Erick stood underneath the old tree of the Godswood. Up close, this place felt different from the rest of Winterfell... quieter, older, as if the world itself kept holding its breath.
The Weirwood dominated the clearing.
Its trunk was massive, pale as bone, and smooth as polished marble. Even ten grown men linking arms couldn't reach around it. The bark glowed softly in the dim morning light, and the carved face stared out with eyes that bled red sap.
It was majestic, but honestly… a little creepy too.
Canopy stretched wide… its branches heavy with deep red leaves that rustled quietly even though the air was still. Snow clung to the outer branches, but the ground beneath the tree stayed warm thanks to the hot springs under Winterfell.
Erick stepped closer. When he first awakened his chakra, he sensed it immediately, maybe because of his talent. But with meditation, his senses sharpened even more, including his sense of his own vitality, and as he practiced with formations, his senses only grew sharper.
Now, the vitality he had sensed throughout the fortress surged here, thick and potent. It wasn't coming from the tree itself, not exactly. As he placed his hand on the bark, he felt it clearly.
The energy pulsed beneath the roots.
Deep underground, it felt a bit like a formation, but this one was older, rougher, more primitive, and more closely connected to nature. It worked in a way he could only guess.
He closed his eyes, letting his senses adjust. "Children of the Forest…" Erick whispered. "They knew magic, so why not formations too? That could explain a lot, maybe even the weirwood network. But what was their goal? Did they try to give nature itself a kind of vision?"
He opened his eyes again and looked up at the carved face. Its expression was unreadable: sorrow, wisdom, and warning all mixed together.
He was so focused that he didn't hear the footsteps until they were close.
Erick turned sharply… a man stood at the edge of the clearing, sword in hand. It wasn't drawn, but he was ready.
Eddard Stark.
He looked younger than the man Erick remembered from the show. His hair was darker, his face less lined, but he still had that same quiet strength. His eyes were gray, sharp, and steady.
"Who are you?" Ned's voice was subdued, steady, edged with tension.
Erick slowly raised both hands, palms open and visible, making sure his movements were deliberate and nonthreatening.
Ned's eyes narrowed. His grip tightened on the hilt, but he didn't draw the blade. He was cautious, not reckless.
Erick sighed to himself. He really needed to improve his stealth and acting.
There was no point in hiding anymore.
He concentrated, letting go of the chakra that kept up his transformation.
A soft puff of smoke burst around him.
When it cleared, Ser Rodrik Cassel was gone.
Now, a young man stood there in a grey cloak, his face hidden behind a cat-shaped mask.
Ned Stark reacted instantly. He jumped back, slipped on the damp roots, and landed on the ground with a startled grunt.
"By the gods…" he whispered, eyes wide.
He scrambled to his feet, hand still on the sword, but he didn't draw it. His gaze flicked over Erick… the mask, the cloak… and recognition dawned.
"You... you're the boy who saved those people from the slavers."
Erick nodded once… Ned's shoulders relaxed a little. The fear didn't vanish, but the hostility faded.
"Why are you here? What do you want?"
"I was traveling, and I wished to see Winterfell. Its architecture… is remarkable."
Ned blinked. Of all the answers he expected, that was not one of them.
"You came here... to admire the buildings?"
Erick shrugged.
Ned stared at him, caught between confusion and disbelief.
"You could have introduced yourself, I would have..."
But Erick raised a hand to stop him.
"That isn't necessary, I've seen what I wanted to see."
He turned slightly, preparing to leave.
Ned took a step forward. "Wait..."
Erick channeled chakra to his legs. In a burst of speed, he disappeared from Ned's view, vanishing from the clearing almost instantly.
The leaves rustled in his wake.
Ned Stark stood alone beneath the Weirwood, sword still in hand, breath misting in the cold air. He looked all around him, but the stranger was gone.
Then he looked at the place where the masked stranger had stood.
Then at the ancient tree.
Then, at the wall, the boy had leaped earlier.
A shudder went down his spine.
Not from the cold, but from the knowledge that something powerful had walked through his home and chosen to leave peacefully.
The carved face of the Weirwood stared down at him.
Ned's breath misted in the cold air as he tried to steady himself.
He had faced danger before, seen battle, and stood against men twice his size and survived.
