Three moons had passed since Jinx began molding Winterfell into something sharper, harder. Now the stillness of preparation was shattered.
The morning had begun like any other—mist rolling low over the battlements, ravens croaking in the godswood—but before long the air thrummed with panic. The yard filled with the clang of iron and the pounding of boots. Guards barked orders. Pages scurried with bundles of mail and sharpened spears. The kennel dogs howled as though they too sensed blood on the wind.
Jinx sat with his back against the heart tree, violet eyes half-lidded, watching the chaos ripple through Winterfell as one might watch ants disturbed from their hill.
It had begun.
Lannisport had burned. Balon Greyjoy had declared himself King of the Isles and the North. Already word spread that the ironborn fleets were raiding unchecked. To the south, the banners of the West had bled, and now the realm demanded the North march.
And at the center of the storm was Eddard Stark.
The Lord of Winterfell stormed across the yard like a blizzard given flesh. His jaw was clenched, his face pale with a fury colder than the snows of the Long Night. Even his bannermen, men hardened by frost and war, shrank from his shadow. Every order cracked from his mouth like a whip:
"Double the watches on the walls. Muster every able-bodied man. Send word to the mountain clans—the ironborn will find no foothold here. Robb, Jon, to the training yard—steel in your hands, not straw. And for the gods' sake, someone get me Ser Rodrik!"
Winterfell obeyed, but the air was thick with fear.
From his seat at the tree, Jinx finally rose, his cloak whispering over the moss. He could feel the current of the Force tugging, threads weaving. The rebellion was more than a squabble for crowns—it was the crucible, the first true test of all he had set in motion.
Eddard's eyes found him across the yard. For a heartbeat, two men of different worlds—one bound by honor, the other by shadow—regarded one another in silence. The wolf's blood in Ned's veins boiled for war. Jinx only tilted his masked head, as if to say: This is what I prepared you for.
The lord's solar felt smaller than usual, its air heavy with storm. Eddard Stark stood with his fists clenched tight at his sides, grey eyes blazing, his breath sharp through his nose like a warhorse before battle.
"You knew." His voice thundered, rattling the shutters. "Seven hells, Jinx—you knew this rebellion was coming! You warned me something 'great and terrible' would happen within moons, and now the Ironborn rise. Do not dare deny it!"
Jory and Rodrik shifted uneasily near the door, but Jinx only sat in his high-backed chair, calm as a glacier. Slowly, with deliberate care, his gloved hand rose to the side of his mask. The hiss of its seal echoed as he drew it free, setting it down upon the table. For the first time in days his face was bare, his violet eyes faintly aglow in the dim torchlight.
He took a long breath, as if tasting the air, and spoke with a voice both weary and sharp as cut glass.
"And what, Lord Stark, would you have done if I had told you outright?"
Eddard's mouth opened, but Jinx pressed on, his tone growing colder with every word.
"Would you have gone to Robert? To Jon Arryn? To the council in King's Landing, whispering that Balon Greyjoy would rebel? And what proof would you have given? My word?" He leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "What do you think they would have said, Eddard? They would have called you a fool, a superstitious northman led astray by shadows. Your reputation would have crumbled. Every vassal lord would whisper that their Warden had lost his wits."
Eddard's jaw clenched, but he said nothing.
"And worse," Jinx continued, "if word had somehow reached Balon that his plot was known? Do you believe his first target would have been Lannisport?" His voice dropped, low and cutting. "No. He would have struck here. The North. Your children. Winterfell itself aflame before a raven could even reach the south."
The silence that followed was suffocating. Only the fire cracked in the hearth.
Eddard's shoulders, once taut with rage, sagged beneath invisible weight. He stared down at Ice leaning against the wall, the greatsword of his fathers, and for once found no comfort in its presence. His anger remained, but it was directionless now, hollow. For all his fury, he could find no argument against Jinx's cold logic.
The Lord of Winterfell turned away at last, running a hand over his face, ashamed of the tremor in his voice. "Damn you, Jinx… damn you for being right."
Across the table, Jinx's lips curved into the faintest, most unreadable of smiles.
Eddard Stark stood rigid in his solar, his anger banked into a cold resolve. Ice leaned against the stone wall, catching the faint torchlight, and the Warden of the North fixed Jinx with a look that could cut steel.
