The godswood was hushed, its ancient branches swaying softly in the faint breeze, the red leaves of the heart tree watching as though the old gods themselves bore witness to what unfolded beneath their boughs. Jinx lay reclined at the base of the carved weirwood, arms folded loosely, his mask angled just so that the eerie carved grin caught the light of the morning sun.
Before him, Eddard Stark knelt in meditation. His broad shoulders were stiff at first, the weight of command and worry forever set into his frame, but under Jinx's instruction his breathing had steadied. The man of ice and honor was learning, slowly, to turn his thoughts inward, to tame the wolf blood that had always slept restlessly beneath his ribs.
Ten paces away, Arya, Jon, and Robb pressed their small bodies against the cold earth, grunting through their push-ups. Arya's thin arms trembled with effort but her jaw was set, lips peeled back in stubborn determination. Jon's dark hair clung with sweat to his brow, every repetition a silent vow that he would not be found wanting beside his lord's trueborn son. Robb's face was flushed scarlet, his breaths ragged, yet still he forced himself on, competing with no one but his own pride.
They had already passed their two hundredth push-up—an impossible number for children their age. Their limbs shook, backs bowed, but fear and anger drove them forward. Each time one began to falter, a crackling whip of violet-tinged lightning lanced across the ground nearby, the scent of ozone sharp in the air. It was not meant to kill, nor truly harm, but to sting, to scare, to remind them that discipline was not born of comfort.
"Two hundred and thirty…" Arya hissed between gritted teeth, eyes blazing as she forced herself lower to the dirt. "Two hundred and thirty-one…"
Jinx tilted his head, his voice echoing smooth and measured from behind the mask.
"Fear is a leash. Anger is a chain. I will break you of them both—or sharpen them into blades if need be. But weakness? Weakness is death."
He let the silence hang for a moment before adding, more softly, "And I will not see the wolves of the North die like sheep."
He flicked his fingers. Another spark of lightning snapped across the ground, too close to Robb's hand, and the boy flinched before catching himself and driving down into another push-up. Jinx smirked faintly beneath the mask.
He had gone easier on the boys—especially Robb, who he did not intend to forge fully into the same path of shadows and fire he had marked for Arya. Jon he tested harder, because Jon hungered for belonging, for worth, and Jinx could sense that hunger was both a strength and a danger. But Arya… Arya was different. She did not fear the storm. She wanted to become it.
Jinx's gaze slid back to Eddard, who was still in meditation, his features calm but taut with the effort of self-restraint. The Stark lord's path was not that of the children. For him, Jinx had mapped another destiny: not Sith, not Jedi, but something harder—a balance, a wolf who could accept his blood, his grief, his rage, without drowning in it.
That was why Jinx pressed him harder in meditation, forcing him to confront memories he had long buried: Brandon screaming, Lyanna fading, Ashara gone in a flash of impossible beauty. Jinx knew the wolf blood slept in him, and it would be tested soon.
By Jinx's reckoning, war was not far. If his knowledge of time and history still aligned, then within three months the North would be called to arms in what these men would know as the Greyjoy Rebellion. For Stark and child alike, it would be their crucible.
Jinx let out a low breath, closing his eyes as the wind rustled through the godswood. Beneath the heart tree, the training continued—sweat, struggle, and sparks of lightning snapping across the sacred earth, the first bricks laid in a foundation that would reshape not only a family, but the fate of the realm.
(timeskip)
The godswood was quiet save for the rhythmic grunts of three children forcing out their last push-ups. Jinx leaned lazily against the weirwood, arms folded, while Eddard remained seated cross-legged in his meditation. The lesson had pressed hard on them all, but before any could collapse into rest, the crunch of boots on frostbitten leaves broke the stillness.
Ser Rodrik Cassel appeared, his whiskered face flushed from exertion and his cloak still dusted with cold air. He gave a small bow to Eddard before turning to Jinx, the faintest crease of discomfort on his brow—as though he still wasn't sure if bowing to the masked stranger was expected.
"My lord," Rodrik said, voice firm but hurried, "the… stuff has arrived. Just as you ordered."
The cryptic word was enough. Both Jinx and Eddard rose at once, a spark of anticipation breaking the monotony of training. Eddard's hand clenched briefly at his side, while Jinx tilted his head with the slow delight of a wolf catching the scent of prey.
"Excellent," Jinx murmured, his tone smooth and hungry. "More useful than another two hundred push-ups."
He turned to the three children, who were already dragging themselves upright. "That's all for today. Training is finished."
