice was quiet, but it silenced the room.
Catelyn blinked, folding her arms tightly over her chest.
"What question?"
Eddard stared into the fire, as if its flames held the answer.
"He asked if I had accepted my true nature."
The words hung in the air, heavy and foreign.
Catelyn frowned. "What does that even mean?"
Ned leaned back in his chair, eyes distant. "I've spent my whole life trying to be like my father. An honorable man. A just man. But when Jinx spoke of Brandon… of Lyanna… of how I went to war and still failed to save her… it stirred something."
He paused.
"There was rage in me once, Cat. Fire. A wolf's fire. I buried it for the sake of my children. For the sake of peace. But in that moment, with Ice in my hand and him in front of me, I felt it again. Not madness. Not bloodlust. Truth."
Catelyn's face shifted from anger to concern. "You're not seriously entertaining his words—are you? That you failed Lyanna because you were too honorable?"
He looked at her then, truly looked, and something in his eyes made her heart still.
"What if I did?"
That question, raw and whispered, broke the storm in her throat.
Eddard looked away again, rubbing his hand through his beard. "What if I held back? What if I always hold back? Even now—trying to raise Robb and Jon into proper lords… but what if what they truly need is a wolf, not a man?"
Catelyn moved toward him slowly, resting a hand on his shoulder.
"Ned… you've always done what you believed was right."
He gave her a wan smile.
"Yes. But what if what's right… isn't what's necessary?"
Silence returned. The fire cracked, throwing a log apart into embers.
And in the back of his mind, Eddard heard that voice again, masked and amused.
"Lesson one, child of winter: power never asks permission."
Catelyn knelt beside him, her hand still on his shoulder, unsure of what to say next. Eddard Stark, the Warden of the North, the man of honor and stone, stared into the flames—and wondered if, after all this time, the mask he wore had kept something vital caged.
And now, it had begun to stir.
The fire had died down to soft embers, bathing the room in a muted amber glow. Eddard sat in thoughtful silence, Catelyn beside him, her hand resting gently on his. The weight of unspoken truths and lingering doubts hung thick in the air between them.
And then—
"Father!"
The door flung open with a thud, and Arya came sprinting into the solar, breathless, her cheeks flushed from the cold. Her wide silver-violet eyes scanned the room until they found him—and the moment they did, a visible wave of relief washed over her.
"You're okay!" she cried, half-running, half-leaping into Eddard's arms.
He caught her, startled for a moment, but quickly pulled her into a protective embrace.
"I'm all right, little one," he said, his voice softer than she'd heard all day. "Just a few bruises. Nothing Ice and I haven't weathered before."
Arya squeezed him tighter, then pulled back slightly to look him over.
"Still," she muttered, "for someone who says he's my father, you'd think he wouldn't hurt you that bad."
Silence.
Catelyn straightened like a struck bowstring. Eddard froze. And together, they both turned toward Arya in perfect sync, the air in the solar thickening in an instant.
"What did you just say?" Eddard asked, voice low—too calm.
Arya blinked, confused by the sudden shift. "What? I just meant—"
Catelyn stood sharply. "Arya. What do you mean someone claimed to be your father?"
Arya's brow furrowed, and she looked between them as if only now realizing the weight of her words.
"Oh… um… well, that night. The night I found him in the godswood. Jinx." She glanced at her father nervously. "He told me he felt a connection to me. Said I was his daughter. Not the usual kind—like how you are, Father—but… different."
The room went still. Only the fire crackled, oblivious to the tension blooming like ice beneath their skin.
Eddard rose slowly from his chair, his face unreadable, though his hands clenched and unclenched with something perilously close to restrained fury—or was it fear?
"Arya," he said carefully, "exactly what did he say?"
She fidgeted, but tried to remember. "He said I was his daughter, but not in the traditional sense. That I wouldn't understand fully with a child's mind. But he looked really sure. Like he knew me."
Catelyn backed away a step, her face pale. "This man—the same one who flung swords from grown men's hands—he claimed our daughter?"
Eddard wasn't listening. His mind raced.
She has his eyes. He'd noticed it before. Not quite silver like a Stark. Not Tully blue. Not anything he could place—until now. That violet hue. That unnatural color, barely dulled by the years.
He looked down at Arya, who now stood nervously between her parents, and for the first time in a long time… Eddard Stark felt something he hated—uncertainty.
Was it possible?
No. It couldn't be. She was his. His daughter. He remembered the day Catelyn gave birth, remembered holding her tiny body, swaddled in linen and Stark pride. And yet… what if?
"Where is he now?" Eddard asked abruptly.
