Outside the Maester's Tower – Pre-Dawn Light
The wind bit cold against the stone walls of Winterfell, but Arya Stark barely felt it. She crouched low beneath the narrow, cracked window ledge that looked into Maester Luwin's solar, her breath held so tightly in her lungs it ached.
She had followed her father on instinct, a creeping knot of worry pulling her from her chambers long before the first crow of the morning. Arya didn't know why—only that something inside her chest told her this was important. And now she knew it had been right.
"…She's no longer just a Stark," she heard her father say, and her fingers clenched around the edge of the stone.
They were talking about her. Again.
She had expected it, in a way. Ever since Jinx arrived, whispers followed her like a second shadow. The wild daughter, bewitched. The strange man in armor. Her mother's angry whispers behind closed doors.
But now… now she heard the truth.
"He said Arya was born here, to us… but carries a part of him. A second legacy. As if her soul answered his call."
Arya's eyes widened. She barely understood what that meant. But the words — a part of him — made her heart skip. She remembered his voice in the godswood. The way he had looked at her, not with wonder, but with recognition. The way Nyx, the strange snake, had called her familiar.
"She's no longer just a Stark."
Was that true? What did it even mean? She felt like a Stark. She was a Stark.
But there was something else. Something whispering in her blood, curling around her bones. That unexplainable chill she'd felt ever since she met him. The way the world shifted just slightly when he spoke.
"He could be dangerous. He is dangerous. But if what he says is true… then so is Arya."
She swallowed hard, pulling back slightly from the window, her heart racing. They were afraid. Of Jinx. Of her.
But she wasn't afraid.
Not of him. Not of the Force. Not of being more than just a Stark. Something inside her stirred when he spoke. When he fought. When he said you are mine, though not in the way your father is.
A part of her — the part that hated embroidery needles and practiced with real ones in secret — understood.
That part didn't want to run. That part wanted to learn.
She sat there a moment longer, hugging her knees to her chest as the first sunlight painted the courtyard below in gold.
Then, silent as a shadow, Arya slipped away.
She didn't yet have the words to explain what she felt.
But she knew this:
She would not let her parents decide what she was.
Winterfell – Jinx's Chambers, Midnight
The stone corridors of Winterfell slept in silence, but Arya did not.
She moved like a whisper through the dark, barefoot and cloaked in her night-shift and an old fur Jon had given her. The guards had long since grown used to her nightly wanderings — she was the wolf they could never quite leash. Tonight, though, her steps were quieter than usual, more purposeful.
She had waited until even the kitchen fires had gone cold, until the last torch in the hall outside Jinx's chamber sputtered out.
She approached the heavy oak door — locked tight since the previous incident in the dungeons — and tapped lightly three times, just as he had told her to if she ever wished to speak with him in secret.
A moment passed.
Then came a low hum, mechanical and hollow, as the iron latch clicked itself open from within.
Arya slipped inside.
The room was dim, lit only by a floating orb of violet light that drifted above Jinx like a tiny, curious moon. He sat on the edge of his bed, no longer as lifeless as before, but still wrapped in dark armor and shadow, his mask resting beside him on the blanket like a smiling sentinel.
"A bit late for sneaking, little wolf," he said, his voice soft yet threaded with amusement. "Your father would skin me alive."
Arya shrugged. "He already wants to."
Jinx chuckled. "Fair."
She stepped closer, bold and unafraid, until she was just a few feet from him. Her silver-purple eyes gleamed with that restless spark he had come to expect from her — a spark he now recognized as the stirring of the Force itself.
"I want to learn," she said, simple and direct.
Jinx tilted his head. "And why is that?"
"Because I'm tired of not knowing who I am. Because you said I was something more. And… because I want to be strong."
The sincerity in her voice gave him pause. After a long moment, he nodded.
"Then we begin with truth."
He raised a gloved hand slowly — still stiff from disuse — and gently placed it atop her head. Arya flinched, but only for a second. His hand was cool, but not cold. Like resting beneath moonlight.
