The northern dusk fell over Winterfell with a particular quality that Ethel had never experienced: it was not simply the gradual absence of light, but a transformation of the entire landscape. The cold tones of twilight slipped across the gray stone walls, tinting them momentarily with a ghostly blue before darkness reclaimed its dominion. From the window of his chambers in the guest wing, he watched as, one by one, lanterns and torches were lit throughout the courtyards and battlements, creating artificial constellations that defied the growing blackness.
The assigned room was austere but comfortable, with thick walls that retained the heat conducted through the ingenious hidden pipes. A four-poster bed of dark wood dominated the space, flanked by a carved oak chest and a modest table upon which burned a thick candle. The Stark banners hung from the walls, silent direwolves that seemed to watch over visitors with embroidered yet penetrating eyes.
Ethel adjusted the collar of his wool tunic dyed in shades of deep blue and gray—colors deliberately chosen to appear neither ostentatious nor too humble. He had opted for attire that suggested commercial prosperity without extravagance: respectable enough to share a table with nobles, but not so luxurious as to arouse suspicions about the origin of his wealth.
A soft knock at the door announced Melisandre's presence.
"The servants have come to escort us to the Great Hall," the red priestess informed him as she entered. "Dinner is about to begin."
The woman from Asshai had likewise adopted a measured appearance: a long dress of dark garnet silk with discrete copper thread embroidery that only under certain light revealed complex patterns related to her faith. Her copper hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders, and the emblematic ruby at her throat remained visible but moderate in its brilliance, as if she had intentionally dampened its usual glow.
"Have they sent someone for the rest of our party?" asked Ethel while making final adjustments to his appearance.
"They have been provided dinner in the building adjacent to the main stable, where they were lodged," Melisandre replied. "An unusual courtesy for mere guards and servants, which suggests that Lady Stark is living up to her reputation as a diligent hostess... or perhaps wishes to ensure that all members of our group are equally attended to and watched."
Ethel nodded, recognizing the perspicacity of the observation. Catelyn Stark had not reached her position by being naive; it was likely that every gesture of hospitality came accompanied by an equivalent measure of caution.
"Let us remember our purpose here," he murmured as they made their way down the stone corridor, following a young servant who guided them with a torch. "Gaining their trust is only the first step. What we do with it will determine much more than our commercial success."
Melisandre gave him a meaningful look, her scarlet eyes reflecting the flickering light.
"The Lord of Light has guided us to this place for reasons that go beyond commerce or political influence," she whispered. "The fallen child... his presence in my visions is no coincidence."
Ethel suppressed the impulse to respond. The servant who preceded them probably wouldn't understand their whispered conversation, but the walls of Winterfell seemed to have ears of their own. By the time they reached the Great Hall doors, both had adopted the serene and professional expressions that corresponded to their presumed roles.
The spacious room presented a radically different aspect from that morning's formal audience. Now it bustled with activity and life: long tables arranged in parallel rows occupied much of the floor, with polished wooden benches on both sides where numerous members of House Stark already sat. Servants moved nimbly between the tables, carrying trays with jugs of ale, mead, and wine, while tempting aromas from the kitchen filtered through the doors at the back.
On the raised platform, the main table stood out for its position perpendicular to the others. There, beneath the main direwolf banner, Catelyn and Robb Stark presided over the dinner. Unlike the ceremonial sobriety of the audience, both now dressed with greater comfort, though maintaining the dignity proper to their position. The seats beside them remained empty, evidently reserved for the honored guests.
An elderly but impeccably postured steward approached them with a measured bow.
"Lady Stark requests that you join her and Lord Robb at the main table," he announced formally. "However, understanding foreign customs and in case you prefer greater privacy, she has also arranged places at a side table, closer to the main hearth."
Ethel immediately grasped the subtle balance of the offer: a gesture of respect offering places of honor, but also a diplomatic exit if the foreigners desired to remain more apart. It was an astute move that allowed them to choose their level of exposure before the northern court.
