The morning mist clung low over Bogwater, curling like lazy smoke around the few scattered huts and muddy trails. Levi rubbed sleep from his eyes, not because he was well-rested, but because he'd spent most of the night tossing and turning—half from anxiety, half from boredom.
He'd meant to sleep through the morning. That had been the plan. A third day of grace meant one more chance to do nothing of value before reality—or Mae—forced him to move. But then came the knock.
"Oi, get up, lazybones," Jory's voice called from the other side of the door. "Let's go see Moat Cailin."
Levi grumbled something into his arm, not moving. He had intended to laze around and mess with the Cheat Engine file hidden in the corner of his memory—or wherever it sat waiting. But the boy didn't stop knocking.
Mae, who had already been stirring a pot over her fire, turned with a ladle in hand. "You heard him. You can't keep rotting in here. Even moss knows how to grow."
Levi groaned again but stood. "Fine, fine, I'll go meet this Moat guy."
"It's not a man," Jory shouted from outside.
"I know!" Levi lied as he grabbed the old boots Mae had found him the day before.
The road to Moat Cailin was no road at all—just a sodden trail of crushed reeds and sinking stones. Jory walked ahead, balancing himself like a tightrope walker on the roots that broke through the swampy earth, while Levi trailed behind, mumbling about ruined socks and the possible need for tetanus shots. Not that he was even sure Westeros had tetanus.
He still wasn't sure if this world even had a name. Mae never said Westeros. No one had. And his Cheat Engine certainly didn't come with a map.
As they walked, Levi noticed more villagers along the trail—men with hunting dogs, women with baskets, even a few children. All moving eastward, toward Moat Cailin.
"What's going on?" Levi asked.
"Dunno," Jory said, pausing to adjust the small knife at his belt. "Something's happening. Heard someone say a noble's passing through."
Levi frowned. "Noble?"
Jory nodded. "That's rare. Most don't bother coming this far south unless there's something they want. Or someone to punish."
That made Levi pick up his pace. The last thing he wanted was to run into someone who'd accuse him of stealing crusty bread and sentence him to public finger removal or whatever passed for law here.
The fortress rose in the distance, black stone hunched and crumbling like a dying beast. Moat Cailin. The seat of Northern power once, according to Mae—until time, war, and swamp had swallowed it up.
As they reached a bend in the road, a sudden sound made them both stop—hoofbeats.
Levi turned just in time to see riders emerging from the trees behind them. Six of them, all mounted, clad in furs and chainmail. Their faces were hard, bearded, Northern. On their cloaks and armor shone the image of a grey direwolf.
"What's that sigil?" Levi asked under his breath.
Jory paled. "Don't say anything. Just… stay still."
Before Levi could ask more, the riders fanned out, cutting off their path.
"Halt!" one of them barked, lowering his spear toward Levi's chest.
Levi raised his hands instinctively. "Okay, okay, I surrender or whatever you want! I don't even have a weapon—unless sarcasm counts!"
The rider sneered. "Come with us. You're being brought to the Moat."
Jory didn't resist. Levi hesitated, then followed as the spears hovered inches from his back. "Couldn't we just… not do that?"
No one laughed.
The walk was silent, tense. Levi kept waiting for someone to tie a rope around his neck or accuse him of crimes he hadn't committed—yet.
But when the moss-covered gates of Moat Cailin finally loomed ahead, no punishment awaited. Instead, what Levi saw made him slow in awe.
Inside the ruined keep, surrounded by stone towers half-swallowed by earth, was a courtyard teeming with activity. Retainers moved in and out, carrying crates, leading horses, shouting orders. At the far end, where a small fire was burning and servants arranged cushions beneath an old tree, stood two figures.
A boy—no older than Jory—was sparring with a wooden sword. A short-haired man barked corrections, clearly a trainer. Watching them from nearby, seated on a bench, was a girl.
Young, maybe fourteen. Dark hair, tied back. A face sharper than it should have been for someone that age, and eyes that scanned like they were used to command.
She looked… familiar. Not to Levi, not truly—but to the part of his brain still trying to remember every page of lore from the Game of Thrones wiki.
Before he could place the name, the riders barked another command.
"Kneel. You are in the presence of noble blood."
Jory obeyed instantly. Levi, slower, got down on one knee, muttering, "I am so not built for this medieval cosplay."
The girl turned slightly. Her eyes met Levi's for a brief second. Cold. Curious.
Benjen Stark watched too, gripping his training sword.
Levi had no idea what he was supposed to say, so he said nothing. Just tried not to fall over or look like a threat—or a fool.
Which, frankly, was hard.