Erick approached Winterfell's outer gate, his curiosity mirroring that of any visitor glimpsing the ancient fortress. He wanted to stroll in like anyone else, pass through the gate, and see the heart of the North up close.
But as he observed people entering and leaving… he quickly understood things weren't so straightforward.
Most of those entering were locals... who greeted the guards by name. Some carried carved wooden slips, which served as entry passes. Outsiders without a reason or connections were politely but firmly turned away.
Erick sighed beneath his disguise as an old man.
"So much for walking in like everyone else," he muttered to himself.
He walked along the outer wall until he found a quiet spot with no guards nearby. The First Wall towered above him, seven meters high and built from rough grey stone, weathered by centuries of snow and wind. He crouched, jumped, and landed silently on the other side, as light as a feather.
Inside the First Wall, Winterfell felt like a small town hidden within a fortress. Snow covered the narrow streets and crunched underfoot. Smoke rose from chimneys. The houses were sturdy but simple, built from grey stone blocks no bigger than a man could carry. Steep roofs let the snow slide off, and small shuttered windows glowed with warm firelight.
As Erick walked, he peeked through a few windows. He saw families gathered around hearths, soldiers sharpening their blades, servants mending clothes, and merchant families sorting their goods.
The air smelled of iron, woodsmoke, and stew. Nearby, a hammer rang out on an anvil in a small forge between two houses. This part of Winterfell felt busy and practical, the center of daily life.
Ahead, the Second Wall rose, dark and imposing.
It stood nearly twelve meters high, built from huge blocks of dark, almost black stone, each weighing several tons. The surface was smoother, older, and colder than the first wall. Erick ran his hand along the stone.
"This wasn't built by the same people. The First Wall must have been added later," he realized at once.
He found another quiet spot, waited until the guards looked away, then walked up the wall using chakra and flipped over the top.
He landed inside the second ring and stopped. The difference was obvious right away.
No snow blanketed the streets here.
Warm air drifted through the alleys, coming from vents in the foundations of the houses. Heat from the hot springs beneath Winterfell traveled through stone channels, warming the entire inner ring. The houses here looked very different.
These houses were made from huge black stone blocks, some as big as wagons. The walls were thick enough to hold off a siege for years. They had arched doorways, deep-set windows, and steam vents carved into the stone that let out warm mist. The roofs were reinforced with timber and slate to last for centuries.
There were also some giant houses.
Some buildings were simply much larger, with taller doorframes, higher ceilings, and wider rooms. It seemed like they were built for people twice as big as anyone living in the North now. Erick stared at a nearly four-meter-tall doorway.
The warmth distorted the air, leaving the streets damp, not icy.
It felt like a hidden world, a warm oasis in the middle of the frozen land.
Erick walked with confidence but always made sure to stay out of sight if anyone looked too closely. His old-man disguise helped, but he still avoided drawing attention. He passed a training yard where Stark guards practiced sword drills, storerooms built into the wall, and a long stone corridor that led toward the third wall and the Great Keep.
As Erick went farther in, he sensed something strange in the air.
It wasn't like his formation, which made the environment feel charged. This was different... subtle, ancient, and woven into the stone itself. The air felt alive.
A quiet energy filled the air, and the closer he got to the third wall, the stronger it became.
The third wall stood before him, a fortress within a fortress. It was fifteen meters tall, made from the same dark stone as the second wall, but it was even thicker, heavier, and more imposing.
At the base, the wall was seven meters thick, narrowing to five meters at the top. The battlements were wide enough for two men to walk side by side.
Guards patrolled in pairs, moving with steady discipline.
They wore chainmail hauberks that reached their knees, padded gambesons for warmth, round shields on their backs, straight swords at their hips, kettle helmets with nose guards, and heavy grey wool cloaks that blended with the stone.
They looked like true Northern soldiers, hardened by the cold, well-trained, and always alert.
Erick watched from the shadows of a narrow alley.
He had already seen several guards glance his way. They weren't suspicious, just curious. But even curiosity could get him caught if he tried to sneak into the third wall.