"We deeply appreciate the honor that Lady Stark confers upon us," he responded with a respectful bow. "If it is not inconvenient, we prefer the side table for this first evening. We are honored by the proximity to the main table, but would not wish to intrude upon family matters on our first night."
The steward nodded, apparently pleased by the considerate response, and guided them toward a table perpendicular to the main one, located barely a few meters to the right. The position was strategically advantageous: close enough to converse with the Starks if the occasion arose, but separate enough to remain discreet.
As they took their seats, Ethel could feel dozens of northern gazes evaluating them with barely disguised curiosity. Foreign guests always aroused interest in Winterfell, especially those from lands as distant as Volantis and with a woman of such singular appearance as Melisandre among them.
They had barely settled when the first course began to be served. Ethel observed with moderate surprise how servants deposited before them polished wooden bowls containing a preparation he immediately recognized: long-grain rice steamed to perfect texture, mixed with black beans and small pieces of roasted venison. The aroma that rose revealed notes of spices unusual for northern cuisine: cumin, cilantro, and most surprising, a touch of chopped chili that provided a subtle but undeniable heat to the ensemble.
"They have followed our preparation suggestions with notable precision," he commented to Melisandre while visually evaluating the dish. "An unexpected courtesy."
"Or a test," the priestess replied in a low voice. "They want to verify if we truly know what we claim to sell."
A serving girl approached with a ceramic jug decorated with northern motifs.
"Spiced wine, my lords," she offered. "Lady Stark thought it might complement the flavors of the main dish adequately."
Ethel thanked her with a gesture while the girl filled their cups with a dark liquid that, when brought to his lips, revealed aromas of cinnamon, clove, and orange. A traditionally winter drink, now served as deference to visitors from warm lands.
Catelyn Stark observed them discretely from the main table, and when their gazes met, Ethel inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment before taking a bite of the stew. The flavor confirmed the visual impression: Winterfell's cooks had reproduced with surprising fidelity the recipe they had provided along with the ingredient samples.
"My compliments to your cooks, Lady Stark," he projected his voice enough to be heard without seeming excessively effusive. "They have masterfully interpreted the instructions that accompanied our products."
Catelyn responded with a polite smile.
"The merit is entirely theirs. They were particularly intrigued by the rice preparation method to preserve its nutritional qualities."
The dinner progressed smoothly, alternating traditional northern dishes with those prepared according to the merchants' instructions. The combination represented a diplomatic balance: respect for local traditions while exploring the culinary possibilities that the new ingredients offered.
As the evening advanced and cups were refilled, the general atmosphere grew more relaxed. The murmur of conversations filled the Great Hall, and occasionally laughter or exclamations arose from the tables occupied by soldiers or artisans dining at the opposite end.
It was during this more relaxed atmosphere that Robb Stark, with a casual but evidently premeditated movement, left the main table to approach that of the merchants, bringing with him his wine cup and faithfully followed by Grey Wind, whose imposing presence generated a space of respect around him.
"May I join you for a moment?" asked the young heir, his tone combining his position's authority with a genuine curiosity that was difficult to hide.
"The honor is ours, Lord Stark," Ethel replied, indicating the empty space beside him.
Robb took his seat with the natural grace of someone born for leadership, while his direwolf settled at his feet, vigilant amber eyes fixed on the foreigners. Despite his youth, Eddard Stark's eldest son possessed a formidable presence: tall and of robust constitution, with the characteristic bearing of northerners, though his facial features and especially his blue eyes betrayed the Tully blood that flowed through his veins.
"I have heard fascinating rumors about Volantis," he began after taking a sip of his wine. "They say its walls are so high and thick that two carriages can travel in parallel upon them."
Ethel smiled, recognizing the indirect approach. Robb Stark was using casual conversation about distant lands to evaluate the veracity of their credentials, comparing their answers with information he already possessed.