"Close your eyes," he said. "Breathe."
She obeyed.
He closed his own, drawing on the Force not to dominate but to listen. He reached out — deeper, deeper — into the soul of the child before him.
He expected flickers. A flame, perhaps. What he found instead was a storm.
A brilliant, coiling spiral of potential, dark and light woven together like twin rivers in flood. Anger. Compassion. Curiosity. Defiance. Instinct. She was wild, but focused. Untamed, yet pure.
Even now, at her age, her Force sensitivity hummed through her bones like a drumbeat.
His hand trembled slightly.
When he finally pulled away, he didn't speak for a long time.
"Well?" Arya asked, peeking one eye open. "Did you find something wrong?"
Jinx chuckled lowly, his voice tinged with awe and warning alike.
"No, child. Far from it." He leaned back, studying her with new clarity. "You have more raw potential than I ever imagined. If trained — truly trained — you could stand among the greatest."
Arya blinked. "Greatest?"
Jinx nodded. "Your potential rivals that of the Emperor himself."
She tilted her head. "Who's that?"
Jinx smirked. "A very bad man. Very powerful. Very feared. You wouldn't like him… but he would have liked you."
Arya didn't fully understand — but the way Jinx said it, the weight behind the name, made her grin all the same.
"So I'm… super strong?"
Jinx laughed, genuinely this time. "Yes, little wolf. You're very strong. And if we begin now, perhaps you'll become something not even the stars could bind."
Arya beamed.
In that quiet moment, under the gaze of a fallen force from another world, a wild Northern girl had taken her first step onto a path older than her gods, and darker — or brighter — than she could yet imagine.
Winterfell – Near the Guest Wing, Pre-dawn
The castle of Winterfell was sleeping, mostly. But not entirely.
Jon Snow had always been a light sleeper. Whether it was the cold, or the way some of the guards looked at him, or the fact that Lady Stark never spoke his name unless necessary — he wasn't sure. But tonight, something tugged at his gut. A strange stirring that made the hairs on his neck rise.
He had risen from his small bed in the corner of the boys' shared room and noticed Robb's cot was empty.
Frowning, Jon crept from the room, padding barefoot through the stone halls of the castle, clutching his thick woolen cloak tighter around his shoulders.
He found Robb peering around a corner, barely breathing, eyes wide.
"Robb?" Jon whispered.
Robb startled, spinning to face him, and grabbed Jon's arm.
"Jon," he whispered, barely able to contain himself. "It's Arya. She snuck off again—"
"And?"
"She's with him."
Jon stiffened.
"Him" could only mean one person: the strange man in black — the one Father didn't trust, the one the guards spoke of in hushed tones. The one who threw Ser Rodrik like a sack of flour and made Ice look like a kitchen knife.
Jon hesitated… then nodded. "Show me."
They crept closer, sticking to the shadows of the corridor. The door to Jinx's room had been left slightly ajar, the enchanted locking mechanism strangely deactivated. A faint violet glow spilled through the crack like fog in moonlight.
What they saw inside made both boys freeze.
Arya sat cross-legged on the floor, eyes closed in meditation. The man — Jinx — sat on the edge of his bed, hand outstretched, resting gently atop her head. His eyes were closed, his expression unreadable. There was no threat, no violence… only silence, and something else. Something deep. Robb didn't have words for it. Jon did.
Power.
He felt it in his chest — a pressure, like standing too close to a thunderstorm that hadn't struck yet.
Jinx opened his eyes.
"Little wolves shouldn't be out of bed so early," he said softly, not even looking toward the door.
Both boys jumped.
Jon instinctively stepped forward, shielding Robb. "You stay away from her!"
Arya's eyes snapped open. "Jon?! Robb?!"
Jinx sighed theatrically. "So much for a quiet lesson."
Jon stormed into the room, followed by Robb, who looked like he wanted to turn and run but didn't. He wouldn't leave Arya alone.