Arya, her hair plastered to her forehead, nearly leapt with relief. She quickly composed herself, straightening her back to listen, her silver-violet eyes gleaming with the same eagerness that had marked her since the first lesson.
"But remember," Jinx added, his voice suddenly sharp, "tonight, in your chambers. Sit, close your eyes, and breathe. Do your daily meditation before you sleep."
Arya nodded vigorously, as though it were a sacred oath. "Yes, master," she said with such unquestioning enthusiasm that it made Eddard's stomach twist. She scampered off toward the keep, pride bright on her face, leaving her father watching in silence.
Eddard's jaw tightened. A pang of jealousy stung him, sharper than he cared to admit. His daughter obeyed this stranger without question—this masked sorcerer she had known for weeks—when she so often argued and rebelled against him.
Jinx noticed, of course. He always noticed. He stepped closer, his gloved hand settling heavily on Eddard's shoulder.
"If you accepted her for what she is," Jinx said, voice low but cutting, "instead of listening to your wife on matters she does not and will not understand, then the little wolf would look to you with the same fire she shows me."
Eddard turned sharply, anger flashing in his grey eyes. But Jinx's mask tilted ever so slightly, that damned eternal grin unflinching, and Eddard could not find words sharp enough to cut the truth from the barb.
Jinx's voice softened—not with kindness, but with the patience of a tutor who had played this game many times. "You Starks had warrior women once. Great ones. You've let your southern lady's influence bury those stories, but they still whisper in the blood. Perhaps you ought to read of them again. You'll see why Arya's spirit cannot and should not be smothered into silks and sewing needles."
Eddard said nothing. He only clenched his jaw tighter, weighing pride against reason. But he made a note—a mental mark scratched into stone—that he would find those names again. Skagos, Bear Island, the women who fought like wolves. He would not admit Jinx was right, not aloud. But he felt it all the same.
And Jinx, beneath the mask, smirked. He could feel the thought sparking, the beginning of change.
The godswood training ended with Arya scampering off, and Eddard still brooding on Jinx's words, when Ser Rodrik cleared his throat again.
"It waits in the cellar of the east tower," Rodrik said with a knowing look. "The… prototype. As you commanded."
At once, both Jinx and Eddard's eyes sharpened. The long-awaited brew. The first attempt at the Wolfblood Vodka.
They left the godswood quickly, Jory trailing behind, until they reached the cold stone chamber that had been given over for brewing. A heavy oak cask sat in the center, carved with the direwolf of House Stark, its tap glinting in the torchlight.
Jinx approached first. His mask tilted, and he ran a gloved hand over the cask, feeling its aura as though he could taste its essence without touching.
"This," he said softly, "isn't finished. Not truly. It needs six more moons to ferment fully. Only then will it reach its true strength." He looked at Eddard then, magenta light flickering faintly in the slit of his mask. "But… it will be enough for Robert. More than enough to satisfy a king who worships strong drink as if it were a god."
Eddard's lips curved into the faintest of smiles. "That much, I can vouch for better than anyone."
Without hesitation, he ordered, "Fetch us cups."
It wasn't long before a servant arrived with four sturdy iron goblets. Jinx waved him away, then reached for the cask's tap. With a smooth pull, he released the flow. Crystal-clear liquid streamed into his cup, catching the firelight with an almost ethereal gleam. Eddard followed, then Rodrik, then Jory.
They raised their cups together. Four men of the North—one masked stranger, one lord, two sworn swords—bound by curiosity and expectation.
They drank.
The reaction was instant.
It was like drinking the very breath of winter itself.
The vodka slid across the tongue with elegance—no harsh bite, no coarse burn. Ghostly notes of pear blossom lingered first, subtle and fleeting, before giving way to the taste of cold mineral water drawn from some untouched spring. A faint whisper of wild mint danced at the edge, fleeting but tantalizing.
The strength came not in fire, but in warmth: a full-bodied heat that spread through their chests like the embrace of a woman, or the comfort of the finest fur blanket before a hearth. Their muscles relaxed; their blood seemed to sing.
And the aftertaste… it was as though they had breathed deep upon a fresh snowfall. That clean, bracing cold that made the lungs ache and the heart pound with life.
Rodrik's whiskers twitched in stunned approval. Jory whistled low under his breath. Even Eddard Stark's stoic mask cracked, a smile tugging unbidden at the corner of his lips.
Jinx lowered his cup with deliberate grace. "Crystal-clear. Elegant. Smooth. And when it finishes aging, it will be unlike anything this world has ever tasted."
He looked to Eddard. "Send this to Robert. Tell him it's only a taste. When the true Wolfblood is ready, he'll have the first cask by his hand. A king's drink, for a king's thirst."