"The rumors do not do justice to reality, my lord," he responded with the confidence of one describing his homeland. "The black walls of Volantis, built with the fused stone of Valyria, not only allow the passage of two carriages but also house complete passages and chambers within. It is said that during certain festivities, more than a thousand people can lodge within the wall itself."
The description, elaborated with precise but hardly verifiable details for someone who had never traveled so far, seemed to momentarily satisfy Robb's curiosity.
"And your journey here? It must have been extraordinarily long," the young lord continued, tasting a bite of the spiced stew. "Especially considering the current state of the Seven Kingdoms."
The reference to the "current state" contained an implicit question about how much the foreign merchants knew regarding the political situation in Westeros.
"Every commercial journey carries its risks, my lord," Ethel responded with measured tone. "We crossed the Narrow Sea during the last full moon and disembarked at White Harbor. Lord Manderly was a generous host, though he warned us about... certain recent tensions."
He made a calculated pause before adding:
"We have heard that your father, Lord Eddard, has been named Hand of the King, an extraordinary honor that speaks to the confidence King Robert places in House Stark."
Robb nodded, his expression becoming slightly more serious.
"My father departed for King's Landing barely weeks ago, along with my sisters Sansa and Arya." A flash of something—worry? uncertainty?—briefly crossed his youthful eyes. "An honor, as you say, though the North will miss his leadership."
"Your father is known even in Essos for his unwavering sense of honor," Melisandre commented, intervening for the first time in the conversation with her melodious voice. "A rare and precious quality in any kingdom, but especially valued among the First Men, is it not?"
The mention of northern ancestors seemed to please Robb, whose posture relaxed slightly.
"The Starks have ruled the North since the time of the First Men," he affirmed with evident pride. "Our traditions and values endure when other houses forget their legacy."
"And the other Stark heirs?" asked Ethel, directing the conversation toward more personal territory. "I understand you are a numerous family, something uncommon but invaluable in these times."
The question opened the floodgates of a Robb who, despite his efforts to maintain lordly composure, was still a young man who missed his family. During the following minutes, he spoke with barely contained enthusiasm about his siblings: Sansa, with her love for songs and southern courtesy; Arya, indomitable and fierce despite her short age; Rickon, still small but already showing the characteristic tenacity of the Starks.
When he mentioned Jon, however, his tone changed subtly:
"My brother Jon has taken the black. He joined the Night's Watch shortly after my father departed for the south."
Ethel noticed how, from the main table, Catelyn Stark slightly tensed her jaw at the mention of her husband's bastard, though she maintained composure with the dignity proper to her position. The reaction confirmed what he already knew: the wounds related to Jon Snow remained open, even after nearly two decades.
Melisandre, perceiving the tension, skillfully diverted the conversation:
"An honorable decision to join the Watch, especially in these times. Beyond the Narrow Sea there is increasingly talk about... concerns in the lands of eternal winter."
The veiled mention of threats beyond the Wall visibly captured Robb's attention, but before he could inquire further, his expression darkened remembering the brother he had forgotten to mention.
"And then there is Bran, my little brother..." His voice was tinged with a worry he didn't attempt to hide. "He suffered a fall while climbing a tower weeks ago. Since then he has not awakened."
Ethel and Melisandre exchanged a meaningful glance, aware that they had reached the crucial topic they had been hoping to address.
"We are deeply sorry to hear that, Lord Stark," Ethel expressed with genuine sincerity. "Falls can produce complex afflictions, especially in the young."
Melisandre added with soft but firm voice:
"In my travels through Essos I have studied various healing traditions. The body and spirit sometimes separate temporarily after severe trauma."
Robb looked at them with renewed interest, the spark of hope impossible to hide in his youthful eyes.
"Maester Luwin has done all that is in his power, but Bran continues without awakening," he confessed, fraternal worry momentarily eclipsing his role as acting lord. "Our mother..." he directed a glance toward Catelyn, who conversed with one of the Stark bannermen, "...has barely left his room in all this time."
