The Lord's Solar, Winterfell — Hour of the Wolf
Snow fell gently beyond the tall, narrow windows of the solar, the faint blue glow of pre-dawn stretching across the frost-streaked sky. The fire had been stoked well before the meeting began, and its crackling warmth filled the chamber with the scent of burning spruce.
Maester Luwin sat patiently by the table, ink, parchment, and a sharpened quill in hand. Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, leaned near the hearth, arms crossed, deep in his usual silence. The door creaked open.
In walked Jinx.
As always, his presence chilled the air, despite the fire's warmth. Armored, masked, and walking without aid now, he carried with him a satchel of rolled parchments and unreadable power. He didn't bow, nor offer a greeting.
Just silence—and then action.
He set the satchel on the table between them and pulled out several tightly sealed scrolls and blueprints, placing them with quiet ceremony in two distinct piles. Then he straightened.
"You're late," Eddard said.
"You're early," Jinx replied simply, tilting his head ever so slightly.
Eddard exhaled through his nose. "Why is my wife not allowed to attend this meeting?"
"She is compromised," Jinx said, utterly without hesitation. "Her judgments are reactive and rooted in pride, not reason. If what I'm about to show you leaves this room, she would tell her father—out of fear or spite. And that would doom everything."
The fire popped loudly in the hearth. Luwin stiffened slightly but said nothing.
Eddard's eyes narrowed. "You presume much."
"I know much," Jinx countered, then turned his masked gaze to Luwin. "Shall we proceed?"
Maester Luwin, sensing the tension, cleared his throat. "Yes… what is this plan?"
Jinx didn't answer with words. He unfurled five elegant sheets of parchment, each one carefully written and sealed in wax with a strange emblem neither man recognized—like a swirling, stylized wolf wrapped in a storm.
"These," Jinx said, laying them before Luwin and Eddard, "are five recipes. Alcoholic spirits. Made only with ingredients native to the North. Two of them… only producible within Winterfell's grounds."
Luwin adjusted his spectacles, frowning in confusion. "You're proposing… a brewery?"
"I'm proposing an industry," Jinx corrected. "Controlled by House Stark. Guarded by loyalty, secrecy, and succession. These formulas are to be passed down—only through blood or binding oath."
Eddard stepped forward, glancing down at the first page. His eyes moved across the careful script.
Snowcap pears, glacier apples... Moonshadow Orchards? Frostwell?
Enchanted copper stills? Crystal bottle aging? Sealed under the hot springs...
His brow furrowed. Luwin's mouth slowly fell open as he read.
"These ingredients... they're all... Northern," Luwin whispered.
"Not just Northern," Jinx said. "Some found nowhere else. The Moonshadow Orchards? I found them tucked beyond the godswood, warmed by the hot springs. You didn't even know they were there."
"You... just found these?" Eddard asked.
"I walked around," Jinx replied bluntly. "Spoke to a few farmers. Took me half a day."
Eddard stiffened, guilt crawling up his spine.
"Half a day…" he echoed quietly. "My father ruled for over thirty years. I've ruled for 8. And yet... the key to making House Stark rich beyond measure was rotting in my own backyard."
Jinx nodded slowly, voice calm but pointed. "House Stark has always been about survival, not prosperity. You've fed your people, but you've never grown their future. That changes now."
He reached into the satchel again and pulled out ten tightly bound rolls of hide-backed paper, marked with diagrams and symbols.
"These," he said, spreading them before the firelight, "are blueprints. Inventions. Each designed for life in the worst cold imaginable."
Luwin leaned in, and so did Eddard. The three of them stood over the table like conspirators. Jinx's finger hovered over each design.
Blueprint One — Thermal Cloaks
"Layered furs, sewn with air pockets between treated hides. A single person could survive a blizzard overnight with just one of these. Think... sleeping bag, but wearable."
Blueprint Two — Geothermal Bathhouses
"Cleanliness. Morale. Long winters breed disease and despair. These bathhouses channel natural heat from the springs. Simple steam chambers that keep soldiers—and civilians—sane."