He checked his map. The third wall had only two gates... the north and south gates... and he was closer to the north one.
He watched the guards closely, studying their behavior.
Most of the time, when two guards passed, they just nodded. But when a higher-ranking soldier, such as a team leader or officer, walked by, the guards straightened, tapped their fist to their chest, and returned to their duties.
There were no special cloaks, badges, or colored sashes. There were no visible rank markings at all.
Erick guessed they recognized each other by face, which made sneaking in much harder.
After watching for twenty minutes, he spotted a man.
He looked to be in his forties, with the unmistakable posture of a veteran. His beard was thick, grey, and neatly trimmed, and his grey hair was tied back. His armor stood out from the others... thicker mail, reinforced leather, and polished shoulder plates.
He carried himself like a knight, and everyone treated him that way.
Every guard he passed saluted him with a fist to the chest. Soldiers stepped aside respectfully, and stablehands bowed their heads.
Erick recognized him... not right away, but after a moment... as Ser Rodrik Cassel.
He had only seen him older in the show, but the face, beard, and posture all matched.
Erick watched him go into a nearby house. The map confirmed someone else was inside... a woman, probably his wife.
The map showed everyone, but only named people Erick already knew. He could see Elira and Galen labeled, but everyone else was just a dot.
Now Ser Rodrik appeared on his map too.
Erick made the Ram hand sign.
His body shimmered, and in a puff, he had grey hair, a thick beard, broad shoulders, and the posture of a knight.
In an instant, Ser Rodrik Cassel stood in the alley... or rather, Erick in his new disguise.
He stepped out of the alley and walked toward the north gate, calm and confident, like someone who belonged there.
The guards didn't question him or even look twice. They just nodded and stepped aside.
Erick passed through the archway, and as soon as he crossed the threshold, a wave of energy hit him... stronger than anything he had felt in the second wall.
It was woven into the stone, the soil, and the air, pulsing through the ground like a heartbeat.
'It feels like it's coming from everywhere,' Erick thought as he looked around, unable to find the exact source.
The view made Erick catch his breath, amazement and awe flooding him as he took in the scene.
Directly ahead stood the Great Keep, the true heart of Winterfell. It was enormous, a towering structure of dark stone with thick walls and narrow windows. The keep wasn't elegant... it was powerful, built for both war and winter.
Massive buttresses supported the outer walls… arrow slits dotted the stone, and steam drifted from vents near the base, warming the building from within. The highest tower reached into the sky, its roof covered in snow.
The keep felt ancient, not just centuries old but millennia. Erick felt small and humbled standing before it, a mix of reverence and awe coursing through him.
To the right, the smithy roared with heat. Sparks flew from the open forge as blacksmiths hammered steel on anvils, and the steady clang echoed across the courtyard.
The smithy was built from thick stone, with a wide open front to let out the heat. Racks of weapons lined the walls... swords, spears, axes, and shields. The air smelled of hot metal and coal. This was where Northern steel was made.
To the left were the stables... long, warm, and built from timber reinforced with stone. Horses snorted inside, their breath steaming in the cold air. Stablehands moved between stalls, brushing coats and checking hooves.
Even the stables felt old… built with care to last for generations.
Ahead, the courtyard opened into a wide training ground. Men sparred with wooden swords, their boots thudding on the stone slabs. The ground was warm, heated from below by the hot springs.
Steam coiled along the yard's edge, making the scene ethereal.
Erick watched two guards clash shields, moving with sharp, disciplined motions. The clang of wooden swords echoed off the walls.
The ground under Erick's feet was paved with huge, smooth, warm stone slabs. Thin vents between the stones let out gentle streams of hot air, keeping the courtyard free of snow.
Warmth rose around him, and it almost felt like the place was breathing.
At the center of it all, in the heart of Winterfell and beyond a smaller inner wall just five meters tall, stood the Godswood. And at its center was the Weirwood.
The tree was huge.