Eddard nodded, already imagining his old friend's face when he took that first sip. For the first time in many years, he thought Robert might be silenced not by anger, nor by grief, but by awe.
The raven tower stank of grain and droppings, the steady flutter of wings echoing in its hollowed height. An apprentice, scarcely more than a boy, busied himself with sweeping feed husks when the air shifted.
A shadow passed overhead.
He looked up, jaw slackening.
A raven—larger than any he had ever seen—swooped through the opening with deliberate grace. Its wings beat the air like a smith's hammer, and its feathers gleamed with an oily, midnight sheen. Strapped to its claw was a small bundle: a parchment sealed in grey wax bearing the direwolf of House Stark. More shocking still, dangling from its harness was a glass vessel.
The boy froze, broom slipping from his fingers.
The bottle was unlike anything in the Citadel's stores. It gleamed with such clarity that he thought, for a moment, it was carved from ice rather than blown glass. Within swirled a liquid so crystal-pure it caught and bent the morning light like a prism. The bottle itself had been crafted with care—on one side, the snarling wolf's head of House Stark, and on the other, a proud stag rearing. The work of a master craftsman.
Glass of this quality… was a treasure in itself. But with Stark's seal upon it, the boy dared not linger. He remembered well the King's decree: all ravens from Winterfell were to be brought directly to His Grace, without delay, without Pycelle's meddling hands.
Clutching the letter and its vessel as though they might vanish, the boy darted from the tower. His sandals slapped against the stones as he hurried through the corridors, heart hammering. The guards at the throne room doors frowned as he stumbled up, but when they saw the seal, they pushed the doors wide.
Inside, Robert Baratheon was enduring one of his rare audiences, slouched on the Iron Throne like a weary bear in a cage. Courtiers prattled, supplicants whined, and he scowled through it all.
The boy dropped to one knee.
"A raven from Winterfell, Your Grace," he stammered, holding out the letter and its strange glass vessel.
The court erupted into murmurs at the sight of the bottle. Even in King's Landing, where Myrish glass was treasured, no one had ever seen glass like this—clearer than water, etched with such symbols. Pycelle craned his neck, beady eyes alight with avarice. Cersei leaned forward, lips curling faintly in disdain at the northern wolf's sigil, but her gaze lingered on the craftsmanship all the same.
Robert's eyes, however, fixed on the bottle with hungry fascination. He shoved aside the petitioner droning before him and bellowed for silence.
"Bring it here, boy."
The apprentice approached, hands trembling as he presented both bottle and parchment to the King of the Seven Kingdoms.
Robert's thick fingers closed around the glass, marveling at the weight, the craftsmanship. For the first time all day, his scowl gave way to boyish wonder.
"What in the seven bloody hells is this?" he muttered, voice booming across the hall.
And as he broke the seal on Stark's letter, the throne room waited—breath held—for what revelation Winterfell had seen fit to send south.
The Iron Throne chamber was utterly silent as Robert broke Stark's seal. He squinted down at the parchment, lips moving as he read aloud, his voice booming through the vaulted hall.
"To His Grace Robert Baratheon, King of the Seven Kingdoms, Lord of the Seven Crowns, Warden of the Realm. From Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North, and your sworn brother in all but name."
Robert's mouth twitched at the formality, but he read on.
"I pray this letter finds you in good health. It has been long since we last spoke, and longer still since we shared the same hearth. I will not weary you with petty reports, but know that the North thrives. Winterfell has grown stronger of late. We have learned new crafts—glass among them, clearer and finer than any I have ever seen. Our smiths now shape more and better steel for arms, though I will not bore you with their secrets."
A murmur rippled through the court. Even Pycelle leaned forward, blinking owlishly. Glass? Better steel? These were not idle boasts.
Robert paused, rubbing his beard. His voice softened as he continued.
"I would tell you also of a strange fortune: in these last months, I have found guidance where I thought none left. You know better than most what I lost in the Rebellion—my father, my brother, my sister… and how I came away with nothing save duties and a wife I did not choose. I bore it all because I must, but I did not heal. Of late, however, I have begun to mend what I thought was broken forever. The hand that aids me is an unlikely one, but it has helped me look beyond grief and towards the North's future. For that, I am grateful."
Robert stopped. For a long moment, he stared at the words, his great chest rising and falling.
"Gods," he muttered, voice thick. "Ned. You bloody wolf… he never once spoke of it. Never once let it slip. All this time, carrying that weight."
