Oberyn leaned back in his chair, stretching like a cat that had just found a new hunt to stalk. "Well, brother… if this shadow you speak of is so large, perhaps I should go stand in it myself."
Doran's eyes snapped to him. "You would go north?"
"Why not?" Oberyn's smile was slow, deliberate. "I tire of sun and sand now and then. And I have not seen snow in… gods, I can't remember. Besides—" he tapped the parchment with one finger "—this stranger intrigues me. If he is half as clever as your spies whisper, I want to meet him."
Doran studied him for a long, silent moment. "You would not go as you usually do, Oberyn."
That earned a laugh. "And how do I usually go?"
"Like a spear in a tavern brawl — loud, impatient, dangerous, and convinced everyone should know your name before you've even sat down."
Oberyn's grin didn't falter. "It's served me well enough."
"Not with this man," Doran said firmly, his voice low but carrying the weight of command. "From the reports… he is no lordling to be baited into a duel or flattered into complacency. He wields magic — not the hedge-witch tricks we hear of in whispers — but power. Real power. The kind the maesters refuse to write about. Better, they say, than any living sorcerer. And if the rumor is true…"
Oberyn raised a brow, intrigued. "Yes?"
"…he is a better sorcerer than the Valyrians were in their prime."
That silenced Oberyn for a heartbeat. Even he knew what that meant.
"I see why you say my usual charm might not… fly," he admitted at last. Then the glint returned to his eyes. "But charm can be sharpened into something quieter, more deliberate. I can play the diplomat if I must."
"You must," Doran said. "If you go north, you go not as the Red Viper seeking prey, but as my eyes and ears. Learn who he is. Learn what he wants. And most of all, learn what hold he has over House Stark — strong enough to bridge a six-thousand-year rift."
Oberyn smirked. "And if I like him?"
Doran's gaze hardened. "Then you will like him… carefully."
The morning air in Sunspear was thick with salt and heat, but Oberyn Martell's chambers were a storm of movement. Servants flitted about packing thick furs and wool-lined boots — absurd things for a Dornishman to own, let alone wear — into travel chests.
Ellaria Sand stood by the balcony, watching him move from one table to another, inspecting a small rack of polished spearheads as if he were choosing wine for supper. "You're truly going through with this madness," she said flatly.
"It is not madness, my sweet," Oberyn replied without looking up. "It is curiosity. And when I am curious, I go and see for myself."
"You're curious about a man in the frozen end of the world who can allegedly break lords to his will," Ellaria countered. "That sort of curiosity tends to get men killed."
He turned then, grinning like a man who'd just been dared. "So you admit he's interesting."
Ellaria's lips pressed into a line. "Promise me something, Oberyn."
"What's that?"
"That you come back to me with all your limbs… and none of them frozen black."
He stepped close, cupping her face in his hands. "I will return to you," he said softly, "with stories even the singers will be too afraid to sing."
From the doorway, a dry voice cut in. "Do these stories involve frostbite?"
Oberyn turned to find Nymeria Sand leaning casually against the frame, clad in riding leathers, her bow slung over one shoulder. "I'm coming," she said simply.
Behind her, Sarella appeared, scowling like a cat shoved into water. "And so am I, apparently," she muttered. "Though I've yet to be given a convincing reason why I should freeze my arse off for the sake of some northern ghost-lord."
"Because you're my daughters," Oberyn said, picking up a fur-lined cloak and tossing it over Nymeria's arm. "And because I want you to see something different. The North will test you in ways Dorne never could."
Sarella crossed her arms. "Dorne already tests me enough."
Ellaria arched a brow. "Think of it as an education, little viper. Books can only teach you so much — sometimes you have to feel the wind that wants to cut you to pieces to understand the people who live in it."
Nymeria smirked. "Besides, you've been talking for years about seeing the world. The North is part of it."
Sarella sighed, clearly outnumbered, but muttered, "If I die of cold, I'm haunting all of you."
By midmorning, the small party was ready — Oberyn, Nymeria, and Sarella mounted on tall desert coursers, with a lean escort of six of Oberyn's most trusted men. No banners flew; Doran's orders were clear — this was not to be an announcement, but an arrival under the radar.
As they rode out through Sunspear's gates, Ellaria stood on the high balcony, watching until the desert swallowed them.