Its white bark glowed faintly in the cold light, smooth and pale as bone. Deep red leaves rustled softly, like whispers on the wind. The tree was as tall as Winterfell's highest towers, and its branches spread wide, covering the whole Godswood in a canopy of crimson.
Standing before it felt like seeing a living relic. "This… this is incredible..." Erick had been amazed before, just looking at Winterfell from a distance, but now he couldn't find the words to describe it.
Erick's whole body shook with pure excitement, like a kid in a candy store or a gamer stepping into a real-life fantasy.
He wanted to run around like a tourist, poking every building and touching every stone.
But he made himself walk slowly, with the dignity of a seasoned knight.
Up close, the Great Keep was even more impressive. Its walls were thick enough to withstand a battering ram, and its massive wooden door was reinforced with iron bands.
Erick craned his neck to look up at the highest tower. Snow stuck to the roof, and ravens perched along the battlements.
He whispered under his breath, "This is insane…"
He had seen pictures and watched the show, but none of that compared to standing here, feeling the heat of the springs beneath his feet and the weight of history above him.
Erick moved closer to the smity, pretending to inspect the area as a knight would check on the workers.
Inside, the forge roared with orange fire. Sparks danced in the air. Blacksmiths hammered glowing steel on anvils, shaping swords, spearheads, and horseshoes.
Erick watched a smith quench a blade in oil, steam hissing upward.
The stables were warm and smelled of hay, leather, and horses. Erick stepped inside, nodding at a stablehand who immediately saluted him.
He nodded back stiffly and walked deeper into the stables before the man could speak.
Inside, horses snorted and stamped their hooves. Saddles hung neatly on racks, and buckets of oats lined the walls.
A stable boy looked over. "Ser Rodrik? Is something wrong with..."
Erick immediately pretended to cough violently... "khoff... carry on..." shaking his head back and forth.
He had maybe Rodriks disguise, but not his voice... that's why he was trying his best not to speak too much.
The boy blinked, nodded, and returned to brushing a mare.
Erick exhaled in relief.
The kitchens were a world of their own... warm, loud, and filled with the smell of bread, onions, and roasting meat. Erick wandered in, hoping to observe without interacting.
But that hope died instantly... a cook spotted him.
A large woman with flour on her apron marched straight toward him.
"Ser Rodrik! You're early! The stew isn't ready yet!"
Erick froze… then slowly nodded… pointed at a random pot.
The cook squinted. "You want that? That's just boiled turnips."
Erick nodded again, trying to look wise and knightly.
The cook sighed. "Well, if you insist…"
She handed him a wooden bowl full of steaming turnips.
Erick stared at it... he hated turnips... but he couldn't break character.
So he lifted the bowl, pretended to inhale deeply, and made a satisfied "hmm" noise.
The cook beamed. "I knew you'd appreciate simple food, Ser Rodrik."
Erick gave her a thumbs-up.
A thumbs-up.
He felt like a complete idiot.
The cook frowned. "What… what is that gesture supposed to mean?"
Erick panicked... pointed at his throat, then at the bowl, then made a vague circular motion with his hand.
The cook gasped. "Oh! Is your throat sore? And the turnips help?"
Erick nodded vigorously.
"Well, why didn't you say so earlier? I'll make you a honey tea!"
Erick shook his head violently.
"No? Just the turnips then?"
He nodded.
The cook shrugged and returned to her work.
Erick escaped the kitchen as fast as dignity allowed… clutching the bowl of turnips like a cursed artifact.
He wandered… exploring every corner he could without drawing attention.
The barracks. Long stone building with rows of beds, weapon racks, and armor stands… the air smelled of sweat, leather, and oil. Soldiers chatted quietly, sharpening blades or repairing gear.
The armory. A fortified stone room filled with racks of weapons… walls lined with chainmail and padded gambesons. A guard stood watch at the door.
The bathhouse. Steam drifted from a low stone building… the hot springs fed directly into the baths, making them warm even in the dead of winter.
The ravenry... tall tower with narrow windows. Ravens perched on wooden beams, cawing softly. A maester moved inside, sorting scrolls.