Ethel perceived the opportunity and, after a deliberate brief pause, offered with carefully measured tone:
"If you would consider it appropriate, both my associate and I possess certain medical knowledge that, though different from that of your maester, could offer a complementary perspective. Without guarantees, of course, but perhaps..."
He left the sentence intentionally incomplete, conscious that imposing help would be counterproductive, while suggesting it subtly might awaken greater interest.
Robb's reaction was immediate, though he attempted to moderate his enthusiasm with the caution proper to his position.
"Any help for my brother would be... considered with gratitude," he responded, carefully choosing his words. "Though I should consult with my mother before..."
He didn't need to finish the sentence. Catelyn Stark, whose maternal attention seemed to have sharpened to the point of perceiving any mention related to her injured son, had already risen from the main table and was approaching with measured but urgent steps.
"Do you speak of Bran?" she asked directly, her voice controlled but with a backdrop of barely contained desperation that was painfully evident to anyone who observed her closely.
Robb stood respectfully before his mother.
"Mother, the merchants have offered to examine Bran. Both possess medical knowledge that could..."
"Could you help him?" Catelyn interrupted, addressing Ethel and Melisandre directly, etiquette and formalities momentarily forgotten before the possibility, however remote, of help for her son.
Melisandre responded with calculated caution:
"I possess certain alchemical knowledge and healing practices from Asshai and other eastern regions, my lady. I cannot promise miracles, but perhaps I can offer a different perspective from what you have already consulted."
Ethel added:
"In our commercial travels we have attended various cases of wounds and afflictions. Falls from height produce particular damage that, occasionally, require unconventional approaches."
Hope and desperation fought a visible battle on Catelyn Stark's normally composed face. Finally, something within her seemed to yield to the weight of her maternal concern.
"If there exists the slightest possibility..." she began, before straightening her shoulders with renewed determination. "I will take you to his chambers now, if you are willing."
Ethel and Melisandre rose in unison, with a synchronization that revealed their habitual complicity.
"We are at your disposal, Lady Stark," Ethel affirmed with a respectful bow.
The transition from the warm bustle of the Great Hall to the silent corridors of the fortress was abrupt and solemn. Catelyn Stark led the way with quick and determined steps, followed closely by Robb, while Ethel and Melisandre maintained a respectful distance behind. Grey Wind moved like a gray shadow beside his master, his eyes occasionally turning toward the foreigners with disturbing intelligence.
As they ascended stone stairs and traversed galleries dimly lit by torches, Ethel carefully observed his surroundings. Winterfell was a labyrinth of ancient stone, with secrets accumulated during millennia in its shadowy corners. Some walls exuded subtle heat from the hot springs that flowed through the fortress's entrails, a constant reminder that this place rose upon primordial powers that transcended human understanding.
Finally they arrived before a robust door of dark oak, guarded by a guard who immediately straightened upon seeing his lords approach. The man inclined his head with respect while opening the door to allow them passage.
The room that revealed itself before them was warmly illuminated by several thick candles and a low fire that burned in the fireplace. The air smelled of medicinal herbs—chamomile, sage, and something more bitter that Ethel identified as milk of the poppy—mixed with the aroma of pine wood that burned slowly.
In the center of the chamber, upon a bed too large for his small figure, lay Brandon Stark. The child, barely seven years old, seemed tiny among the furs and blankets that covered him. His face, framed by dark brown hair, showed an unnatural pallor that contrasted dramatically with the sheets. His eyes remained closed, and only the subtle movement of his chest while breathing confirmed that life had not completely abandoned his battered body.
Beside the bed, like a tireless sentinel, sat a direwolf with gray fur mottled with golden touches on the muzzle. "Summer," Ethel remembered, Bran's animal companion. The creature raised its head upon seeing them enter, its intelligent eyes evaluating the newcomers with attention that transcended the animal.