"Then tell me, Jinx," he said at last, voice hoarse but steady. "What must be done? If you saw this coming, if you claim to know Balon Greyjoy's mind—then speak. I'll not sit idle while the Ironborn burn my realm."
Jinx sat still for a heartbeat, eyes half-lidded, as if listening to something only he could hear. Then, with slow, deliberate grace, he set the mask back upon the table and leaned forward.
"The most likely strike," he said, voice calm as falling snow, "will not be here, not yet. The Riverlands lie close at hand. Too close. The Ironborn once ruled those coasts in the days when their krakens flew from every mast. That hunger, that memory of dominion, never fades. If Balon hungers for glory, he will test the rivers first."
Eddard frowned. "And if he hungers for blood?"
"Then he will turn north," Jinx replied without hesitation. "The sea is his strength. He cannot march upon Winterfell, nor ride down from the hills. No. He would strike by water, swift and merciless. That leaves Barrowton… and Bear Island."
At the name, Eddard's jaw tightened. He knew Barrowton's wealth and Bear Island's ferocity well enough.
"But Bear Island," Jinx continued, "has teeth too sharp to bite. You sent them weapons—half the stock from Winterfell's forges in exchange for the frostberries and glacier apples I required for our work. With steel enough to arm every hearth and hall, Jorah Mormont could bleed Balon Greyjoy thrice over. Attacking her would be suicide."
Eddard nodded slowly, the memory of signing those orders still fresh. What had seemed an odd bargain at the time—casks of fruit and barrels of honey for blades—might now prove the salvation of an entire house.
"That leaves Barrowton," Jinx said, violet eyes glinting like a blade in torchlight. "A prize fat with trade, seated on the White Knife, close enough to the coast for the Ironborn to raid swiftly. And worse—it is lightly held. Should Balon be wise, he will see it for what it is: the North's soft underbelly."
The words sat heavy in the air. Eddard's mind ran through maps, names, and musters. Barrowton was rich, but its lords more merchants than warriors. The White Knife ran deep, wide enough for longships to slip upriver like vipers in the reeds. Gods, it made sense.
"And your counsel?" he asked, his voice low.
Jinx rose then, slow and deliberate, until he stood eye to eye with the Warden of the North. "You and I march," he said. "With what strength can be gathered in a few days' time. We ride to Barrowton, set steel and shield to its walls, and make ready before the kraken's shadow falls. If we are swift, we meet Balon's fire with iron, not ash."
For a long while Eddard said nothing, his hand resting heavy on Ice's wolf-pommeled hilt. He thought of his people, of his children, of Winterfell's heart. He thought of the krakens of old, black sails blotting the horizon. And he thought of Jinx, the stranger who spoke of rebellion as if reading from a book already written.
At last he gave a slow, grim nod. "So be it. I will send ravens tonight. Barrowton must not fall."
Jinx's lips curved into the faintest hint of a smile beneath the torchlight. "Good. Then the game begins."
The night before departure, Winterfell was heavy with tension. Courtyards rang with the sound of blacksmiths at their anvils, shaping steel for the host; ravens wheeled restlessly above the rookery, and the smallfolk whispered that war had come again.
Inside the Great Hall, lit only by a dozen torches and the great hearth-fire, Jinx sat at the long oaken table, a roll of parchment in his hand. Arya, Jon, and Robb stood before him—three children on the cusp of something far greater than they could grasp. Sansa lingered by her mother, curious but ignored; Jinx had not summoned her.
One by one, he placed a scroll into each child's hand.
"To you, little wolf," he said to Arya, his voice low but carrying. "Your path is the deepest, the hardest. Here are meditations, techniques of sight without eyes, and lessons in patience. You will hate it. But remember—anger is a sword with no hilt. It cuts the hand that wields it. Master this, and you will master yourself."
Arya's eyes shone as though he had given her the crown of Winterfell itself. She clutched the scroll as though it were her birthright.
To Jon, he pressed a scroll bound in black twine. "Yours is discipline. You feel the world already, though fleetingly. This writing will teach you to hold that spark without letting it slip. Read by night, meditate by day. The wolf and the crow both live in you—one of blood, one of fate. Make them walk together."
Jon bowed, awkward but earnest. His dark eyes never left Jinx's, as though memorizing each word.
Finally, to Robb, he gave a scroll heavier than the rest. "Yours is strategy. I have written down the first forms of combat, the histories of duels, and the lessons of leaders long past. You are not Arya, nor Jon—you will not be Sith, nor Jedi. But you will be a commander, and if you master this, men will follow you into storm and fire. Read it well."