The storage hall... massive underground rooms filled with grain, salted meat, dried vegetables, and barrels of ale. The air was cool and dry. Workers moved crates and sacks with practiced efficiency.
Erick looked at the amount of food and noted to himself that Winterfell could survive a siege for years.
Finally, he reached the inner wall... beyond it, he could see red leaves.
Eddard Stark had woken before dawn.
Earlier than usual. Earlier than even the servants who lit the first fires. A cold unease settled in his chest the moment he opened his eyes, a feeling like he had forgotten something important, something just out of reach.
He sat in his solar, the only light coming from a single candle and the faint grey glow of morning creeping through the window. The room was quiet, save for the soft crackle of embers in the hearth.
On his desk lay his greatest enemy... paperwork.
And beside it, a parchment from Bear Island.
From Harlen Mormont. The message was grim, with accusations from Jorah's own wife and her regret clear in every line. She had tried to stop him, but no one could have prevented his flight once he made his choice.
Ned understood that... he did not blame her.
The North would find Jorah eventually.
He was already preparing to travel to Bear Island himself, to investigate the matter thoroughly and ensure House Mormont's honor was not stained by one man's actions.
But that wasn't what troubled him.
The unease in his chest grew stronger, like a name on the tip of his tongue that refused to surface. Every time he tried to distract himself by reading, pacing, or reviewing reports, the feeling only grew sharper.
Half an hour ago, a new sensation joined it.
Worry.
A quiet, persistent worry that made him rise from his chair and check on his family. He found Catelyn asleep, Robb curled against her. Jon slept peacefully in the nursery. Everyone was safe.
Yet the worry grew.
Now he paced from his desk to the window, unable to sit still. From here, he could see the entire courtyard... the smithy, the armory, the servants' entrance to the kitchens, the stables, and the training yard.
And the North Gate.
His eyes kept drifting back to it, pulled by instinct.
He sighed, ready to turn away, when something caught his attention.
A figure.
Ser Rodrik Cassel.
Ned frowned.
Rodrik's third wife was due to give birth any day. The man had been checking on her constantly, leaving the keep every two hours. Ned had seen him leave earlier.
But now Rodrik stood in the courtyard… staring around with open awe.
Ned watched, confusion turning slowly into something.
Rodrik walked with a steady, grounded, familiar gait, but his behavior was wrong.
He inspected buildings he had seen a thousand times, lingered at corners Rodrik never usually noticed, and moved with curiosity instead of routine.
Ned leaned closer to the window.
Rodrik now carried a bowl and wandered toward the inner wall. He paused at the wall of the Godswood, and then, without hesitation, jumped over the five-meter wall with ease.
Ned's breath caught, eyes almost popping out of his skull.
Rodrik Cassel could not do that. No man could do that.
The unease in Ned's chest turned into certainty. That was not his friend Ser Rodrik.
No, a man he knew could not do that. Maybe it wasn't a man at all, but something else.
His first instinct was to call the guards and raise the alarm. But his gut twisted sharply, as if warning him. Charging blindly at something that could leap stone walls was not wise.
He forced himself to breathe, calm down, and think.
Whatever that thing was, it was powerful... and it was now inside the Godswood.
Ned turned from the window and looked at the sword resting in the corner of his solar. Dust clung to the scabbard... he had not needed it in some time, but his instincts told him he would need it now.
He stepped into the corridor and quietly ordered the nearest guard, "Find Maester Luwin. Find Ser Rodrik. Prepare men, but wait. Half an hour. If I don't come back in half an hour, march into the Godswood."
The guard nodded and hurried off.
Ned returned to his solar, closed the door, and rested his hand on the hilt of his sword.
He exhaled slowly.
He was preparing himself for the worst, not because he wanted a fight, but because something had entered the Godswood, and he could not ask another man to face it for him.
From how long he lived, he knew a few things... that is, at least one Stark needs to be in Winterfell, Godswood needs to be defended even with his life, and that Winter is Coming.