At Robert's side, Jon Arryn's eyes were bright. The old falcon lord gave a slow nod, voice low and solemn. "He was dealt the cruelest hand of us all. To hear him say he has found a measure of peace gladdens my heart more than I can say."
Robert cleared his throat and read on, though now his voice was softer, almost reverent.
"I have also sent with this letter a token. A new spirit, born of the North, crafted from our fruit and water, from soil and ice that know only winter. It is called Wolfblood. It is not yet finished—time will perfect it—but it seemed right that the first of it be sent to you. For you are my oldest friend, my shield-brother, and my true brother still, though no blood binds us. May it warm you in times of cold, as your friendship has always warmed me."
When Robert finished, he lowered the letter slowly, blinking hard. The hall was silent save for the faint shifting of courtiers.
Then, with a bark of laughter that cracked like thunder, Robert stood, raising the bottle high.
"Seven hells! That dour wolf… hiding poetry in him all these years! Wolfblood, he calls it—by the gods, I'll drink every drop!"
Jon Arryn smiled faintly, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. "He chose well to send it to you first, Robert. There's no truer bond than the one you two share."
Robert grinned, though his eyes were suspiciously bright. He gestured for a servant to fetch cups.
"To Ned Stark!" he roared. "The only man in the realm I'll trust to speak plain to me, and the only one I'd call brother."
The courtiers echoed the cheer, though most still whispered, trading worried glances about this "stranger" in the North who had given Stark both glass and peace.
But in that moment, for Robert and Jon, none of that mattered.
For the first time in years, Eddard Stark sounded… whole.
The cork gave a low pop, and at once the throne room was filled with a cold, crystalline fragrance—pear blossoms after frost, snowmelt on stone, a breath of pine carried by winter wind. The courtiers gasped as one, noses twitching.
Robert grinned like a boy again, though his eyes gleamed with something close to reverence. He poured no cup, but instead raised the bottle itself.
"To the North!" he bellowed. "To my brother Ned!"
And then he drank.
It was not a king's sip. He tipped the bottle back, swallowing deep. But the instant the spirit hit his tongue, Robert Baratheon—slayer of Rhaegar Targaryen, breaker of rebellion—stumbled. The taste struck like a hammer and a kiss at once: smooth, impossibly smooth, yet alive with fire that filled his chest like a winter hearth. His eyes watered. His face flushed. And with a roar of laughter that turned into a cough, the King staggered backward and—before anyone could believe it—toppled onto the steps of the Iron Throne.
The great hall erupted in panic. Courtiers shrieked. Guards rushed forward. Even Cersei half-rose, her face pale with fury and fear.
Only three men moved without hesitation: Jon Arryn, Renly, and Stannis.
Jon, the old falcon, hurried to Robert's side, ignoring the chaos. "Robert!" he barked, his voice sharp with fatherly alarm. "Are you hurt? Gods, speak!"
But Robert only wheezed… then threw back his head and laughed so loud the walls shook. "By all the gods old and new—ha!—that wolf has done it! Stronger than mead, smoother than summerwine, hotter than dragon's breath itself!" He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and, still grinning, thrust the bottle at Jon Arryn. "Taste it, old friend. Taste the North itself!"
Jon hesitated, pale with worry. But under Robert's insistent gaze, he accepted. He raised it, breathed in the impossible fragrance, and drank.
The Regent of the Realm swayed. His eyes went wide as though he beheld some long-forgotten vision. The taste spread like living snow in his veins—sharp, pure, utterly unlike any wine or spirit of the South. His knees weakened, and for a terrible instant, the Hand of the King nearly crumpled to the floor.
Renly and Stannis caught him by the arms, steadying him. Both brothers, though stern-faced, could not hide their own astonishment. Their noses had caught the spirit's bouquet as they pulled him upright.
Renly blinked, lips twitching into a rare smile. "Seven hells… it smells like winter dressed in finery."
Even Stannis, dour and unmoved by wine or song, inhaled once more, his eyes narrowing. "It is… remarkable." He admitted no more, but the awe in his voice was plain.
Jon found his footing again, breath ragged, and managed a weak laugh. "Ned Stark… has brought us something the world has never seen."
Robert thumped him on the back with a laugh that made courtiers flinch. "Aye! Wolfblood! By the gods, I'd trade half my crown for a cellar of it!"
He raised the bottle high once more, fire in his eyes. "Let it be known across the realm: Eddard Stark is no dull wolf. He is the truest friend a king could have… and his North shall rise brighter than it has in a thousand years!"