"I think he's still resting after the fight," Arya said innocently. "He said using the Force like that drains him, and he didn't even use his real strength. He said it would scare everyone too much."
Catelyn's lips pressed into a tight line. "You will not be alone with him again, Arya. Is that understood?"
Arya scowled, folding her arms. "But he's not dangerous to me! He said I had potential! That he'd teach me to be strong—like him!"
"You're five, Arya." Catelyn snapped.
"So what?" Arya shouted back. "I want to be strong! Not like a lady who sews and simpers! Like Father. Like Jinx!"
Eddard's gaze didn't leave her, but inside, a war waged between paternal instinct and a whisper of something far older. Something rooted in his blood. In her blood.
He knelt before Arya, steady and solemn.
"From now on," he said, "you tell me everything he says to you. Everything, do you understand?"
Arya looked like she wanted to protest. But then something in her father's tone stilled her. She nodded.
"Good girl," he said, and kissed her brow.
But as she left the room, escorted by Catelyn, Eddard stayed where he knelt, staring into the fire once more.
A memory stirred. Of another set of violet eyes. Of secrets buried in snow and war.
And once again… he found himself asking the question he never thought he'd need to ask:
"What if he's right?"
Winterfell – The Hour of the Wolf
The fire in Eddard Stark's solar had long since died, but he hadn't stirred from his chair. The Hour of the Wolf—the darkest and coldest time of the night—was when men wrestled with things they dared not face in the daylight.
And tonight, his demons had a name.
Jinx.
A stranger cloaked in mystery, armed with powers that defied understanding… and claiming a bond with Arya that Eddard could no longer ignore.
He rose.
Without calling guards, without alerting anyone—not even Maester Luwin—he walked the silent halls of Winterfell. The walls of stone held their breath, the only sound the distant echo of his boots and the wind beyond.
He stopped before the door to Jinx's chamber.
Two guards stood post, both straightening upon his approach.
"Leave us," Eddard ordered quietly.
They hesitated.
"I said leave us. If he tries anything… he dies before the sun rises."
With stiff nods, they stepped away.
Eddard opened the heavy door and stepped inside.
The chamber was dimly lit by a single candle, flickering beside the bed. And there, seated on the floor in a meditative position, was the man—no, the being—that had shaken his family to its roots. Cloaked in black and silver, his smiling mask rested beside him on the stone floor. His eyes were closed, but Eddard felt no peace in the room. Only power… coiled like a serpent.
Without opening his eyes, Jinx spoke.
"Stark."
Eddard narrowed his eyes but said nothing.
Then, with a subtle movement of his fingers, Jinx used the Force.
A nearby chair scraped across the floor and gently turned itself to face him.
"Sit. You look like a man burdened by questions."
Eddard sat.
"I want to know what you meant," he said, voice tight. "About Arya. About being her father."
Jinx finally opened his eyes—dull purple irises glowing faintly in the dark. He studied Eddard for a long moment.
Then, he began.
"Five years ago," Jinx said slowly, "I was sent to exterminate a village."
Eddard's brow furrowed, but he didn't interrupt.
"It was in a distant land... far beyond anything you've seen. Not even your maps can find it. I served an empire then, under a man known only as the Emperor."
Eddard's fingers flexed subtly. The Emperor. He didn't know the name—but he burned it into memory.
Jinx continued, voice low and smooth.
"I'd razed cities before. Killed without thought. But that day… that cursed day… it marked the eighteenth year since the death of the only woman I ever loved."
His voice dropped to a near whisper.
"My mind was clouded. My heart in turmoil. When I saw the firing line ready to gun down a group of children, something in me snapped."
He looked away, into memory.
"I stopped the execution. Took the children. Then I returned to the Emperor and asked if there was… another way. A way to pass on my legacy. But I… I couldn't bring myself to lie with another. Not after her."
He looked to Eddard now, eyes sharper.
"So I asked for another path. A child born of the Force itself. A thread of my essence, carried not by lust, but by fate."
Eddard was stone-faced, but his heart was hammering.
"He told me yes. That it could be done. But that the child would not be born near. It might not even be born in our empire. It would appear somewhere far away… and I would know them only when I stood in their presence."
Jinx leaned back against the bed, closing his eyes briefly.
"The years passed. I forgot. Buried myself in wars and silence."
Then he opened his eyes again, and they glowed faintly.
"Until I woke beneath a red moon… in the heart of a forest older than your Wall. And I felt her."
Eddard didn't move.
Jinx whispered:
"Arya."
Eddard felt as if the air had left the room.
This man was either insane… or telling the truth.