Robb, trying not to look too pleased, nodded with solemnity beyond his years.
Catelyn's face was pale with restrained fury, but she dared no interruption before Eddard's silent, watchful gaze. Jinx's words, for good or ill, had already taken root.
At dawn, the great horn of Winterfell was sounded. Its deep call rolled across the frost-bitten fields, echoing down to Winter Town and into the villages beyond.
Men came.
First the Winter Towners—sturdy farmers with rust-pitted axes and patched mail. Then riders from the barrowlands, and men sworn to the Umbers and Karstarks, their banners snapping in the winter wind. A thousand torches burned that night in Winterfell's yards as messengers sped forth to every hall and holdfast.
Eddard walked among them with Ice on his back, every inch the Warden of the North. Yet it was Jinx who the men glanced at when they thought no one watching—the hooded figure in black armor, faceless save for a mask that smiled without mirth. None dared approach him, but the air grew colder where he passed.
Still, when he moved among the smithies and the practice yards, men worked harder, sharpened steel longer, held their pikes straighter. Fear was a cruel spur, but an effective one.
y the third day, two thousand men were ready to march. Not near enough for war, but enough for Barrowton's walls. Supply carts were loaded with salted beef, turnips, hard bread, and barrels of Winterfell's first crude brews. Sleds fitted with iron runners were readied, horses shod with frost-hardened shoes.
Arya clung to her father before they left, scroll in hand. "I'll do it, Father. I'll make you proud. And him too." She nodded toward Jinx, whose mask glinted in the pale morning sun.
"You make yourself proud, little one," Eddard said, though he felt that familiar pang—that she heeded Jinx more than him.
Just then jinx previous word echoed in his head His voice was soft, but his words cut deep. "If you accept her as she is, not as your lady wife insists she should be, she will listen to you. She is wolf-blood, through and through. You cannot break that without breaking her."
And so the host set out. Two thousand Northmen marched in grim silence, their breath steaming in the cold, their banners of direwolves, mermen, and roaring bears whipping in the wind. At their head rode Lord Eddard Stark, Ice gleaming at his back, and beside him strode Jinx, faceless and terrible, a shadow out of a stranger's tale.
Behind them followed the weight of the North, trudging step by step toward the riverlands' edge, to meet kraken fire with steel and snow.
The first true test had come.
The host pressed southward, their banners streaming in the biting wind, boots crunching against the hard earth. Eddard rode at the fore, Ice heavy across his back, but his thoughts were elsewhere. The cold, the gathering clouds, the steady tramp of men—all of it reminded him of another march long ago, and the memories weighed heavily upon him.
Then, unbidden, another thought surfaced. Something Jinx had said months ago, cryptic words about a "project" he had set into motion. Eddard had not pressed then, distracted with the work of Winterfell, but now—with war at their doorstep—the memory burned hotter.
He reined his horse a little closer to the hooded figure striding alongside him.
"What was it?" Ned's voice was low, but sharp with command. "The project you began months ago. Was this rebellion the reason? Did you foresee this and prepare behind my back?"
Jinx tilted his head, the ever-smiling mask turning toward him with unsettling calm. For a moment he did not answer, the silence stretching until even the howling wind seemed to pause. Then, with a hiss, he lifted his mask just enough to draw in a breath of the chill air, violet eyes glimmering beneath the hood.
"You assume too much, Stark," Jinx murmured, voice even, almost amused. "It was not for your rebellion—or Balon's folly. But…" He paused, savoring Ned's anticipation. "I was fortunate. It finished only days ago. A raven has already been sent, and if the timing is right, it will meet us near Barrowton."
Eddard narrowed his eyes. "And what am I to expect, then?"
Jinx chuckled softly, the sound dry as cracking ice. "Surprise, my good wolf. You will see soon enough. Better you lay your patience upon this than spend it cursing the gods for what you cannot change."
Ned wanted to press further, demand answers—but the confidence in Jinx's tone and the gnawing truth of his earlier counsel stayed his tongue. Whatever it was, this "project" had been set in motion long before rebellion stained the seas red. And, he realized grimly, perhaps it would prove the difference between victory and ruin.
So he said nothing more, only gave a curt nod and turned back to the road ahead. Yet unease lingered in his chest, twined with a reluctant flicker of curiosity.