"What are you doing to her?" Jon demanded, planting himself between Arya and Jinx. "She's just a girl!"
Arya stood up quickly. "He wasn't hurting me! He was just—he was just… looking."
"That doesn't make sense!" Robb said, his young voice cracking slightly. "He's dangerous. Father says so."
Arya frowned. "He says I'm strong. Stronger than most. That I could be trained."
Jon glanced back at her, startled. "Trained? For what?"
Jinx's voice came again, smooth and even. "For survival. For truth. For choice."
Jon turned to Jinx, anger swirling in his young eyes. "You don't belong here."
"No," Jinx said, finally looking him in the eyes, "but I am here. And so is she."
Something passed between them in that moment — not a threat, not quite — but an acknowledgment. Jon felt it down to his bones: this man wasn't just strange. He was ancient. And dangerous in a way swords and spears couldn't stop.
But then Jinx's gaze softened, and he looked at Robb and Jon like a teacher studying stubborn but brave cubs.
"Go back to bed, little Lords. You've seen enough for tonight."
Arya looked uncertain, glancing between her brothers and Jinx.
Jon held her hand. "Come with us."
"I will," Arya said softly, "but I'm going to talk to him again."
Jon didn't like it. Robb clearly didn't either. But they didn't drag her away.
As the three children walked down the corridor, casting long shadows behind them, Jinx reclined on his bed once more, smiling faintly.
"The wolf pack runs deep," he murmured to himself. "But every pack needs its stray."
And for the first time in decades, Jinx felt something stir in his chest that wasn't pain or rage.
Hope.
Winterfell – The Training Yard, Morning
The yard bustled with the sounds of metal on metal, boots crunching against packed snow, and shouted instructions as the Stark guards ran through drills. Ser Rodrik Cassel circled the formation like an aging wolf, barking corrections and nodding to Jory Cassel, who was overseeing the newer recruits. The morning sun cast long, golden beams through the frost-bitten air, catching on polished steel and pale furs.
Off to the side, Maester Luwin sat bundled in his thick robes, scribbling notes in his leather-bound ledger while casting occasional glances toward the growing crowd. Catelyn stood with Sansa, who looked unimpressed by the martial display, while Arya tugged at the sleeve of her tunic impatiently, her eyes scanning for one person.
Then the air changed.
Colder. Heavier.
Every head turned as Jinx walked onto the training yard, clad in his black armor and mask once more, his mere presence stilling the clatter of swords and silencing conversation like a phantom stepping into a chapel.
The moment he stepped onto the stone, even the wind seemed to pause.
"Good," Jinx said, his voice muffled through the smiling mask. "You're all here."
He walked slowly, hands behind his back like a commander about to deliver grim news. The guards instinctively parted for him, though none knew why.
"After a long talk last night with Maester Luwin," Jinx began, turning slightly to glance at the old man, who stiffened but gave a nod, "I've come to a rather simple conclusion about the North's position... politically, economically, and culturally."
There was a pause. The kind of pause that felt too long to be accidental.
Then Jinx turned back to the group and, in a tone so unimpressed and flat it was almost insulting, declared:
"The Starks are shit rulers."
Silence.
Utter silence.
No gasp. No shout. Just shock.
Catelyn's lips parted. Ser Rodrik blinked as if trying to clear frost from his eyes. Robb, holding a training blade, froze mid-step. Even Arya's jaw hung slightly open, unsure if she should laugh or cry.
Eddard Stark himself, standing near the training circle, crossed his arms slowly. "You'd best explain yourself," he said with an edge so sharp it could've flayed meat from bone.
Jinx raised a hand. "I intend to. Sit, listen. You might even learn something."
The gall of the man.
But no one moved to stop him.
"I did not say you're bad at leading," he clarified, now pacing like a lecturer. "You're exceptional at survival. Holding your people together. Defending your lands from raiders, winter, and southern ambition. That you've mastered."