Blueprint Three — Iron-Spike Snowshoes
"Mobility. Retractable spikes for ice. Northern armies shouldn't move like southerners."
Blueprint Four — Longhouse Hearths
"Stacked stone ovens. Sleeping bunks above. Uses rising heat to warm an entire family through a winter night with a third of the fuel."
Blueprint Five — Ice Cellars
"Frozen food stores. Built deep. Preserved for years. A strategic advantage in siege and famine alike."
Blueprint Six — Windmill Grain Crushers
"One mill, one village fed. Northern winds don't sleep. Put them to use."
Blueprint Seven — Modular Fortifications
"Interlocking timber walls with spike mounts. Assembled in hours. Perfect for wildling attacks or border expansion."
Blueprint Eight — Steel-Lined Sled Convoys
"Heavy-duty sleds for transporting goods or injured. Flexible iron runners for terrain like yours."
Blueprint Nine — Heat-Bellows Cooking Stoves
"Uses a third the wood. Cooks faster. Boils snow into drinking water. Can be made from clay or iron."
Blueprint Ten — Signal Drum and Fire Network
"Drums and fire stations across towers. Rhythms for danger—raiders, wildlings, worse. Can't be blocked by snow or silence."
By the time he finished, both Eddard and Luwin were seated again, staring down at the designs in stunned silence.
"It's…" Luwin whispered. "Revolutionary. These inventions could change the North forever."
"They will," Jinx said. "If you act. I will teach your builders. I will help your masons. But this must remain within House Stark. The South cannot be trusted with these."
Eddard's voice was quiet. "Why are you giving us this?"
"Because Arya lives here," Jinx said simply. "And so do the rest of your children. And I will not allow them to inherit a realm that eats itself slowly out of pride and tradition."
Then, as if from nowhere, Jinx pulled out a single final scroll—unmarked, wrapped in deep black string. He placed it gently on the table and unrolled it.
Luwin gasped aloud.
Eddard's eyes widened.
"A... glass-making process?" Luwin said, blinking in disbelief. "This... only the Myrish know the secret—"
"And now you do," Jinx said. "Step-by-step. Instructions to make clear, stable glass. You can sell it. Build with it. Use it for lenses, for windows, for advancement. And only you possess it."
Silence.
Long, heavy silence.
Eddard finally looked up. The firelight flickered across his weathered face.
"I don't know whether to thank you," he said slowly, "or fear you."
Jinx's reply was as cold as the snow outside.
"Both," he said.
The fire had burned lower now, casting flickering shadows on the stone walls. The scrolls and diagrams lay scattered across the heavy oak table like sacred relics, their promise of transformation both exhilarating and overwhelming.
Maester Luwin tapped a finger against his chin, his brow furrowed in thought.
"These plans are… impressive," Luwin admitted cautiously, "but they would require manpower we simply don't have, my lord. The North is wide and cold. Our people are spread thin as it is. The labor alone—"
"I know," Eddard said with a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. "We'd need thousands of skilled hands. We can't just conjure them from snow and stone."
Across the table, Jinx leaned back in his chair, arms crossed.
He stared at them with unblinking, mask-shadowed silence.
And then he said, plainly, "Do you not have slaves?"
The words dropped like an anvil.
Eddard's eyes went wide.
Luwin's quill snapped in his hand.
Eddard slammed a fist onto the table and stood so suddenly his chair nearly fell over.
"Slaves are illegal in the Seven Kingdoms," he growled. "The North has never taken part in such filth! Not then. Not now. Not ever."
Jinx didn't flinch.
He simply tilted his head, as though he were observing a confused animal attempting to reason through fire.
"Is that so?" he replied quietly. "Strange."
He reached under his cloak, producing a scroll so old the wax seal had nearly crumbled into dust. He unfurled it with precision, the parchment emitting a crackling sigh of age.
"This," Jinx said, "is a copy of the official compact signed by Aegon Targaryen—'the Conqueror,' as you call him."
He slid the scroll forward. Luwin leaned over it, his eyes darting rapidly as he translated the old Valyrian-derived script.