The march south had been grueling, two days of cold rain and damp wind gnawing at men and horse alike. But no hardship prepared them for what they saw when they crested the ridge a mile north of Barrowton.
A dark column of smoke clawed at the grey sky, its stench of fire and blood carried even this far. The cries of the townsfolk—screams muffled by distance—rode the wind like an omen.
Eddard's heart clenched. His hand snapped up, signaling his men to quicken their pace.
"Ride harder!" he barked, his voice iron and ice all at once. "For the North!"
The host surged forward, the pounding of hooves thundering across the sodden fields. Within minutes, they reached the outskirts. What they found turned even the most hardened stomachs.
Ironborn raiders were everywhere—torching houses, hacking down farmers in the mud, dragging screaming women toward their ships. The town guards and smallfolk tried desperately to resist, but the clash was hopelessly one-sided.
Eddard was the first from the saddle, boots splashing into mud slick with blood. His greatsword, Ice, sang as he drew it, the immense Valyrian steel catching the light of burning homes.
Beside him, Jinx moved with eerie calm. The trench-coated figure slid from his horse in a single motion, boots whispering against the ground. Then—at last—he revealed what Eddard had always wondered about. From his belt he drew the strange cross-guarded hilt he always carried, the weapon he never explained.
With a hiss and a violent crackle of energy, a blade of black edged in burning magenta roared to life. The ground beneath it sizzled as he angled it downward, dirt smoking as if reality itself recoiled.
Eddard froze for half a heartbeat, stunned. He had seen Valyrian steel his whole life. He had seen wildfire at King's Landing. He had seen magic only in whispers and shadow. But nothing—nothing—like this.
So this was Jinx unveiled. Not just a warrior. Not just a sorcerer. A creature wielding a weapon the world was never meant to see.
The great lord of Winterfell tightened his grip on Ice. Awe would have to wait. His people were dying.
Jinx's distorted mask tilted toward him, and though he could not see the man's face, Eddard could feel his smirk.
"Shall we, Lord Stark?"
Eddard gave no reply save a curt nod. Then the two of them surged into the melee.
Where Ice carved through flesh and steel with cold inevitability, Jinx's blade was something far stranger. Each swing left a trail of molten sparks in the air, each parry shrieked as though the world itself screamed. Ironborn shields split apart like kindling. Raiders burned from within as the blade glanced them.
The Ironborn thought themselves wolves of the sea. Tonight, they had found something far worse waiting on land.
Eddard's POV
I hit the ground running, boots sinking into mud churned by blood and fire. Ice was heavy in my hands, but the weight was familiar—comforting. My father's sword, my house's legacy, the North's justice forged into steel. I swung in great arcs, cleaving through the first raiders I met. Their axes clanged uselessly against the Valyrian blade before shattering. One man's head flew from his shoulders; another fell split from shoulder to hip.
The screams were everywhere—my people dying, my people burning. That fury was fuel. Each stroke of Ice was an oath renewed. No more sisters lost, no more fathers burned alive, no more children stolen.
Yet even as I fought, my eyes could not help but stray to him.
Jinx.
That… weapon. The sound of it was unlike steel, a violent hiss and shriek as it tore through shields and armor. Where Ice severed cleanly, his blade seemed to burn reality itself, the metal of their swords melting and flesh blackening as though the gods themselves struck them. He moved like a dancer, fluid and terrifying, never slowing, never faltering.
I tried to shake the awe from me—Winterfell's men looked to me, not to him. And yet, the Ironborn broke before him as though the Stranger himself had stepped onto the field.
Still, I pressed forward. I would not be overshadowed in my own North. My people needed their lord to fight.
A raider lunged at me with a hooked axe, screaming for plunder and salt. I parried with Ice, sparks flying, then drove my boot into his knee. He crumpled with a howl, and Ice ended him with a thrust through the chest. Another came, blade swinging wild, and I caught him under the chin, the Valyrian steel cleaving jaw and skull alike.
Blood misted my face, hot against the cold air. And for the first time since the rebellion, I let the wolf inside me loose.
Jinx's POV
I stepped into the slaughter like it was my stage, my crossguard hilt humming in my grip. The blade screamed to life, a river of black edged in magenta, and the world bent around it. Their eyes widened at the sight—men who thought they feared nothing suddenly hesitated. That hesitation killed them.