The hall echoed with cheers, though under the noise, whispers slithered like snakes. Some saw profit. Some smelled danger. And more than a few wondered what sort of man—what sort of sorcery—had given the North such gifts.
When the cheers in the throne room finally died down, Cersei Lannister remained seated upon her cushioned bench, her green eyes fixed not on her jubilant husband, nor on the Hand barely steadying himself after that otherworldly drink, but upon the gleaming wolf-headed bottle that still rested in Robert's hand.
The scent of it still lingered faintly in the air—sweet, sharp, unnervingly clean. A northern spirit, Ned Stark's gift, Robert had called it. But no northern hand had ever crafted glass that pure. No northern still had ever yielded such perfection. Cersei knew the arts of refinement belonged to the Free Cities and the Reach, not to wolves in their frozen kennels.
And yet… here it was.
Her thoughts moved quickly. The court had seen Robert stumble like a drunkard struck by his own wine. They had seen Jon Arryn himself nearly felled by a single draught. And still, instead of shame, the King bellowed his love for the North even louder, lifting Ned Stark to the heavens before half the realm.
That troubled her most of all.
For years, she had counted on Robert's indifference toward his dour Warden of the North. It was the foundation of her quiet grip on him, the silent space in which her House moved unchallenged. But this—this "gift"—had lit some ember of loyalty and memory in Robert's heart, and Cersei could already see where it might lead: more visits, more councils, perhaps even more Starks wandering south with their northern bluntness and their quiet, dangerous honor.
And behind it all… this shadow, this "stranger" in Winterfell the whispers named. A man with sorcery older than Valyria, some claimed. A teacher, a corrupter, a conjurer of miracles.
Cersei's lips curled faintly, the closest she came to betraying her unease. "A better sorcerer than the Valyrians," the rumors said. That was not a man to ignore. That was a man to destroy—or bend to her will before others could.
Let Robert drink himself blind. Let Jon Arryn and his ilk dream of noble wolves and brotherhood. Cersei Lannister would remember the truth: every gift had a price. And if Ned Stark had found some new magician in the snow to swell his strength, then the Lannisters would need sharper claws and quicker teeth.
In the quiet of her chambers that evening, as she held her golden cup of Arbor red, Cersei whispered to herself with cold certainty:
"If this Jinx truly has such power, then he must either serve us… or be silenced."
Later that evening, as the echo of celebration still hummed faintly through the Red Keep, two shadows lingered in the council chamber long after the others had gone.
Varys the Spider stood by the window, pale hands folded in his sleeves, his eyes fixed upon the night beyond the battlements. Littlefinger lounged in a carved chair, idly stroking the point of his trimmed beard, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"It seems," Varys murmured, "that Lord Stark's house is not so barren as some believed. New wealth, new wonders… and now, perhaps, new power."
Baelish gave a sharp laugh. "Power? Please. It's a jug of northern swill dressed up in glass and wolf's heads. A king's cup, nothing more."
Varys turned, the faintest of smiles tugging at his lips. "And yet it nearly knocked the King from his throne. And made our most steadfast Hand nearly collapse at his first taste. For all your jests, Petyr, that… is not nothing."
Littlefinger shrugged. "Strong drink, a bit of clever showmanship. Men will swoon for less. But the Stark wolf does not conjure such tricks on his own. No… the whispers of this 'Jinx' grow louder. A sorcerer. A teacher. A stranger from nowhere who now whispers in Winterfell's heart."
Varys's voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. "And if even half of what my little birds report is true, he is shaping the Starks into something new. Children trained in arts older than Oldtown. A lord learning to wield his grief as weapon, not wound. That, Lord Baelish, could prove… dangerous."
Petyr's eyes glittered with amusement. "Dangerous? Or profitable? Glass as clear as crystal, spirits fit to humble kings… and all held close to Stark hands. If this Jinx teaches wolves to bare sharper fangs, then perhaps we need only learn where to stand when they hunt. There is always coin to be made, if one knows how to bleed the market."
Varys sighed, almost mournfully. "You see only coin. I see balance shifting. If the North becomes strong—truly strong—the game tilts. The lions will roar, the stag will bellow, but the wolf… the wolf may bite."
Baelish leaned forward, smiling his fox's smile. "Then perhaps, dear Spider, the game is simply more exciting now. Wolves, lions, stags… and somewhere in the dark, a magician's hand. Tell me—" his voice dropped to a conspiratorial murmur, "—will you try to catch this Jinx in your web? Or shall I coax him toward a snare of my own?"
Varys's eyes shone in the candlelight, unreadable. "For now, Petyr… we watch. And we wait. Even spiders do not rush into a wolf's den."