The hall was quiet, the stone cold beneath my boots. I stood alone under the arch of Winterfell's outer keep, flanked by heavy timber and banners that whispered with every shift of wind. Snow clung to the corners of the stonework, and somewhere deeper in the castle, a forge rang with hammer and steel.
I rubbed my hands together, not just from the chill but from nerves.
"Wait here," the guard had said. "The master-at-arms or the maester will come for you."
So I waited.
And then I heard it: the sound of boots—measured, heavy, each step announcing purpose.
From around the corridor came a man who looked carved from rock and iron. Broad-shouldered, bald on top, with thick graying whiskers that framed a stern face. His cloak was pinned by a simple iron brooch, his sword worn not for ceremony but for use.
Ser Rodrik Cassel.
He studied me with a single glance, eyes sharp and unreadable. Then he spoke, voice gravelly but not unkind.
"You're the Bogwater boy?"
I nodded. "Levi."
"Levi what?"
"…Just Levi."
A pause. "Humble, then. Or cautious. Come. We speak inside."
I followed him through a narrow hall into a chamber of stone and dark oak. A small hearth glowed in the far wall, casting long shadows. A single table waited in the center, plain and unadorned. Beside it stood another man—lean, robed in grey, his maester's chain catching firelight. His eyes were thin and watchful beneath a high brow.
"Maester Walys," Ser Rodrik introduced. "He will record your words."
"Be at ease," the maester added softly, "we are not here to judge, only to understand."
I nodded again, unsure how much ease I had left.
Rodrik gestured to the table. "Sit."
I did.
He remained standing.
"Start from the beginning," he said. "What happened to the caravan?"
I breathed in. Then I told them.
The path. The woods. The sudden attack. The chaos. The screams. Fifty-eight men dead. Three I knew by name. I told them about the boys we caught alive—how they looked half-starved, no older than me.
"And what did they say?" Maester Walys asked, eyes never blinking.
"That… winter isn't for the weak," I replied. "That they had to do it. Or die."
Rodrik's jaw tightened.
Walys nodded slowly. "And you believed them?"
"I…" I hesitated. "I didn't know what to believe. They didn't look like killers."
"No one does, the first time," Rodrik muttered.
Maester Walys shifted slightly, taking a fresh quill from his sleeve.
"You survived the attack without raising a blade?"
"Yes," I said. "I didn't fight. I just—watched."
Rodrik gave me a look I couldn't read. Not scorn. Not pity. Just weight.
"And you call yourself from Bogwater," Walys said, lightly scratching notes on the parchment.
I hesitated again. "That's where I woke up. I don't know much more than that."
The room was quiet for a moment. No crackling hearth. No scratch of quill. Just the space between men, heavy and full.
Then Rodrik stepped forward.
"You're not Northern," he said flatly. "You don't speak like one. You don't act like one. You wear the leathers like a boy who never learned how they're stitched. But you tell the truth."
I said nothing.
Rodrik continued. "The Lord of Winterfell—Rickard Stark—has heard what happened. He's asked to see the one survivor who didn't carry a blade but saw it all."
I blinked. "He wants to see me?"
Rodrik nodded, then added, "But before you speak to him, you best understand this: Lord Rickard is not a man of empty words. Every breath he wastes on you is a breath not spent on war, winter, or kin. Say what you saw. Say only truth. No more. No less. You understand?"
I swallowed and nodded.
"Good," Rodrik said, stepping aside. "He'll see you now."
The guard from earlier returned and silently gestured for me to follow.
As we passed under another set of doors, I glanced back once. Maester Walys was watching me still, but now with something else in his eyes. Curiosity… or warning, I couldn't tell.
I faced forward.
And walked toward the heart of Winterfell.
Toward Lord Stark.
Toward the seat of the North.