I moved faster than their mortal eyes could follow, weaving between them in arcs of death. A shield raised? It split in half, molten edges hissing as wood and steel dripped like wax. An axe swung for my head? A twist of my wrist severed the shaft, and a return cut gutted the man before he could blink.
The air stank of burning—flesh, steel, even the mud itself as my blade carved through. Fear rolled off them, thick and sweet in the Force. I fed on it, let it sharpen me. Their panic slowed them, made them clumsy.
A raider bellowed a challenge, a great brute with chainmail and a warhammer, rushing me like a bull. I didn't sidestep. I stepped in. The hammer came down, and I caught the haft with one hand—strength thrumming through me. His eyes went wide. With a flick of my saber, the weapon split in two, and with another cut, so did his arm. He barely had time to scream before a kick sent him sprawling into the mud, lifeless.
Through it all, I sensed him.
Eddard. Swinging his greatsword, bellowing for his men, leading like a wolf cornered but not broken. Rage bled from him, pure and raw. It pleased me. He was closer to what he was meant to be.
Still, I had little time to admire. Another wave came. And they fell, one after another, like wheat before the scythe.
Eddard's POV
The fight blurred into a storm of steel and fire. My arms ached, my shoulders burned, but still I swung Ice. The Ironborn came relentless, like the sea itself, but the North was stone and I would not yield.
Yet it was not just my blade that carried me. Something else stirred. Anger, sharper than steel. Rage at their audacity, at the smoke of my people's homes rising into the sky. Rage that Lyanna was not here, that Ashara was gone, that Brandon and Father were ash.
I roared with every strike, my voice carrying above the chaos. Men rallied to me, guards of Winterfell cutting down raiders by my side. They cheered my name, "Stark! Stark!" and I felt the wolf's blood ignite in my veins.
A group of them tried to break past me toward the women being herded near the docks. I could not allow it. With a burst of strength I didn't know I had, I charged, Ice cleaving two men in one swing. The third I rammed with my shoulder, sending him sprawling, then ended him with a downward chop that split helm and skull alike.
Still, in the corner of my eye, the magenta glow burned. And though I hated to admit it, the Ironborn fell faster before him than before me.
Jinx's POV
The field was ours, though they didn't yet know it.
The Ironborn screamed, but not with victory now—only terror. I pressed harder, every strike precise, every movement efficient. I cut down ten in the time it took one of Eddard's guards to fell one. Their fear fed me. Each time they broke before me, I drank deeper of the Force, faster, sharper, more alive than they could comprehend.
But I wasn't blind to him.
Eddard was more than I expected. Rage had awakened something in him. His movements were heavier, yes, less refined—but raw strength poured from him, strength he did not know he had. I felt the pulse of it in the Force when he roared, when he cut through three men as though Ice was made of fire.
Good. The wolf was waking.
Still, I could not let him die. When one raider crept behind him, axe raised, I flicked my wrist. A pulse of the Force cracked the man's neck before his strike could fall. Eddard never noticed. That was fine.
The battle dragged on. My blade burned brighter, and the Ironborn broke before it. They fled toward their ships, stumbling over each other, leaving their dead behind.
Victory. For now.
Eddard's POV
The clangor of steel and the screams of men faded to a ragged hush. My breath burned in my lungs, hot clouds steaming in the chill evening air. Ice hung heavy in my hands, its black rippled steel painted red with blood. Around me, the yard of Barrowton was a grave—Ironborn corpses sprawled amid the bodies of my own men, smoke rising from cottages still smoldering where their torches had struck.
I stood unsteady, my chest heaving, and for a moment, I thought I might topple. The wolf's blood still sang within me, wild and sharp, but the weight of exhaustion pressed down just as hard. My men moved about me, some cheering, some weeping, some falling to their knees from wounds or weariness.
And him.
Jinx stood apart, his strange weapon hissing low as it died into silence. That blade—it had burned through armor, split flesh like parchment, and turned fear into a weapon sharper than any steel. My men glanced at him often, unease in their eyes. Fear. Respect. Both.
I myself could not look too long. I had led men before, through rebellion and war. I knew the strength of steel, of discipline, of honor. But what I had seen today was something else. Something beyond mortal ken.
And yet, without him, Barrowton might already be ash.
I knelt beside one of my fallen guards, closing his staring eyes with a hand. My heart was heavy. So many dead, and still the battle felt unfinished.