But this… this was different.
"What in the name of the old gods was that…?" His voice sounded small in the vast quiet of the Godswood.
Ned had seen skilled fighters... had seen men who moved with grace and precision.
But he had never seen anything like that, and then the boy just vanished before him.
He rubbed his forehead, trying to make sense of it.
Ned turned toward the Weirwood, its carved face watching him with that eternal, unreadable expression.
"Was this your doing?" Ned murmured, because right now he felt no warning, only calm.
The tree did not answer, but the air appeared heavier, as if the Weirwood itself was listening.
Ned stepped closer, placing a hand on the pale bark. The tree was warm beneath his palm, warmed by the springs below. He felt no magic... no whisper... no vision... no vitality.
He remembered the reports... the rescued villagers, the slavers found dead, the stories of a masked youth who moved like a shadow. He had dismissed some of it as exaggeration. Northerners loved a good tale.
But now?
Now he wasn't so sure.
He would not tell the guards. Panic would help no one.
But he would speak to Maester Luwin... he would keep watch... and he would remember that Winterfell had been visited by something unusual... something that did not fit neatly into the world he knew.
He looked once more at the Weirwood. For the first time in years, Ned felt the world was shifting… quietly, subtly… standing at the edge of something he could not yet name.
He turned and left the Godswood, his cloak brushing the frost-covered roots, his mind heavy with questions that had no answers.
Erick didn't stop moving until the third wall faded behind him and the heavy stone of the second wall loomed overhead. He dropped from the battlements into a narrow alley, landing lightly.
Only then did he let out a long breath.
The encounter with Ned Stark replayed in his mind... the shock in the man's eyes, the instinctive reach for his sword. Erick hadn't meant to frighten him. He hadn't meant to be seen at all.
"I really suck at stealth…"
The real reason he left so quickly… was that he felt embarrassed.
He slipped through the second ring with ease, avoiding the warm vents and the watchful eyes of the guards. The vitality in the air thinned with each step, replaced by the familiar chill of the North. By the time he reached the first wall, the world felt normal again... cold, quiet, and human.
He scaled the wall, dropped silently into a deserted corner of Winter Town, and focused, allowing the transformation jutsu to flow over him again. In moments, he became an unremarkable older man once more, with a tired face and a travel-stained cloak.
He stepped into the bustle of the market.
Winter Town was fully awake now… smoke rose from chimneys, merchants shouted prices, and the smell of fresh bread mixed with the sharp scent of cold air. Snow crunched underfoot… as people hurried between stalls… wrapped in thick clothing.
He blended into the flow.
Erick passed a butcher chopping frozen meat with a cleaver the size of a child. A tanner stretched hides on wooden frames. A woman sold knitted gloves in every shade of grey imaginable. Children chased each other between the stalls, slipping on patches of ice and laughing.
He spotted the wagon before he saw his companions.
Strike stood beside it, towering over the other horses like a smug warlord. His breath steamed in the cold air, and he flicked his tail as if he believed he was above everyone.
A group of people gathered around Strike, talking about how big and beautiful he was, feeding his ego.
Galen was stacking crates with the precision of a man who had done this a thousand times. Elira stood at the front of the stall, speaking with a pair of elderly women who were inspecting jars of ginger‑mint tea.
Erick approached quietly.
Elira's eyes widened. "Where have you been? You vanished for an hour!" she exclaimed.
Erick shrugged, keeping up his old-man disguise and raspy voice. "A walk."
Galen looked up from the crates. "A walk? In this cold?"
Elira narrowed her eyes. "You didn't get into trouble, did you?"
Erick shook his head. That was technically true, mostly.
Elira sighed and returned to her customers. "Fine. But next time, tell us before you wander off."
Galen came closer and whispered, "She was worried."
Erick gave him a small nod of thanks.
The remedies were selling well.
Winter Town was full of people with stiff joints, aching backs, and upset stomachs from cold food and colder weather. Erick watched as Elira explained the uses of each tonic with calm confidence.
The Northerners listened carefully. They weren't quick to trust strangers, but Elira had a way of speaking that made people feel safe.
Erick stood beside the wagon, pretending to be a tired old man resting his legs. In reality, he was scanning the crowd, making sure no one from Winterfell had followed him.