The Red Viper didn't look back — but his mind was already far ahead, picturing snow and shadows… and the man who could make House Stark break six millennia of silence.
The Red Keep's council chamber was unusually full that morning. Even Robert Baratheon himself had been dragged in by Jon Arryn's unyielding hand, muttering oaths under his breath as he dropped into his seat at the head of the table.
"This had better be worth it, Jon," Robert growled. "If I miss my hunt for this…" His eyes swept across the assembled faces — Varys, Petyr Baelish, Grand Maester Pycelle, Renly, and even Cersei, who sat with a feline smile of curiosity. "Seven hells, even the Queen?"
"I am capable of concern for the realm, Your Grace," Cersei replied sweetly, though the edge in her voice could cut glass.
Jon Arryn did not waste time. "You are here because of the North."
That caught more than one eyebrow. Robert grunted. "What about the North? Ned's running it, isn't he?"
"Yes," Jon said, folding his hands, "and it is changing."
"Changing?" Cersei scoffed. "The North hasn't changed in a thousand years. They still wallow in snow and worship trees. What could possibly—"
"You will hold your tongue, Your Grace," Robert snapped, the crack of his voice silencing her instantly. "You may insult me, but not my friend or his people."
Cersei's eyes hardened, but she leaned back in her chair.
Jon continued, more heavily. "Eddard Stark is… improving the North. Reforming. Building. My reports are… unprecedented. And they are true. Even Varys's little birds sing the same song."
Robert's scowl eased. "Then what's the bloody problem? Ned's finally doing what I've always dreamed for him — making the North stronger. I'd drink to that!"
For a moment, Jon's expression softened, the memory flickering behind his eyes — two foster boys in the Vale, young, proud, inseparable. But he pushed it aside. "The problem is the catalyst for these changes. A man who appeared in Winterfell scarcely a fortnight ago. No name known to us before, but now with the ear of the Warden of the North."
"His name," Varys murmured from the shadows, "is Jinx."
Robert's brows rose. "What kind of name is that?"
"One that may soon be feared," Varys said. "This man wields magic, Your Grace. Not the hedge-witch charms of the woods, nor the red priests' flames. Something else. Something older… sharper. My little birds say he has persuaded Lord Stark to open coffers, spend sums of gold the North rarely parts with. And that he trains the Stark family in his arts."
Pycelle's jowls trembled. "This must be stopped at once, before this… foreign sorcerer poisons Lord Stark's mind further! Magic is a corrupter. It breeds rebellion!"
The council chamber shook with the force of Robert's fist slamming down on the table. "Speak one more word against Ned, Pycelle, and I'll have your tongue torn out and your carcass swinging from the walls!"
Pycelle nearly fell back in his chair, spluttering.
"Your Grace," Varys interjected smoothly, "there is… more."
Robert leaned back, still glowering. "Speak, then."
"My little birds report," Varys continued, "that this Jinx takes particular interest in the young Lady Arya Stark. The reason is… unclear. But from the child's own boasting, there may be others in the Stark bloodline — and perhaps beyond — who can wield this magic. Jinx seems willing to train any he finds… and my whispers suggest his standards are high."
Cersei let out a derisive laugh. "So this is it, then? We are to believe in northern ghost stories because some little girl likes to pretend she is a sorceress?"
Robert raised a hand, silencing her again, though she grit her teeth until her jaw ached. "Varys," he said, his voice quieter now, "you believe this?"
"I do not deal in belief, Your Grace," Varys replied, eyes like still water. "I deal in information. And everything I have gathered tells me this man is very real… and very dangerous, should he choose to be."
The chamber fell into a tense silence, the only sound the distant cry of gulls beyond the Red Keep's windows.
Jon Arryn broke it at last. "The question is not if Jinx exists, or if he is powerful. The question is what his designs are for the North… and whether those designs end at the Neck."
The chamber doors slammed shut behind them, muffling the echoes of bickering lords and the rustle of Cersei's silks as she swept away.
Robert walked ahead, his heavy boots striking the corridor stones, jaw tight. Jon Arryn followed at a measured pace, watching the king's broad back.
When they reached Robert's solar, the king yanked a flagon from the table, poured himself a goblet of wine, and drank deep before speaking.