A horn sounded down by the water. My head snapped up.
There—slipping from the burning docks, a longship pulled free, its oars biting into the surf. A black sail caught the wind, and on it flew a sigil I knew well enough: a skeletal hand clutching driftwood.
"House Drumm," I muttered, my voice bitter. "Reavers and worse. If they live, word of this reaches Pyke."
I turned toward my men. "Archers! Bows!"
But it was too far. Even I knew it. Their ship had already caught the current, sliding into the deeper waters beyond. We had no vessels seaworthy enough in Barrowton to give chase. My fists clenched helplessly. They would carry word of Jinx's power, of the Stark defenses, to Balon Greyjoy—and when they did, blood would follow.
And then I saw him move.
Jinx raised his hand, slow and deliberate, his fingers curling like a man grasping some invisible thread. For a heartbeat, I thought he meant to curse them. But then—the sea itself betrayed the Ironborn.
The longship shuddered, its hull groaning like a dying beast. It lifted—lifted—from the waters, oars snapping, men screaming as they clutched to the deck. My men cried out behind me, voices breaking in disbelief.
The ship rose higher, saltwater pouring from its belly as it dangled like a toy between sky and sea. The Ironborn shouted and scrambled, some leaping into the waves in terror. But there was no escape.
Jinx's hand clenched into a fist.
The longship screamed. Wood split, iron bands snapped, and the vessel cracked down the middle like kindling. For a moment, it hung there, broken, before the halves were smashed together with a thunderclap that shook the very ground. Timber exploded outward, shards flying, and then what was left fell—slamming into the rocky shore, shattered and burning, a graveyard of splinters.
Silence followed. A terrible silence.
I realized my mouth hung open, the words caught in my throat. I turned, and every man around me mirrored the same look—eyes wide, jaws slack, as if the Stranger himself had strode from the godswood.
Even Rodrik and Jory, seasoned in war, looked pale as boys.
I swallowed hard, my knuckles white on Ice's grip. The wolf's blood in me stirred again, but not with rage this time. With unease. For all my strength, for all my house, for all my vows—I was standing beside something I did not understand, something no one in Westeros understood.
Jinx lowered his hand, slow, and the mask tilted ever so slightly, as if he knew precisely what we were thinking.
"Old gods save us," I whispered, though I was not certain they could.
Council in Barrowton – After the Battle
The smoke of Barrowton still curled into the night sky when we gathered in the council chamber. The long table was crowded—Rodrik Cassel and Jory sat on one side, their armor scuffed and bloodied; Maege Mormont and her daughter Dacey opposite, both fierce-eyed and silent; and Greatjon Umber with his son Smalljon, who had arrived barely an hour after the fighting was done, still smelling of horse and sweat. Jorah Mormont, quiet but ever watchful, leaned against the far wall, his bulk filling the shadows.
I sat at the head, Ice laid across the table before me. Jinx sat slightly to my right, mask tilted, his presence a shadow heavier than any steel.
The mood was grim, but also thick with the awe of what had been witnessed. No man spoke of the ship, though it hung unspoken in every glance at Jinx. None knew how to put words to such sorcery.
The door creaked. A soldier entered, helmet tucked under his arm, soot and sea-salt staining his cloak. He dropped to one knee.
"My lord Stark," he said, voice tight with something close to reverence—or fear. "We searched the wreckage… what little remained. And we found… this."
From a leather-wrapped bundle, he drew forth a longsword. Its blade gleamed red, even in the smoky torchlight, as if it had been quenched in blood and never forgotten it.
The room fell into silence.
Red Rain.
The blade of House Drumm, infamous across the isles and beyond. Its color was no trick of the forge but a curse, men said—the steel turned crimson after drinking so many lives it had forgotten how to be clean.
No one breathed. Even Maege Mormont's hard face flickered with unease. Greatjon shifted in his chair, muttering a curse under his breath.
The soldier set it carefully on the table, as though fearful it might leap to bite him. "By right, my lord," he said, "the sword belongs to you. The Drumm captain lies broken with the rest. It falls to the Lord of Winterfell to decide its fate."
I stared at it, Ice heavy at my side. By Northern custom, spoils taken in battle returned to the liege lord, and only he could decide their worth. No man dared dispute it.
And yet… this was no ordinary sword.