Jinx continued, voice calm and dangerously rational:
"Herein shall it be known that the Lords of the North, sworn to the Old Gods and their customs, shall retain the rights of tradition pertaining to their faith and way of rule. The Crown shall not interfere, lest the pact be broken."
"Aegon knew better than to dictate to people whose gods do not kneel," Jinx said. "And that clause—vague though it is—means your ancestors were free to keep their ancestral traditions. Including one… long buried."
He reached again into his cloak.
This time, he brought out a tome—a heavy thing bound in cracked black leather, sealed with old iron. Neither Eddard nor Luwin had seen him carry it in.
He opened it with reverence, the smell of ancient vellum and blood ink wafting into the room.
Jinx flipped through the tome with unnerving speed. Then stopped. Placed a gloved hand on a page.
Read aloud.
"In the time of Theon Stark, the Hungry Wolf, it was declared lawful that captives taken during raids upon the far lands be bound to the victors for a span, their service a prize of might. Those who served well could, by blood or deed, earn passage into the household of their master."
He looked up. Silent. Letting the weight of it settle.
Eddard's mouth opened slightly. His mind reeled.
"That was… nearly a thousand years ago," Luwin whispered.
"And not a single Stark since then revoked it," Jinx said smoothly. "It wasn't outlawed. It was simply… forgotten. Or worse, buried. Likely by some naive fool who decided that such methods were 'unethical' and spread that belief like a sickness."
Jinx's voice hardened.
"And while that fool and his kin lived nobly and died poor, the rest of Westeros clawed and butchered and schemed their way into power."
He sat back, steepling his fingers.
"Kingdoms survive by using what others discard. Not all people are equal. Some are… expendable. That's the truth of the world. The lie is pretending it isn't."
Eddard stood frozen. His hands clenched at his sides.
"You speak of enslaving men and women like cattle," he said, voice quiet with fury. "And you do it so easily. So coldly."
"They would not be slaves forever," Jinx countered. "I do have a plan. A path to freedom. Earned, not gifted. That's more than most kingdoms offer."
"What path?" Eddard spat.
Jinx waved a hand. "It's still being built. It will take time. And philosophy. And infrastructure. But in time, it will work. Because unlike your maesters and lords, I understand systems."
Silence.
Luwin spoke cautiously.
"And… what would we even use these captives for?"
Jinx's tone was indifferent.
"Construction. Farming. Industry. Teaching your sons to fight. Laying the groundwork for a new North. You need soldiers, builders, road-makers, keepers of fire, flesh, and steel. The world is cruel. So become crueler, or be buried by it."
Eddard sat down again. He looked as if someone had cut into his very soul.
His knuckles were white as snow.
"I swore to protect my people…" he murmured.
"And I'm giving you the means to do so," Jinx said, then leaned forward. "And more."
The words hung between them like frost-laced daggers.
But Jinx was not finished.
"That reminds me," he said, tone shifting. "You need to send word to the Manderlys. They are to begin construction of a fleet. Tell your vassals to ready their soldiers. Drill. Prepare."
Luwin blinked. "A fleet?"
Eddard's eyes narrowed.
"Why?"
Jinx sat back again, voice unreadable beneath the modulator of his mask.
"In six months' time… something is going to happen."
"What kind of something?" Luwin asked sharply.
"I can't say. It would spoil the… surprise," Jinx said smoothly. "But what I can say is this: if you're unprepared, the North will fall behind. Again."
Eddard glared at him. "You expect me to send orders to raise levies and build ships on your word alone?"
"No," Jinx said. "I expect you to do it because you feel it. Because the Force is already whispering in your bones. I've seen the future, Stark. You must be ready."
Luwin looked to Eddard. "It will take time. Months, even. But I can begin sending the ravens today."
Eddard stood again, torn between skepticism and the deep gnawing sensation that Jinx's prophecy was not empty madness—but a storm on the horizon.
"Do it," he said.
And the future of the North began to shift.
