The morning mist of Winterfell, wrapped in the warmth of hot springs, lingered among the grey stone walls.
Brandon Stark, holding a wooden sword, waited early at the gate of the Great Keep. Fine snow clung to his black leather armor. Seeing Daemon's group emerge, he waved immediately: "Quick! Before the mist disperses, I'll take you to the godswood. Weirwoods are most spiritual at this time!"
Daemon followed him through the courtyard. The flagstones underfoot exuded faint warmth—from underground hot spring pipes, preventing freezing even in deep winter.
On the training grounds along the way, several Stark squires were practicing swordsmanship. The crisp sound of steel clashing mixed with shouts was exceptionally clear in the morning mist.
Rupert Crabb couldn't help slowing down, gaze on their moves, fingers unconsciously rubbing the hilt of the steel sword gifted by Roderick.
"Don't rush; you can spar with them later." Brandon patted Rupert's shoulder, grinning. "Northern boys are strong; just right for you to practice."
The iron gate of the godswood was slightly ajar, creaking anciently when pushed open.
Entering, dense shade blocked the morning mist instantly. Ancient weirwood branches intertwined over three acres, weaving a dark green canopy.
Snow on the ground had long melted, revealing moist black soil, soft underfoot, carrying the scent of earth and pine needles.
"Look there!" Brandon pointed to the center. A pool of black water shimmered. Beside it stood a giant weirwood requiring two people to encircle—the trunk gleamed silver-white. The face carved on the bark was blurred but brows and eyes still visible, seemingly reflecting skylight. "This is Winterfell's heart tree, eight thousand years old, older than Brandon the Builder's castle."
Mysaria leaned close to the pool, staring curiously at the reflection, suddenly pointing to the roots: "There's moss!" Everyone looked to see emerald moss wrapping the roots, exceptionally bright in the black water—nourished by hot spring water seeping through stone cracks.
Gael walked to the heart tree, fingertips gently brushing the carvings, whispering: "Older than Riverrun's heart tree." Looking up, light spots leaking through branches fell on the black water like scattered silver.
"This way!" Brandon led everyone around the pool, through several young weirwoods. Three small steaming ponds suddenly appeared—water pale blue, stone walls covered in moss. Hot spring water gushed from cracks at the base. "These are hot spring pools. In deepest winter, Stark children love playing here."
Beren squatted by the pool, dipping a finger, surprised: "It's warm! Books say Winterfell's hot springs are truly this warm."
Leaving the godswood, they climbed stone stairs to the Great Keep.
The granite walls of the Great Keep gleamed coldly. An enclosed stone bridge connected the keep and the armory. Brandon pulled Daemon onto the bridge, pointing out the window: "You can see the whole training ground from here. Last year Willam and I competed throwing axes here; he cried when he lost!"
Daemon looked in that direction. Squires on the training ground had switched to archery, arrows nailing bullseyes. A broken tower in the distance was exceptionally conspicuous in the morning mist—a towering stone tower, the lookout at the top intact, completely different from the "struck by lightning and collapsed" appearance Daemon read in books in his past life memory.
"That is?" Daemon's voice held surprise. He had only seen records of the Broken Tower in history books, never imagining it so tall and straight a hundred years ago.
"Magnificent, right?" Brandon nodded. "Winterfell's highest watchtower, can see the edge of the Wolfswood. What's wrong? You recognize it?"
"Just heard of it." Daemon withdrew his gaze, sighing inwardly—this journey after rebirth always let him see scenes "lost in history." This intact Broken Tower was more vivid than any history book.
For the next half day, Brandon took everyone to every corner of Winterfell.
They climbed the Bell Tower, saw the enclosed stone bridge connecting it to the Rookery, heard Brandon tell of "Snowbeard" King Edric building the outer walls—"Outer walls eighty feet high, took twenty years. Ancestor was scared because people kept raiding Winterfell then, so he gritted his teeth to build it!"
They entered the Maester's Turret. Outside the Library Tower below, stone stairs wound up the wall. Seeing the Library Tower, Beren immediately pulled the Maester to ask questions, eyes bright as if finding treasure;
They visited the Hunter's Gate. Barking came from the kennels. Outside was open wasteland, the Wolfswood visible two miles away—"Hunting from here doesn't need to circle the Winter Town; very convenient!"
Most shocking to Daemon were the Crypts of Winterfell.
Pushing open the heavy ironwood door, a cold breath hit his face.
Winding stone steps extended downward. The deeper they went, the heavier the sense of history.
The crypts were long and narrow. Pairs of stone pillars stood on sides. Between pillars, stone statues of Stark ancestors sat like kings on thrones. An iron sword stood before each statue, a snarling direwolf carved at the feet. The statues' brows still showed the unique resilience of House Stark.
"This is Brandon the Builder." Brandon pointed to a statue deep inside. Tiny runes were carved on the crown. "He built Winterfell and part of the Wall with giants."