"So," Robert said, setting the cup down with a dull thud. "You believe this Varys nonsense? That some shadow-eyed sorcerer's teaching Ned's brats tricks from the old tales?"
Jon shut the door behind him. "Varys's nonsense has kept kings alive, Robert. He may twist, but he rarely invents whole cloth. And yes… I believe it."
Robert stared into the fire, expression unreadable. "Arya," he said at last, almost to himself. "That little wolf pup with the wild hair. Gods, I remember her biting at my hand like a wolfhound when I tried to pat her head. Ned's girl through and through."
Jon allowed a small smile. "And if she is learning something rare… something powerful?"
Robert turned, eyes glinting. "That's the question, isn't it? If this Jinx fellow can see that in her, maybe he can see it in others. If the Starks have it…" His voice trailed off, the thought hanging between them.
"You're wondering if your own children might," Jon finished quietly.
Robert didn't deny it. "Seven hells, Jon — imagine it. A son of mine who could swing a sword like I could, but with this… gift on top. Or even Myrcella… if she could wield it. Gods, she'd need it, growing up in this nest of vipers."
Jon's tone sharpened. "Robert, this isn't a tournament prize. Power like that changes the game — for good or ill. And if Varys is right, Jinx chooses who he trains. That means he chooses who he arms with it."
Robert paced, wine forgotten in his hand. "Aye. But if Ned trusts him…" He stopped, frowning. "You saw the way Cersei bristled at the thought. If she's already sharpening her claws over it, maybe I should be the one sending a raven north. Ask Ned outright what this Jinx wants, and if he'd… test my children."
Jon hesitated. "You know what the Queen will say."
Robert barked a laugh, low and humorless. "She'll say no, which is reason enough to say yes. And if this sorcerer is half as good as Varys says… I'll ride north myself if I have to."
Jon studied him, weighing how much of this was kingly calculation and how much was the boy from the Vale dreaming of swords and honor again. "Be careful, Robert. If Jinx's designs are more than they appear, we could be inviting the wolf into the lion's den… or the dragon's."
Robert only grinned, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Let him come. I've never minded a good fight."
The Tower of the Hand — Midnight
The small council chamber was long empty, save for the lingering scent of spiced wine and old parchment. In its shadowed corners, two figures lingered — one cloaked in soft silks, the other in shadows that seemed to cling to him like a second skin.
Varys moved with quiet grace, closing the door with a sound no louder than a sigh. "You stayed behind," he murmured, "which means you're curious."
Littlefinger lounged in one of the high-backed chairs, idly twirling a quill between his fingers. "I'm curious when the realm changes without my hand on the wheel. A man appearing in Winterfell and turning Eddard Stark into a… visionary? Now that's a story worth selling."
Varys smiled, faint but knowing. "If the whispers are true, this Jinx has done more than inspire Lord Stark. He has armed him — and his children — with power."
"Magic," Littlefinger said, the word dripping with skepticism. "The sort of thing we tell to smallfolk on cold nights. You'll forgive me if I doubt."
Varys's eyes gleamed. "And yet… your doubts did not stop you from asking your agents in White Harbor to confirm my little birds' songs."
Littlefinger's smirk deepened. "They confirmed something. Not the details, but enough to know that the North is no longer just snow and stubbornness. Which is… troubling."
Varys tilted his head. "Troubling… or profitable?"
"Both," Baelish replied without hesitation. "If Robert's little burst of interest in this sorcerer leads to his children being trained, then whoever controls Jinx controls the crown's future. If Cersei gets there first… well, we both know what that means."
Varys's voice softened, but it carried an edge. "Control is an illusion, my dear Petyr. I have seen what happens when one tries to hold too tightly to those with true power. They slip through your fingers… or cut them off entirely."
Littlefinger chuckled low in his throat. "Then perhaps the trick isn't to hold him. It's to interest him. To make him think he's choosing you, when in truth you've already chosen him."
"Careful," Varys said, stepping closer until the faint scent of his perfume cut through the musty air. "Men like Jinx… they choose no one. If the tales are even half true, he is not a piece on the board — he is the player."
Petyr leaned back, as if considering a new line of attack on an invisible map. "Then I suppose the question is… what game does he play?"