Two Days Later – The Forgotten Valley
The wind whispered through the crooked pines lining the narrow path, carrying with it the scent of old stone, cold moss, and half-frozen earth. Snow crunched underfoot as Eddard, Maester Luwin, Arya, and Jinx trudged up the slope toward the long-abandoned manor that sat nestled like a ghost in the valley's embrace.
The manor was a forgotten relic—built in the reign of King Jaehaerys I Targaryen, back when the realm still remembered the North's importance in holding back the wilds beyond the Wall. Supposedly meant as a waystation for the Night's Watch, it had been left to rot. Harsh winters, endless wildling raids, and neglect had claimed it over the generations. Yet here it stood—gray, weather-beaten, and defiant.
Vines clawed up the stone walls, windows were shattered or boarded shut, and parts of the upper tower had crumbled from frostbite. But the foundation remained strong, and the valley itself was a natural fortress—surrounded by high ridges on three sides, with only a narrow pass threading its way into the world beyond.
Jinx stood at the manor's broken threshold, arms crossed behind his back. His mask glinted softly beneath his cloak as he slowly looked over the structure with eyes far sharper than those of any Northman.
"A single way in," he said after a moment. "Elevation on all sides. Natural walls. The soil is rich, cold, and undisturbed. This is where the brewery shall be built."
Eddard raised a brow, stepping up beside him. "You're certain?"
Jinx nodded once. "The rare ingredients needed for the mid- and high-grade spirits grow within these woods. The Royal Wolfblood and the Glass of Winter still need their sacred groves in Winterfell—but for the others, this is ideal. Secluded. Hard to reach. Easily fortified."
Maester Luwin, brushing snow off an old bench near the entryway, added thoughtfully, "We'd have to reconstruct much of the manor, reinforce the cellar levels, clear the debris… but yes, the structure is sound. And this valley… I don't think anyone's passed through here in decades."
"But it would need guards," Eddard said, walking toward a ruined balcony and glancing out over the woods. "More than I can afford to spare. Not without weakening Winterfell or the nearby forts. I can send a few men, but it wouldn't be enough to fully secure the operation."
Jinx said nothing for a moment. His gaze lingered on Arya, who was standing on a rise just ahead, her face turned skyward. Her cheeks were red from the cold, her eyes wide as she took in the snow-draped trees and the distant mist that hugged the cliffs like a slumbering beast.
Then, he asked—calm and direct, "What would you suggest, Arya?"
She blinked, caught off guard. "Me?"
Jinx nodded. "Yes. If we don't have enough guards to spare, how do we solve the problem?"
Arya looked between him, her father, and Maester Luwin, nervous but intrigued. She scrunched her nose, thinking.
"Maybe… um… maybe we train guards? Ones just for the brewery?" Her tone rose like a question, unsure if the answer was too obvious.
Jinx chuckled softly behind his mask. "Correct."
He stepped forward and gently patted her head, ruffling her hair in a way that made Arya beam with pride.
Eddard, standing just a few steps behind, felt a sharp but inexplicable pang in his chest. It was subtle, buried deep beneath years of emotional restraint and lordly composure—but it was there. A flicker of jealousy. A part of him recoiled at the idea of Arya being praised—fathered—by another man, even if only momentarily. Even if that man was helping them. Even if he was the key to the North's future.
He kept the feeling buried. Like everything else.
But Jinx… noticed.
He didn't comment. Didn't smirk. Didn't gloat.
But he filed it away—a small sliver of emotional leverage tucked safely for later use.
Jinx turned back to the manor and spoke as if nothing had happened.
"We'll create a new order of guards," he said. "Ones trained from the start for one purpose: to protect this site. They will not serve Winterfell directly. They will not march to war unless absolutely necessary. Their loyalty will be to this land, this operation, and the survival of the knowledge it preserves."
He looked at Eddard.
"I'll train them. Personally. They don't need to be elite warriors. They just need discipline, loyalty, and an understanding of why this place matters."
Luwin adjusted his spectacles. "And where would you find these recruits? We can't just pull them from the air."
Jinx turned toward the treeline, his voice smooth. "From the smallfolk. Veterans. Orphans. Bastards. Those the world has forgotten but who still breathe. Give them purpose, and they will protect it as if it were their own."