"He has not left his side since we brought him to his room," Robb explained in a low voice, pointing to the wolf. "He rejects all strangers, but seems to know who comes to help and who might represent a threat."
As if confirming his words, Summer emitted a guttural sound when Melisandre took a step toward the bed, though it didn't move from its position. The red priestess stopped, her scarlet eyes meeting those of the animal in a silent exchange of mutual evaluation.
"A loyal companion," she commented with respect. "I can sense the bond they share. It is deeper than it appears."
Catelyn Stark approached her son's bed, gently caressing the unconscious child's hair with fingers that trembled slightly despite her evident effort to maintain composure.
"There have been no changes in weeks," she explained, her voice tensing with each word. "Luwin says his physical wounds are healing, the bones in his legs will recover, but he cannot explain why he doesn't awaken."
Ethel approached with deliberately slow and careful movements, conscious of the vigilant attention of both the Starks and the direwolf.
"May I?" he asked, pointing toward the sleeping child.
After receiving a tense nod from Catelyn, he leaned over the small body. With expert but gentle hands, he examined the pulse in Bran's wrist, the temperature of his forehead, the reaction of his pupils by carefully lifting one of his eyelids. He observed with attention the lower extremities, motionless under the blankets, though he avoided moving them so as not to disturb the healing process.
Meanwhile, Melisandre had adopted a position near the headboard, her eyes half-closed in concentration while she seemed to study something invisible to the others present. Her lips moved in an inaudible whisper, as if maintaining a private conversation with absent forces.
"His body is recovering," Ethel finally confirmed, straightening up, "but his mind is in a different place."
"What does that mean exactly?" asked Robb, his brow furrowed in confusion.
Melisandre was the one who responded, her voice acquiring a hypnotic quality that filled the room despite its moderate tone:
"When the body suffers severe trauma, sometimes the spirit retreats to a different plane of existence. It is not death, but neither is it full life. It is an intermediate state where time flows differently."
Catelyn Stark looked at her with a mixture of desperate hope and skepticism.
"Maester Luwin spoke of a deep comatose state, result of the blow to the head," she said. "But nothing about... planes of existence."
"The maesters of the Citadel possess great wisdom in many fields," Melisandre responded diplomatically, "but some older traditions understand aspects of mind and spirit that are not documented in their chains and parchments."
Ethel perceived the growing tension in the atmosphere and decided to intervene with a more practical approach:
"What my associate describes is consistent with similar cases we have observed." He addressed Catelyn directly, recognizing that she was the one who needed greater convincing. "Lady Stark, have you noticed any particular pattern in his state? Moments of the day when he seems more receptive or when his breathing changes?"
The specific question seemed to anchor Catelyn, returning her to the familiar terrain of maternal observation that she had exercised tirelessly for weeks.
"In the early mornings he seems more... present," she responded after a moment of reflection. "His breathing becomes deeper, and there were occasions when his eyelids trembled, as if he were about to awaken." A flash of pain crossed her face. "But he never does."
Melisandre nodded, as if the information confirmed something she already suspected.
"Dawn is when the veil between planes grows thin," she murmured, more to herself than to those present. "The ancient forces awaken with the first light."
Ethel approached the bed again, this time directing his attention toward Summer. The direwolf observed him with intensity, but allowed his proximity without apparent hostility.
"This bond..." he began, carefully choosing his words. "Was the wolf with him when he fell?"
"No," Robb replied. "The wolves had been recently found when the accident occurred. But since then, Summer has been inconsolable until we allowed him to remain beside Bran."
Ethel and Melisandre exchanged a glance charged with meaning. Both knew the true nature of the relationship between the Starks and their direwolves, a potential warg bond that none of the northerners had fully identified yet.
"The wolf may be part of the solution," Melisandre declared with a certainty that immediately captured everyone's attention. "The connection between them transcends the physical."
"What exactly do you propose?" asked Catelyn, her voice firm despite the evident vulnerability in her gaze.