Daemon walked to the statue, gaze on the iron sword—though rusty, it still exuded a chilling killing intent, as if guarding the sleeping soul.
He remembered countless Starks recorded in history books, those Wolves of the North who fought in the past and held fast in winter, now turned into cold stone statues, lying quietly deep underground.
"Kings of Winter are all buried here." Benjen had arrived unnoticed, voice echoing in the crypts. "The sword before each statue is to keep their wandering spirits at rest."
Visiting the crypts, twilight deepened. When they returned to the hall, Lord Ellard sat in his wheelchair drinking hot ale. Seeing them enter, he smiled: "Enjoyed today?"
"Too much!" Mycah, the silly boy, answered first, black eyes full of excitement. "The Broken Tower is higher than imagined, hot springs very warm, and the Library Tower has books; Beren said he could stay there for three days!"
Beren nodded blushing, holding a copy of History of the First Men of the North borrowed from the library.
Daemon looked at everyone's smiling faces, suddenly speaking: "Lord Duke, I want to visit the Wall."
The hall quieted instantly. Ellard froze, then smiled: "The Wall? Night's Watch territory, cold and remote; what's there to see?"
"I want to see that barrier guarding the North for eight thousand years." Daemon's tone held firmness. "And see what the Night's Watch looks like."
"I'll take you!" Brandon stood up suddenly, patting his chest. "I have an uncle in the Night's Watch, a Ranger at Castle Black! Just wanted to visit him. We can take the Kingsroad; it's closer!"
He paused, adding, "Coincidentally, my branch of Starks settled in Barrowton. My dad and Willam's dad Earl Roderick are very close. If I hadn't gone hunting in the Wolfswood with friends last time, we might have met in Barrowton!"
Benjen nodded slightly. "Brandon's uncle is indeed at the Wall, named Rodrik Stark, a reliable Ranger. Brandon has been to the Wall several times with friends; safer with him guiding."
Lord Ellard thought for a moment, nodding: "Alright. Northern winter is cold, but snow on the Kingsroad is cleared; road won't be too dangerous. Just bring more warm clothes; wind at the Wall is fiercer than the Neck."
Daemon was about to thank him when he caught a glimpse of Larys Strong standing in the corner, black robe wrapped around him, strange light in his black eyes. He couldn't help remembering Lucamore Strong mentioned by Daemon Targaryen at Harrenhal—Larys's grand-uncle by relation.
"Larys," Daemon looked at him, "you coming too?"
Larys recovered, usual faint smile on his lips: "Where the Prince goes, I naturally follow. Don't leave me behind because of my bad leg. Fortunate to see the scenery of the Wall."
His voice was light, but expectation hid in his eyes—everyone knew Lucamore Strong's reputation wasn't good, but for Larys, this unmet grand-uncle might be his only "acquaintance" in the North.
Night deepened. In Winterfell's hall, everyone began packing.
Willam Dustin stayed as a squire. Beren excitedly hugged his book, saying he'd record Wall observations;
Rupert sharpened his steel sword, saying he'd spar with Night's Watchmen at the Wall;
Jarmen Waters checked bows and arrows, single eye scanning The Cannibal outside, seeming to plan route security.
Daemon stood on the terrace, watching the distant Broken Tower.
Moonlight fell on the tower top, gleaming silver-white. This tower that would collapse in a century stood intact on Winterfell's land now, as if guarding some possibility unchanged by history.
He thought of the Wall's ice, Night's Watch oaths, and warriors who bled at the Wall in his past life—this trip might not be just for scenery, but for unknown threats.
"Thinking of what?" Gael walked over, wearing a fur cloak, holding a handwarmer.
"Thinking if the ice wall is really as high as legends say, touching clouds." Daemon smiled lightly, taking the warmer; warmth spread from his palm.
"Brandon says the Wall's ice is blue, glowing in sunlight." Gael leaned beside him, looking north. "When we get there, must touch it."
Night bird calls came from the distant godswood, mixing with hot spring steam, exceptionally gentle in Winterfell's night.
Daemon knew their Northern tour was heading further north, toward the ice wall spanning the continent.
Winterfell's ancient shadows, Stark warmth, and everyone met on this journey would become baggage for their trip to the Wall.
Early next morning, when the first sunlight hit Winterfell's direwolf banner, Daemon's retinue set off again.
Brandon rode at the front, waving the Stark wolf banner wantonly;
Larys rode his grey donkey, black robe snapping in the wind;
The Cannibal and Dreamfyre spread wings, sweeping low over the Kingsroad. Dragon shadows on snow looked like two black lightning bolts;
Alys Rivers, the "witch," had been low-key since arriving in the North, seemingly her magic "withered" with cold. She was in the carriage by the stove, teaching Mysaria, Beren, and the joining Mycah.
The outline of Winterfell receded. Shadows of the Broken Tower, godswood, and crypts were left behind. The road ahead led to the end of the Kingsroad, to that ice-covered Wall—there were Night's Watch bonfires, ice field winds, and new stories waiting for them.
---