Eddard nodded, slower this time. The strategy was sound. The emotions still lingered… but the logic was undeniable.
"This manor," he said, looking around at its ghostly walls, "will be reborn."
"And the North," Jinx replied, "will rise with it."
The sun had begun to dip behind the snow-laced peaks by the time they finished their circuit of the old manor. Jinx stood atop a cracked stone outcrop near the entryway, his cloak billowing gently in the rising evening wind. Arya mounted her pony nearby, still grinning to herself at having answered Jinx correctly. Maester Luwin adjusted his heavy riding furs while murmuring to himself about restoration costs. Eddard gave the manor one last, thoughtful glance before turning to mount his horse.
But before anyone could ride, Jinx raised a hand.
"Hold."
His voice was calm, but there was a note in it—final, commanding. The kind that made people obey before they even realized it.
Eddard paused with one foot in the stirrup. "What is it?"
Jinx turned to face them fully, his mask catching the fading sunlight. "Before we return, we'll need the fastest ravens Winterfell possesses."
Eddard furrowed his brow. "Ravens? For what purpose?"
"We're sending out two notices," Jinx said, stepping down from the stone and pulling a small, folded scroll from his belt. "The first is a call for labor—anyone able and willing to work, regardless of status or skill. Peasants, craftsmen, outlaws seeking redemption—it doesn't matter. If they can lift, build, dig, or follow instruction, we need them."
"And the second?" asked Maester Luwin, concern creasing his forehead.
Jinx's voice became quieter—but heavier, like iron sliding into a sheath.
"A call for training. For any who wish to become more. This one is not just for those of age. It's for the young as well."
Eddard narrowed his eyes. "You want to train children?"
Jinx met his gaze evenly. "No. I want to mold them. Shape them early. Most of the worlds greatest warriors began their path before they could swing a sword. You want this North to rise above what it's always been? Then we start where it matters—young minds, unclouded by fear or tradition."
"That still doesn't explain why," Eddard said, arms crossed. "What exactly are you trying to build?"
Jinx tilted his head slightly, his tone still eerily composed. "Three groups. First, a dedicated guard for the brewery—those will be trained in discipline, survival, and defense. Second, a future generation of brewers, glassblowers, and craftsmen. Skills that must be passed on. Apprenticeships starting early will keep the knowledge alive."
"And the third?" Luwin asked slowly, though he already dreaded the answer.
Jinx let the silence linger a moment, then said it:
"A special force. Elite soldiers. Loyal to no banner but House Stark—and me."
Arya's head snapped toward him. Eddard went still.
"They will answer only to you and me," Jinx continued. "Their purpose is not to hold castles or march in standard battle lines. They will act as your blade in the dark. Your hammer in times of chaos. When something needs doing—without politics, without delay—they will do it."
Eddard's grip on the reins tightened. "You would make them assassins?"
"I would make them weapons," Jinx corrected. "But what kind of weapon depends on how you wield it."
Luwin looked between the two men, concern obvious in his eyes. "And what of the other lords? They'll see this as you building a private army. Secret soldiers answerable to no one? They will whisper of treason."
Jinx shrugged. "They can whisper all they want. By the time they understand the value of what's being forged, they'll either beg to join it… or be too far behind to matter."
Eddard stared at Jinx for a long moment, his mind a storm of hesitation. "This… this isn't how the North does things."
Jinx leaned in slightly, eyes hidden but presence unshakable. "And yet the old ways have led to a stagnation. You rule over land, not over destiny. I intend to give you both."
The wind howled briefly through the trees, like the cry of a direwolf echoing through ancient stone.
Finally, Eddard mounted his horse fully. "I'll allow the ravens to be sent. The hiring notice, the training call. But I want full oversight of this force you're building."
Jinx smirked beneath the mask. "Of course, Lord Stark. You're the root of this tree, remember? I'm just ensuring it grows."
Arya looked between them, not fully understanding—but knowing something important had just been decided.