"We wish to prepare an infusion with some of the herbs we carry with us," Melisandre explained. "Not to awaken the child immediately, but to strengthen that bond we mentioned. We believe that Bran might be... trapped in deep dreams. The wolf can be his guide back."
Melisandre withdrew with a subtle bow, her scarlet silhouette vanishing into the corridor's penumbra. Catelyn's eyes followed her with a mixture of suspicion and desperate hope; that contradictory feeling that only a mother with a child on the edge of the abyss could understand. The red priestess had promised to return with brews and essences from distant lands, necessary components for the ritual that, according to her, would strengthen the bond between the sleeping child and his direwolf.
The silence that followed her departure enveloped the room like a heavy blanket, interrupted only by Bran's rhythmic and weak breathing and the occasional crackling of flames in the hearth. Ethel remained near the window, studying Catelyn Stark's face while she caressed with trembling fingers the pale forehead of her son. The maternal devotion he contemplated was both moving and useful for his purposes; a desperate mother was capable of accepting remedies that under other circumstances she would reject with disdain.
Robb Stark had positioned himself beside the bed, his youthful face hardened by worry inappropriate for his age. His hand rested on Summer's back, whose amber eyes remained fixed on his small master, as if he could contemplate something beyond the motionless body that the others saw.
"The maester will not approve of these methods," Robb murmured, breaking the silence with words that sounded as much like warning as personal justification. "Luwin has dedicated his life to the study of healing arts recognized by the Citadel."
"The maesters do not possess all the answers, my lord," Ethel responded with soft but firm voice. "If they did, your brother would have already awakened."
Catelyn raised her gaze, her blue eyes reddened by nights of endless vigil.
"I have prayed to the Seven. I have lit candles before the Warrior so he might give him strength, before the Mother so she might protect him, before the Stranger so he might not take him yet." Her voice broke slightly. "If there exists another way, however strange it might seem..."
The thunder of hurried steps in the corridor interrupted her words. The door opened violently, revealing a young servant whose face was contorted by panic. He panted, as if he had run through the entire fortress.
"My lord! My lady!" he exclaimed with breathless voice, bowing clumsily. "Fire in the eastern storehouses! The flames spread rapidly toward the stables."
Robb straightened immediately, his expression transforming into the mask of authority he had been cultivating since his father's departure.
"How many men are containing the fire?" he asked, already heading toward the door.
"A dozen, my lord, but the wind feeds the flames and..."
"Gather all available men." Robb turned toward his mother, indecision momentarily visible in his eyes. "I must attend to this personally."
Catelyn nodded, the gesture of a woman accustomed to the sacrifices that duty demanded.
"Go. Your brother will be safe here."
The young Stark left hurriedly, followed by the servant who continued relating details about the fire's advance. Their steps faded in the corridor, leaving behind an even denser silence than before.
"A fire in the storehouses," Ethel murmured, approaching the narrow window to scrutinize the night horizon. In the distance, an orange glow began to tint the winter sky. "An inopportune coincidence."
Catelyn caught the suspicious tone in his voice.
"What do you insinuate?"
"Nothing that should concern you now, my lady." Ethel stepped away from the window, his eyes quickly evaluating the room. "Your attention must remain with your son."
The room's door faced them, the only visible entrance and exit. Summer had raised his head, his ears erect and alert, as if perceiving something beyond the distant fire. A low growl began to form in his throat.
Ethel noticed the change in the animal's behavior at the same time as a chill ran down his spine.
"Lady Stark," he said in a low voice, casually positioning himself between the door and the bed where Bran lay. "How many guards habitually watch this wing of the castle?"
Catelyn frowned, momentarily confused by the question.
"Two at the main entrance, one at each end of the corridor and another in front of Bran's chamber door." Her expression darkened as she understood the implication. "Why do you ask?"
"Because the guard at your door did not announce the servant who brought news of the fire," Ethel replied, his muscles tensing imperceptibly as he prepared. "And because fire is an excellent distraction."