Strike nudged him... Erick glanced at the stallion... Strike nudged him again, harder.
Erick sighed. "What?"
Strike tossed his head toward a nearby stall selling apples.
Erick stared at him... Strike stared back.
Erick whispered, "You're a horse mate, act like one..."
Strike stomped his hoof.
Erick shook his head and sighed.
Strike knew he had won this one and snorted triumphantly.
Erick muttered under his breath, "Spoiled brat…" then walked over to the stall and bought the horse some apples.
As the morning wore on, the crowd thickened. Snow began to fall again... soft flakes drifting lazily from the sky. The market grew louder, warmer, more alive.
Erick stood beside the wagon, watching it all. People laughed and chatted. It felt grounding to see people living their lives in this world, simple, struggling lives.
Elira finished with a customer and stepped beside him. "Did you at least enjoy your walk?"
He nodded.
Galen joined them. "We made a good trade today. People here are honest. Hardworking."
Erick looked at the snow‑covered rooftops, the smoke rising from chimneys, the people wrapped in furs moving through the cold.
"Yeah... they are."
By midday, the snow had thickened into a steady curtain of white. Winter Town's market was still lively, but the cold was beginning to bite harder, and people were hurrying home with their purchases tucked under their cloaks.
Elira finished her last trade... a jar of willow tonic for a chicken... and exhaled in relief. "That's the last of it. We're out of ginger tea."
Galen wiped his hands on his cloak. "And nearly out of space in the wagon. We'll need to reorganize before we move."
Strike flicked his ears and stomped a hoof, clearly impatient. The stallion hated standing still for too long, especially in the cold. His breath puffed out in billowing clouds, and he kept glancing toward the road leading out of town as if urging them to hurry.
Elira rubbed her gloved hands together. "Let's pack up before the snow gets worse."
The three of them worked with practiced efficiency.
They bought four cows and one bull, which was tied in a row to the back of the wagon.
Galen loaded crates with chicken, jars of oils, and animal fats, stacking them neatly in the back of the wagon.
Elira wrapped the more fragile jars in cloth and tucked them into baskets lined with straw. She checked each one twice, making sure nothing would crack on the road.
Erick fastened the straps securing the load. He fixed the harness on Strike, making sure the stallion was comfortable.
Strike tossed his head dramatically.
Erick muttered, "You're not pulling a mountain. Calm down."
Strike snorted in a way that clearly meant I am a noble creature, and you are rude.
Elira glanced over. "Is he complaining again?" Erick nodded.
Galen laughed. "He's worse than a child."
Strike stomped his hoof in protest.
As they worked, a few townsfolk lingered nearby, watching with interest. Word had spread quickly about the remedies.
A pair of guards passed by, giving the wagon a brief glance. They weren't suspicious, just curious.
Erick kept his head down as he adjusted a strap. He didn't want any more attention than he'd already gotten.
The guards moved on.
Galen walked a short distance toward the northern road, squinting through the falling snow. "Visibility's dropping. If we leave now, we can still make it to the next village before nightfall."
"There's a smaller hamlet further east. Hunters live there. They'll have shelter for us."
Erick checked his map, nodding in agreement.
Elira looked at him. "You're sure of this?" He nodded again.
She trusted that. Erick's sense of direction was uncanny, almost unnatural… she didn't question it anymore.
When everything was packed, Erick climbed onto the wagon seat. Galen took the reins beside him. Elira climbed into the back, settling among the crates.
Strike, however, refused to move… he planted his hooves firmly in the snow and stared straight ahead… unmoving.
Galen tugged the reins gently. "Come on, Strike."
Nothing.
Elira leaned over the side. "Is he… sulking?"
Erick sighed, climbed down, and walked to the front of the stallion.
He stared into Strike's eyes... Strike flicked his ears.
Erick pulled an apple from his cloak... and held it up.
Strike immediately perked up, snatched the apple, and began chewing happily.
Erick pointed at the road... Strike snorted, shook his mane, and finally stepped forward.
Elira laughed… "He's impossible…"
Galen grinned… "This… after only one visit to market... he learned to work only for an adequate pay... what next...?"
Erick climbed back onto the wagon seat… shaking his head.
The wagon rolled forward, wheels crunching over the snow.