Jinx let the silence hang before continuing.
"The ritual's remnants still clung to the ground near that weirwood tree. The threads were faint… but they pointed to her. And when she looked at me with those eyes…" he smiled softly, bitterly. "…I knew."
Eddard finally spoke, voice low.
"She is my daughter."
"Yes," Jinx nodded. "And mine. In a way deeper than blood. A soul shaped by two destinies. She is born of your world… and my Force."
Eddard rose from the chair, conflicted.
He had come here for truth, and found something far more dangerous: a revelation that could unravel everything.
He turned to leave, but paused at the door.
"If you ever hurt her…"
Jinx smiled tiredly.
"I won't. I would die before I let that happen."
Eddard didn't reply. He stepped into the hall and closed the door behind him, but even as it clicked shut… the echo of Jinx's words haunted him.
Born of your world… and my Force.
Winterfell – Maester's Tower – Just Before Dawn
The candlelight flickered wildly as a gust of wind pressed against the old stone tower, rattling the glass panes like nervous teeth. Winter was not yet upon them, but the wind whispered of its return. Eddard Stark stood before the hearth in Maester Luwin's chamber, staring into the flame, his face lit by fire and shadow.
Behind him, Maester Luwin poured mulled wine into two pewter cups, the dark rings beneath his eyes betraying the hour. Still, the old maester moved without complaint, his years of service making such late meetings routine — though rarely this quiet. Rarely this grim.
Eddard hadn't spoken a word since arriving.
Luwin handed him the cup, his brow creased. "You've not slept, my lord."
Eddard accepted the drink with a curt nod. He didn't sip.
"…Is it Arya again?" the maester asked gently.
The Warden of the North closed his eyes for a moment. "It's… more than Arya. Much more."
He turned, finally facing the man who had served House Stark since before Robb had drawn his first breath. Luwin waited patiently, his hands folded before him.
Eddard took a deep breath. "Jinx. The stranger."
The name alone put a faint tightness in the maester's throat. "Yes, of course. He's stirred the household like a storm."
Eddard sat heavily in the old oaken chair across from him. "He told me something last night. Something that sounds like madness… but feels far worse than that."
Luwin's eyebrows lifted ever so slightly. "Go on, my lord."
Eddard leaned forward, voice low.
"He claims… that Arya is his daughter."
The maester blinked. "His—? But… she's yours. And Lady Catelyn's. I was there when she was born, my lord. There can be no mistaking it."
"I know," Eddard said, pressing his fingers to his brow. "And yet… he does not mean it in the way you and I would. He spoke of… something else. Of magic beyond our reach. He said he is bound to her by the Force — a kind of energy that flows through all living things. He claims he performed a ritual… not here, but in a land beyond anything we've known. A ritual that somehow… created her. Or marked her. As his."
Luwin paled slightly but kept his composure. "Forgive me, my lord, but that sounds dangerously close to sorcery."
"Aye," Ned muttered, "and that's what frightens me."
Luwin stood and began pacing. "The old tales speak of shadowbinders in Asshai. Blood mages in the ruins of Valyria. Even the children of the forest were said to possess powers beyond reason. But never… this. Never a man who commands flame-blades and tosses swords from men's hands without a word."
Eddard looked into his wine as though it held an answer. "He said Arya was born here, to us… but carries a part of him. A second legacy. As if her soul answered his call."
The maester froze. "That… that would mean…"
"She's no longer just a Stark," Eddard finished for him.
The words hung heavy in the air.
Luwin sat down, slower this time. "And if it's true? What do you intend to do?"
Eddard exhaled, long and low. "I don't know."
There was silence, broken only by the wind brushing against the tower.
Luwin cleared his throat. "Do you believe him?"
Eddard's eyes were distant. "I believe that he believes it. And I saw Arya with him. I saw how she looked at him. Not with fear. Not like a child dazzled by magic. There was… recognition. A bond I can't explain."
The maester steepled his fingers. "And Lady Catelyn?"
"She doesn't know the half of it," Eddard said. "And if I told her now, she might call for his death herself."
"Would she be wrong?"
Eddard looked up, and for a moment, Maester Luwin saw not just the Warden of the North—but a man who had seen too much war, too much loss.
"I don't know," he said again, voice quieter.
"He could be dangerous. He is dangerous. But if what he says is true… then so is Arya."
Outside, the first grey streaks of dawn stretched over Winterfell's ancient walls. But the light brought no warmth. No answers.
In the growing silence, the two men sat—one cradling wine, the other the weight of a kingdom—both haunted by the same name.
Jinx.