Understanding illuminated Catelyn's face at the same time the door opened again. But instead of Melisandre with her remedies or Robb with news of the fire, in the threshold appeared a man of medium height, stocky build, and face partially hidden by an unkempt beard. His clothes, simple but of good make, were stained with what appeared to be spilled wine. The smell of fermented alcohol emanated from him like a miasma.
Most alarming, however, was the dagger he held in his right hand: a piece of exquisite manufacture whose Valyrian steel blade reflected the candlelight with an almost supernatural bluish gleam.
Ethel immediately recognized the incalculable value of the weapon, a detail discordant with the disheveled appearance of its bearer. It was not the knife of a common servant or mercenary.
The man evaluated the room with reddened but surprisingly lucid eyes, stopping only an instant on Catelyn and Ethel before fixing his attention on the small motionless body upon the bed.
"No one should suffer so," he murmured with slurred voice, taking an unsteady step forward. "It is a mercy, my lady. For the child and for the realm."
Before Catelyn could respond, the intruder lunged with unexpected speed toward the bed. Ethel reacted instinctively, interposing himself in his path with a fluid movement that revealed his training in hand-to-hand combat.
The man, surprised by the sudden opposition, wielded the dagger in a horizontal arc meant to cut any obstacle. Ethel anticipated the attack, flexing his knees and letting the blade pass within centimeters of his torso. The momentum of the failed blow momentarily unbalanced the aggressor, an opportunity Ethel seized to deliver a precise and devastating blow to the man's right temple.
The impact resonated with a dull sound, but the intruder, whether through determination or the numbness caused by alcohol, remained standing. He staggered to one side, shaking his head as if to clear his vision. The dagger remained firmly grasped in his hand while he tried to reorient himself toward his objective.
It was then that Summer, until now contained by a kind of animal calculation, became a storm of fangs and fury. The direwolf launched himself from the bed with powerful impulse, his jaw closing mercilessly around the attacker's thigh.
The scream that escaped the man's throat was a grotesque mixture of surprise and agony. The force of the bite penetrated cloth, flesh and possibly bone, while Summer violently shook his head, tearing tissues with the brutal efficiency of a born predator.
Ethel took advantage of the distraction to execute a complex movement: he grasped the man's wrist with one hand while striking the sensitive point between tendons with the other. The attacker's fingers opened involuntarily, releasing the precious dagger that fell directly into Ethel's extended hand.
In an instant, the roles were reversed. The Valyrian steel edge, so sharp it seemed to divide the air itself, now pressed against the intruder's Adam's apple. Summer, meanwhile, maintained his implacable grip on the man's leg, who had fallen to his knees from pain.
"Mercy!" shrieked the attacker, the alcohol in his system amplifying both his pain and terror. "By the old gods and new, mercy!"
Tears ran freely down his flushed face, mixing with the saliva that dripped from his lips and the blood that began to soak his trousers. The smell of urine suddenly joined that of alcohol; his bladder had yielded to panic and agony.
Catelyn Stark had stood during the brief but violent confrontation, positioning herself protectively over her unconscious son's body. Her face, normally composed and dignified, now showed an icy fury that would have made any sensible man retreat.
"Who sent you?" she asked with a voice as cutting as the steel Ethel pressed against the intruder's throat.
The man sobbed incoherently, his unfocused eyes moving between Catelyn, the dagger at his neck, and the direwolf that continued destroying his leg with methodical brutality.
"N-no one... The w-wine... Gold... M-much gold..." he babbled, words stumbling over desperate hiccups. "For mercy... The child will not w-wake... Better so... They t-told me..."
"Who?" Ethel insisted, slightly increasing the blade's pressure until extracting a thin scarlet line from the man's neck. "A name."
"I... I don't know... At the t-tavern... Hooded... " The man seemed to crumble before their eyes, his resistance dissolved by terror and pain. "Remove this beast from me! P-please!"