The market faded behind them… replaced by the quiet hum of the winter wind and the distant sound of ravens calling from the rooftops.
People stepped aside as they passed, offering nods or small waves. A few children pointed at Strike, whispering excitedly about the enormous horse.
Erick kept his eyes forward.
He had seen the famous Winterfell, the ancient tree, and even the man who ruled the North.
As the wagon crossed the last row of houses and entered the open road, the snow thickened, swirling around them like a curtain closing on a stage.
Strike snorted and picked up the pace.
Ned Stark did not go straight to the Great Keep after leaving the Godswood.
He walked slowly, deliberately, letting the cold air steady his thoughts. Snowflakes clung to his hair and cloak, melting against the warmth of his skin. Servants carrying buckets, guards changing shifts.
But Ned heard none of it.
His thoughts were still in the Godswood.
He reached the Maester's turret and climbed the narrow stone steps two at a time.
Maester Luwin was already awake, sorting scrolls by candlelight. His chain of office glinted faintly in the dim room.
Luwin looked up as Ned entered.
"My lord.. you're up early…"
"Luwin, I need your counsel."
"What is troubling you…?"
Ned hesitated… how did one explain what he had seen?
"There was someone… in the Godswood."
"A trespasser…?"
Ned paced the room, boots thudding softly on the stone floor… "A boy… masked… he moved like..." Ned stopped, searching for the right word. "He was like a ghost… from tales… at least… he moved like the one."
"…Ghost…?"
"He leaped the Godwood wall… the five meters… as if it were a step."
The maester's expression shifted, from confusion to disbelief…
"But my lord… no man can..."
"I know… but I saw it!"
"And when I confronted him… he looked like an exact copy of Rodrik… but then he changed. Grey cloak, a white mask, shaped like a cat's face."
"Changed…?"
"A cloud of smoke… and then he was a boy with a mask."
"Magic…?"
"I don't know. But it wasn't a trick of the eyes. I was close enough to touch him."
"This is… troubling."
Ned stopped pacing. "He wasn't hostile… he didn't threaten me… he simply looked at the tree and left."
A knock sounded at the door.
"Enter," Ned said.
Ser Rodrik Cassel stepped inside, snow still clinging to his beard. His hair was tied back, and he looked tired, but very much himself.
"My lord," Rodrik said, bowing slightly. "Guard said you were looking for me, he said it was urgent."
Ned studied him.
The real Rodrik, the man he had known for years.
"Rodrik," Ned said quietly… "where were you this morning?"
"With my wife, my lord. She's close to her time. I've hardly left her side."
Ned exchanged a glance with Luwin.
Rodrik frowned. "Has something happened?"
Ned gestured for him to sit. "I saw someone in the Godswood. Someone wearing your face."
Rodrik froze.
"My… face?"
Ned nodded. "Your walk. Your posture. Your armor. And when I confronted him, he revealed himself."
Rodrik's hand drifted instinctively toward the hilt of his sword. "A sorcerer? Faceless Man?"
"I don't know," Ned said. "But he was the same masked boy who freed those villagers from the slavers near Sea Dragon Point."
Rodrik's eyes widened. "The one they spoke of? The one who moved like a shadow?"
"Aye."
Rodrik let out a low breath. "Then he's no enemy. Those people owe him their lives."
"I felt the same. He could have harmed me. He didn't."
Luwin folded his hands. "My lord, this is not something we can ignore. A being with such abilities inside Winterfell… it raises questions."
Rodrik grunted. "Questions or not… he didn't come to spill blood."
Ned looked out the narrow window, watching the snow drift across the courtyard.
"He said, he came to see Winterfell… he called it an architectural marvel."
Rodrik blinked. "He broke into the castle… to admire the stonework?"
Ned almost smiled. "So he claimed."
Luwin cleared his throat. "What do you intend to do, my lord?"
Ned's expression hardened.
"Nothing… for now. He left peacefully. And I will not hunt a boy who has done no harm."
Rodrik nodded approvingly.
Ned looked out the window at the Godswood, the red leaves barely visible through the falling snow.
"I don't know what he is... and he is not our enemy... for now, I will wait and see."
The room fell silent.
Outside, the snow continued to fall, soft, steady, and unbroken.