He turned on his heel. "But that's all you do."
He pointed a gloved finger toward the great tower in the distance.
"You endure, Stark. Like that old stone tower — solid, unyielding, and utterly unchanging. But survival is not growth. You do not build. You preserve."
He now pointed to Ser Rodrik, then the guards, then the smallfolk watching from the sidelines.
"You feed your people, but you do not inspire them. You keep them alive, but their lives remain dull, harsh, and endlessly cold. You lead like a mountain leads — strong, yes, but motionless."
Eddard's jaw flexed, but he said nothing. Jory was gripping his blade tighter than necessary. Catelyn's knuckles had gone white.
"And before any of you throw your cloaks on the snow and storm off in indignation," Jinx said with a casual flick of his wrist, "let me say this: I'm not judging. I understand."
He paused, and for a moment, his voice softened — faintly.
"I come from a land called Hoth," he said. "A place where storms can bury cities. Where every breath tastes of frostbite. If what Maester Luwin described is accurate, then your so-called 'Land of Always Winter' would feel like home to me."
Gasps rippled through the onlookers. Even Maester Luwin blinked.
"Impossible," muttered Rodrik. "Nothing lives in the Land of Always Winter."
Jinx tilted his head. "I lived on the edge of that — for twenty years."
He stepped forward, armor whispering with every stride.
"I turned ice into harvest. I turned ruin into fortresses. I gave my people warmth in a place where heat was a myth. So believe me when I say — if I can make the edge of the abyss thrive, then this fertile, forgotten kingdom of snow-dwellers can be more than a frozen relic of the First Men."
No one spoke.
Not even Arya.
Jinx crossed his arms.
"I've decided to help. Because I've taken a liking to you, wolves. You're too noble for your own good — and someone has to drag you snarling into the future."
He turned to Eddard now, staring into the man's soul with unseen eyes behind his mask.
"You can still keep your honor, Stark. But honor without vision leads only to stagnation and early graves."
Eddard said nothing for a long while. Then, slowly, he looked at Luwin.
The old Maester nodded once, gravely.
Then he turned to Rodrik. "We may want to hear what he has in mind."
And from the side of the courtyard, Arya grinned — because deep down, she knew:
Winterfell would never be the same again.
The silence after Jinx's final words hung like morning frost, clinging to every breath, every heartbeat.
He let it settle for just long enough to command attention — then continued with the same calm, cold authority that had already turned the courtyard into a makeshift council chamber.
"Without the roots," Jinx said, stepping slowly toward the center, "the tree will never grow."
His voice carried not like a shout but a truth spoken directly into the soul. "And the roots… are House Stark."
That statement drew a few exchanged glances, unsure whether it was meant as a compliment or a warning.
"So," Jinx went on, "that is the first order of business."
He lifted his gloved hand and pointed lazily toward the family, his masked gaze sweeping across them.
"I've examined all of you."
The words triggered immediate confusion — Robb blinked, Sansa furrowed her brow, and Catelyn straightened. Even Eddard raised a silent eyebrow. When?
Jinx answered before they could speak.
"Your expressions betray you. You're wondering when. You forget I don't need sight to see. The Force reveals more than a thousand eyes ever could."
He turned now, addressing all.
"The two with the highest potential among you…" he let the moment hang, "are Arya and Jon."
Gasps rose around the yard.
Arya's mouth opened in shock. Jon, standing beside Robb, blinked twice as if someone had slapped him. Robb's shoulders stiffened.
"I admit," Jinx continued, "that did surprise me. Arya was… forged by the Force, in a way. Born of its will. Her potential exceeds that of most beings I've ever met — a lesser degree than mine or... his—"
His voice caught. Just for a moment. A flicker of sadness passed through it like wind through brittle leaves.
"—Anakin."
The name meant nothing to those gathered, but Eddard, Arya, Rodrik, and Maester Luwin all noticed the subtle dip in tone. That name meant something to Jinx. Something old. Something painful.
But he moved on.