Summer responded to the plea with a deeper growl, his jaws tightening with renewed pressure. Only a look from Catelyn prevented the wolf from completely tearing the attacker's femoral artery.
"Summer," she commanded with firm voice. "Hold."
The direwolf, showing an understanding that defied nature, marginally loosened his bite, though keeping the man firmly immobilized.
Hurried steps in the corridor announced new presences. Ethel, without removing the dagger from the intruder's neck, prepared for any contingency. The door opened violently to reveal Melisandre, her scarlet eyes shining with supernatural intensity as she evaluated the scene before her.
Behind the red priestess appeared two northern guards, swords unsheathed and expressions of consternation at the spectacle of blood and terror they found.
"The fire in the storehouses was provoked," Melisandre declared with certainty that admitted no questioning. "A distraction, just as I suspected."
Catelyn nodded gravely, her gaze fixed on the kneeling man.
"This is not the first time they have tried to murder my son," she pronounced each word with glacial precision. "The question is who desires his death so much that they are willing to burn Winterfell to achieve it."
Ethel studied the dagger he still held against the failed assassin's neck. The weapon told a different story from what the man's appearance suggested: the handle elaborately worked with gold and set with a garnet of considerable size, the Valyrian steel blade whose forging secret had been lost centuries ago...
"This is not the weapon of a desperate drunk," he observed, slightly turning the blade so candlelight revealed the intricate patterns in the metal. "It is worthy of a prince or powerful lord."
"Someone who wanted to ensure the job was well done," Melisandre concluded, approaching to examine the prisoner with a gaze that seemed to pierce through him. "Fire betrays those who use it without truly understanding it. The flames showed me the path back here."
The man's sobs had become a constant moan, barely conscious as shock began to set into his system. The blood flowing from his thigh had already formed a small pool on the stone floor.
"We need to interrogate him properly," Catelyn said, her voice recovering the calculating coldness of Hoster Tully's daughter and Eddard Stark's wife. "What he knows could be vital to protecting Bran."
Ethel nodded, addressing the guards who remained at the door.
"Take him to a secure place and call the maester. Make sure he doesn't die... yet." He finally removed the dagger from the man's neck. "His life might be worth more than the gold they promised him."
As the guards hurried to comply with the order, dragging the whimpering prisoner out of the room (with Summer reluctantly releasing its prey only at Catelyn's insistence), Ethel exchanged a meaningful look with Melisandre.
The red priestess approached Bran's bed, gently placing on the adjacent table the vials and herb pouches she had brought with her.
"The Lord of Light protected the boy tonight," she murmured as she began to prepare her ritual with precise and fluid movements. "But the shadows are deep and persistent. They will try again to silence what he has seen."
Catelyn, who had returned to her unconscious son's side, abruptly raised her gaze.
"What he has seen?" she asked with intensity. "What could a seven-year-old boy have seen that would be worth enough to attempt to murder him twice?"
Ethel examined the dagger he still held closely, the weight of the Valyrian steel surprisingly light in his hand. The answer, he intuited, was connected to the events that had led Lord Eddard Stark to King's Landing and to Jon Arryn's death.
"Children see what adults prefer to ignore," he finally responded, his gaze meeting Catelyn's. "And in the game of thrones, even the innocent gaze of a child can become a mortal threat to those who have secrets to protect."
Summer returned to his little master's bedside, dark stains of blood still visible on its muzzle. The direwolf settled again in its vigilant position, its amber eyes fixed on Bran as if it could perceive the invisible threads connecting the sleeping boy to the machinations developing around him.
In the fireplace, the flames danced with renewed intensity, casting elongated shadows that seemed to have a life of their own as Melisandre began to murmur words in an ancient tongue. The incense she had lit filled the room with a sweet and penetrating aroma, almost narcotic.
And beneath it all, imperceptible to everyone except perhaps the direwolf, Brandon Stark's eyelids trembled slightly, as if something in the depths of his mind had responded to the chaos surrounding him.