As they rode back through the snow-draped pass, the forgotten manor behind them, the first seeds of revolution had been sown. Not one of rebellion or fire, but of structure, secrecy… and shadow.
Two Days Later – The North Stirs
Ravens took wing under an overcast sky.
From the maester's rookery atop Winterfell's tallest tower, a dozen of the fastest, strongest birds flew in all directions—across snow-laced hills and over frozen rivers. Their black wings beat like war drums over the White Knife, the barrow-fields, and the Frostfang foothills. Some bore messages with the Stark sigil stamped in black wax. Others carried sealed scrolls bound in thread colored a deep violet—the mark of Jinx's own authority.
From Bear Island to White Harbor, from Last Hearth to Deepwood Motte, the North received a summons the likes of which hadn't been seen in living memory.
The first scroll read:
"To all men and women of strength, wit, and will:
House Stark calls for workers and artisans, free folk and bonded, farmers, miners, brewers, and builders. Those who answer this call shall find work, shelter, and food through the winter. Opportunity will be given. Coin will be paid. Purpose shall be found."
— Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell
Endorsed and empowered by the Will of the North and its Root.
The second scroll was shorter, but carried more weight for those who could read between the lines:
"Training is offered. From the age of ten to the age of forty, if you are willing to sweat, bleed, and serve a greater cause, come to Winterfell. Loyalty will be tested. Strength will be forged. Secrets will be kept. Glory may be earned."
Wintertown – Three Days Later
Snow blanketed the stone lanes of Wintertown. The village had begun to hum with a cautious energy not felt since Robert's Rebellion. Fires burned hotter. Blacksmiths worked longer. Stables filled quickly with horses from distant lands. The taverns were busier. But the faces were not that of the usual Wintertown folk.
They were new.
Riders from Karhold, trappers from the Frostfangs, long-bearded smiths from White Harbor. A boy barely ten-and-four with wolf pelts draped over his shoulders. A mother and her son who had walked from Barrowton with nothing but a bag of oats and stubbornness. Two Myrish refugees who'd taken passage north from Gulltown after hearing a whisper of work too cold for southern hands.
There were dozens… then hundreds.
Some wore patched cloaks. Others bore sigils of minor houses. Many had no banners at all—just calloused hands and hungry eyes.
Jinx watched from the old stone watchtower repurposed as a recruitment station. His arms crossed, his mask unreadable, but his senses alert—measuring the strength in every gait, the steel behind every stare.
Eddard and Maester Luwin stood behind him, stunned by the turnout.
"This is… more than I expected," Eddard murmured.
Maester Luwin nodded in agreement. "You may have awakened something, my lord. Or perhaps… he has."
Jinx didn't look away from the growing crowd.
"I offered purpose," he said flatly. "And this land has been starving for it."
He turned to one of the aides, a young steward named Halmar.
"Divide them. Three lines—laborers, apprentices, and those seeking combat training. I want the children evaluated first. Mind, not body. If they cannot follow instructions, they're not ready. And make sure no one leaves without registering their origin, skill, and loyalty."
Halmar nodded and rushed off.
Eddard glanced at Jinx. "And the ones who came just to eat? The thieves and the desperate?"
"They'll be fed," Jinx replied. "And tested. Hunger is not a weakness. But failure to serve the cause is. Those who can't find a place will be dismissed. Those who lie will be dealt with."
Luwin winced slightly at the implication.
Eddard folded his arms. "And who decides that?"
Jinx turned to him slowly. "You, of course, Lord Stark. And me. The rest will follow your example—or break trying."
A Voice in the Crowd
At the base of the tower, Arya ducked under a merchant cart to get a better view of the forming lines. She saw boys her age standing tall with wooden sticks, trying to look like warriors. She saw girls in fur aprons eagerly pointing out their weaving and leatherwork. She saw men with scars and women with frostbitten fingers, their eyes quietly daring Winterfell to test their worth.
And Arya couldn't stop smiling.
This was change. Real change. Not whispers in the godswood or lessons in the solar.
And above it all—Jinx stood like a phantom general, silent and commanding.
She wasn't just watching history.
She was going to be part of it.