"Jon Snow... natural-born, no unnatural intervention. And yet, his potential rivals Arya's. That speaks volumes. The Force chose him as it rarely chooses any."
Eddard's gaze flicked to Jon — the boy's face a mixture of stunned pride and confusion.
"Next," Jinx said, shifting his weight ever so slightly, "comes Eddard Stark himself."
That drew even more murmurs.
"You're not far behind," Jinx continued, "but I can sense it. There's a... dulling of your edge. A diminishment."
He tilted his head. "From what Luwin told me of your past, I suspect it was from your fostering in the Vale. Your instincts were disciplined too early, and not in the right ways. You were taught how to be a man of stone — not a man of motion."
Eddard folded his arms but said nothing. He wasn't sure whether to feel complimented or insulted.
"But," Jinx added, "you're still young enough for me to whip into shape."
Catelyn scoffed lightly, not bothering to hide her skepticism. Eddard's lips twitched — somewhere between a frown and a smirk.
"Robb Stark," Jinx called out now, turning toward the boy who had instinctively stepped forward. "Your potential is strong. Not as high as your father's — but strong."
Robb nodded slowly, trying not to show the disappointment flickering in his chest.
"I suspect," Jinx went on, "that it comes from your mother's blood. From what Luwin has told me, most houses below the Neck lack deep Force connection. Your strength comes from the Northern line. That said—" he raised a finger, "—you still rank higher than a certain 'Count Dooku.'"
He let the name land like a stone dropped in a still pond.
Robb blinked. "Who?"
Jinx chuckled. "A legend from my world. Once hailed as the most promising Jedi of his generation. Only outshined when Anakin and I came along. Dooku was brilliant, graceful, and terrifying in his prime. If you work twice as hard, you could surpass even him."
Robb's eyes lit with a new fire.
"And now…" Jinx's gaze finally turned to the last child.
"Sansa Stark."
She stood tall, trying her best to match her mother's poise. Jinx regarded her silently, longer than the others.
"You possess the potential of a peak Jedi Knight. Competent. Wise. Strong — in time."
Catelyn raised a brow. "That low?"
There was a bite to her voice.
"It's not low," Jinx said mildly, "but… it's your ceiling. Your daughter has strengths — grace, patience, perception. But her spirit is tied to tradition. And tradition doesn't lead to transcendence."
Eddard narrowed his eyes. "Why, exactly?"
Jinx paused.
"I'll tell you later," he said simply.
Eddard nodded. The way Jinx said it implied he would — but not with everyone present.
Behind them, Arya was practically bouncing. Jon stood stunned. Robb's jaw was clenched in thought, and Sansa looked like she wanted to argue but didn't know how. Catelyn stared coolly, arms crossed.
And Eddard… was thinking. Calculating. Wondering if, perhaps, the Force had always existed in the blood of the First Men — and if the North had simply forgotten.
The Stark family and their trusted retainers stood in quiet anticipation, the hush of the cold air broken only by the soft clink of armor and distant sparring grunts in the yard beyond. Jinx stood tall, an imposing figure clad in black armor and his ever-smiling mask. His presence seemed to press on the very air, as if reality itself took notice when he breathed.
"I've spoken of potential," Jinx said at last, his voice crisp and clear, "but now… to the true reason I gathered you all here."
He turned slightly, gazing over the assembled family, guards, Maester Luwin, and even the wide-eyed Arya and Jon.
"This," he said, gesturing to the courtyard, "is where we begin your training. Not in the Force—yet. That comes with meditation. The Force is a river, and one must first learn how to sit beside its banks before attempting to swim in its currents."
He paused, letting that analogy settle.
"Tonight," he continued, "each of you who wishes to learn will find beside your beds a set of written instructions. Personalized. Tailored to guide your mind inwards before sleep. Meditation is the foundation."
A few nods from Maester Luwin and Eddard. Arya was practically bouncing.