Varys's smile returned, cold and thin. "One we may not like the rules of."
They left together in silence, each already plotting how to turn this northern shadow into their own advantage — or survive him if they could not.
Two Weeks Later — The Wailing Alps Manor
The brewing hall smelled faintly of pears, frostberries, and cold copper. Steam curled from the great kettles in the center of the room, where newly trained brewers moved with painstaking caution, measuring, pouring, and filtering under the watchful eyes of guards.
Up on a stone balcony overlooking the process, Eddard Stark's jaw was tightening by the minute. The men below worked as if each motion might awaken a dragon. They paused between steps, triple-checked measurements, glanced at the recipe slate as though it were a holy text.
"They're slower than a maester grading a novice's parchment," Eddard muttered, arms crossed.
Beside him, Jinx leaned lazily on the railing, one leg crossed over the other, voice dripping with deliberate calm. "Patience is a virtue, Stark. You can't fault them for moving slow — they know if they ruin a batch, there will be consequences."
Eddard's lips pressed into a thin line. "Perhaps. But—"
"But," Jinx cut in, tapping two gloved fingers against Eddard's forearm, "you're not their monk. You're not their friend. You're their lord. The sooner you make that crystal clear, the better. One day something important will require obedience without hesitation, and the last thing you want is for your people to see you as the 'southern green boy who hasn't seen the world.'"
That last jab earned Jinx a side-eye, but no rebuttal. Eddard sighed, leaning heavier on the stone.
The sound of boots on stone broke the moment. One of House Stark's runners, flushed and winded, strode into the hall and took the stairs two at a time to reach them. He thrust out a sealed letter.
Eddard took it, brow furrowing. "Seal of House Baratheon," he murmured, "or more specifically… Robert."
Jinx's head tilted with catlike curiosity as Eddard broke the wax. The Warden of the North scanned the parchment — and his frown deepened. "It's about you," he said at last. "Robert wants to know who you really are, if you can be trusted… and whether you're brainwashing me."
Jinx's response was an unrestrained laugh, sharp and amused enough to echo in the high rafters. "Brainwashing you? Gods, no. That'd be boring. I like the tit-for-tat game too much."
Eddard shook his head, unsure if that was reassuring or cause for more worry.
Shouts suddenly rose from below — triumphant, not panicked. The brewers were calling out that the mixing was complete. Jinx's eyes lit with an idea. "Well then," they said, straightening, "perhaps the king would enjoy the very first bottle."
They descended to the brewing floor. In the center, the massive vat of Wolfblood Vodka shimmered faintly in the torchlight, still tinted a deep, murky gold. Jinx stepped forward, hovering a gloved hand over the pool. Magenta energy spiraled from their palm like smoke, curling into the liquid. The color bled away until it was crystal clear, refracting the light in sharp, cold glints.
A snap of Jinx's fingers brought a servant running with a polished ram's horn. It was filled carefully, the liquid catching the light like molten ice.
"Out," Jinx ordered lazily. The brewers and guards obeyed instantly, filing out until only Eddard and Jinx remained.
Then, without ceremony, Jinx reached up to their mask. There was a soft hiss as the seals released. The mask came away — and Eddard Stark froze.
Flawless skin, untouched by wind or age. Bright violet eyes that seemed almost unreal. Smooth, silken hair that framed an unnervingly beautiful face. There was an androgynous sharpness there, but no mistaking the delicate features.
"You're a girl," Eddard blurted, utterly blindsided.
Jinx took the horn of vodka, sipping it with slow elegance before flashing him a grin so bright it was almost childlike. "Fuck yea," they said, voice pure and smooth — unfiltered now that the mask was gone. It was, Eddard realized, unfairly beautiful.
Then Jinx shrugged. "Well… sort of. Born a boy. But when I was born, there was… an incident. Left me a woman in every way but breasts — though they make my chest puffy — and I don't have a…" They gestured vaguely downward. "…pussy. Still got my cock. And my bone and muscle density? All male, all stronger than normal."
Eddard could only stare, entirely unprepared for the combination of absolute confidence and blunt anatomical honesty.
Jinx tossed back another sip, clearly enjoying his discomfort. "Now," they said, wiping the rim of the horn with one thumb, "shall we send Robert his drink before he sends you another love letter about my terrible influence?"