"It is true," Maege said finally, her voice low. "The North has claim to it. No lord here would dare say otherwise."
Her daughter Dacey leaned forward, eyes shining with a warrior's hunger. "It is a prize to be used. Why let such a blade gather dust when it might serve the North?"
Jorah shifted, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. Greatjon gave a barking laugh. "Aye! Best given to a man with the strength to swing it, not left rusting in Stark's vaults."
I said nothing, though my heart pounded. They all looked to me, waiting. Red Rain's crimson gleam filled my sight, and all I could think of was the weight of decision—whether to lock away such a cursed prize, or to place it in a hand worthy of wielding it.
And through it all, Jinx said nothing. He only leaned back in his chair, mask tilted as if amused, letting the silence deepen. He had no need to speak. His presence was enough to remind every man and woman in that hall: whatever blade we chose, there was a greater weapon seated already among us.
The crimson sword lay across the council table like a challenge, gleaming as if it still dripped blood. Torchlight caught its scarlet sheen, painting the faces of those gathered: Maege Mormont, her daughter Dacey, Jorah, the Umbers, Rodrik, Jory… and Jinx, silent behind his mask.
The silence was thick until Greatjon Umber slammed a meaty hand down on the table.
"Best given to a man who'll swing it proper," he rumbled, voice booming like a drum. "Red Rain's no trinket to rot in a Stark's vault. Give it to a warrior, and let it sing on the battlefield." His son, Smalljon, nodded fiercely at his father's side.
Dacey Mormont leaned forward, eyes fixed on the blade. "House Mormont has stood watch on the seas for centuries. If the Ironborn come again, who better than us to wield their cursed prize against them? Let it serve as a warning that we do not fear their relics."
Maege Mormont added sharply, "And we have fewer blades of note than the Umbers or Glovers. A great house can spare a sword. We cannot."
Jorah said nothing for a time, though his eyes did not leave the weapon. At last, he murmured, "A sword like that is a weight, not just an honor. It chooses who will carry it, in more ways than one."
Greatjon barked a laugh. "Bah! Steel is steel. It's the hand that matters."
Rodrik Cassel cleared his throat, his voice steady. "It belongs to Winterfell now, by law and custom. It falls to the Lord of Winterfell to decide where it will go. No more bickering."
The eyes of the room turned to me. Even Catelyn, who had slipped in quietly to stand at the wall, stared hard at my face. Ice lay heavy across my knees, colder than the air itself.
I thought of what such a gift could mean—bolstering Mormont loyalty, binding the Umbers tighter, strengthening House Stark's own hand. A dozen paths unrolled before me.
And yet, when I lifted my gaze, it settled on the figure seated silent and still, mask gleaming faintly in the torchlight. Jinx.
The man—if man he was—who had torn a ship from the sea with a gesture, who had taught my children to still their hearts in meditation, who had whispered truths that cut deeper than any sword.
Without him, Red Rain would still be clutched by the Drumm captain, dripping blood into the tide.
I rose, the council chamber falling quiet.
"This sword," I said slowly, voice echoing in the rafters, "would never have fallen into our hands but for him." I laid my hand on Ice, then gestured to the crimson blade. "So it shall be his. Let none here say otherwise."
The hall erupted into shocked murmurs. Greatjon sputtered, "You'd give such a prize to—" but a look from me silenced even him.
I lifted Red Rain from the table and held it out across my palms. "Take it, Jinx. By right of victory, by my word as Lord of Winterfell."
Jinx rose with slow grace, the faint hiss of his armor whispering across the chamber. He reached out and gripped the hilt. The sword slid into his hand as though it had always belonged there.
He tilted the blade, studying the crimson sheen. Then his voice, smooth and echoing faintly through the mask, filled the air:
"Lighter than I expected." He gave a slight, amused tilt of the head. "That makes three, then. Three mystical weapons in my possession."
The words sent a ripple through the chamber. Lords and ladies exchanged uneasy glances. Three? The number lodged itself in every mind present. No one spoke it aloud, but each man and woman made a silent note, weighing what it meant—that such power sat not in the hands of any house, but in the stranger they all feared and followed.
Jinx rested the crimson sword against his shoulder, its glow reflected in the black glass of his mask.
"Thank you, Lord Stark," he said simply. But even through the mask, I could sense the faint curl of a smile.
And for the first time that night, I wondered if I had given away more than a sword.