"But now—" Jinx said, voice taking on a flinty sharpness, "—is the art of warfare."
That got their attention.
Jinx stepped forward, pacing slowly before them.
"I will teach you the Seven Forms of combat practiced by my people. Techniques honed and perfected over thousands of years. Each Form designed for a specific kind of battle, each with a different philosophy, rhythm, and utility. Mastering even one can place you above the average warrior."
He stopped and looked them in the eye — or, rather, let them feel his eyes behind the mask.
"But mastering all seven?" he said, voice dropping to something more mythic. "That makes you—unbeatable."
The courtyard was silent. Wind brushed past like a held breath. Robb and Jon looked at each other in disbelief. Rodrik shifted his stance with a frown. Catelyn narrowed her eyes skeptically.
"You doubt me," Jinx mused. "Understandable. After all, in the land I come from—where millions train in these forms—only six to ten warriors in recorded history have mastered all seven."
He turned slightly and added, without hubris, "I am one of them."
Gasps fluttered among them.
"Most of those warriors," he went on, "either extended their lives through unnatural means to achieve mastery, or were born with exceptional potential like… your daughter, Arya."
Arya perked up, beaming with pride.
"I intend," Jinx declared, "to make at least one—possibly two—of you a master of all seven."
Now they were listening.
He turned to the training dummies and, one by one, drew a short wooden baton with chalk and carved runes along the shaft — seemingly mundane, yet imbued with unseen precision.
"Now," he said, angling his body in a stance not unlike a duelist's — but flowing and foreign — "listen well."
The Seven Forms – As Explained by Jinx, Adapted for Medieval Understanding
Form I – The Way of the Falcon
"A style built for open combat. Strength, sweeping arcs, powerful overhead strikes. Think of it as how a greatsword is wielded by a knight—dominating the battlefield with sheer presence. But it is predictable if relied on alone."
Form II – The Dance of the Needle
"This is a duelist's form. Precision over strength. Grace over brute force. Picture a master of the rapier or a Braavosi Water Dancer. In my world, this Form was once considered the pinnacle of nobility and elegance."
Form III – The Stalwart Wall
"A defensive style. Every motion is meant to intercept, deflect, outlast. In your terms, it is the shield master's technique — ideal for narrow halls, stairs, and uneven terrain. A knight holding the bridge with spear and shield."
Form IV – The Wind's Tempest
"Agility, acrobatics, unpredictability. Movements like a shadow-cat on the hunt. It is risky, yes—but devastating in the hands of the nimble. In Westerosi terms? A spear maiden dancing across snow and blood, weaving past sword and flame."
Form V – The Storm of Iron
"Power mixed with precision. Strength guided by purpose. This form is split into two variations: 'Djem So,' for counter-striking brute force with brute force — and 'Shien,' for redirecting volleys of missile attacks. In your language, imagine the perfect blend of knight and sellsword, offense and defense."
Form VI – The Judge's Mantle
"A diplomatic form. It balances all others. Rarely mastered. Ideal for those who must speak in courts and command armies—then draw steel when words fail. Think of a King who does not wish to fight, but will, and can."
Form VII – The Path of Fury (Vaapad)
"The most dangerous form. Not because of its technique… but because of its cost. It channels rage, pain, and passion into every strike. It requires perfect self-control or it consumes the user. Only the truly fearless—or the truly mad—dare tread this path."
As Jinx finished speaking, he flipped the baton in his hand and tapped it against the frost-covered stone.
"Your weapons may be steel," he said, "but the principles remain unchanged. Stance, flow, instinct, intent."
The Starks stood stunned. Even Rodrik looked pale. Maester Luwin, wide-eyed, whispered under his breath, "A codex of war..."
"Training begins tomorrow," Jinx concluded. "Before sunrise."
He turned to leave but then stopped.
"Oh… and don't eat too heavily at supper. Form IV is unforgiving to the full-bellied."
With that, he walked away into the flurrying snow, the smile of his mask lingering like a promise — or a warning.