The Small Council chamber was cold that morning.
It wasn't true winter cold. King's Landing almost never saw real winter. Instead, it was the kind of air that crept from the stone walls when the fire burned low.
The chamber was long and rectangular… with tall… narrow windows that let in pale morning rays. A white marble table, polished smooth, stretched nearly the length of the room. Delicate floral carvings lined its edges… and the surface reflected the flicker of a few candles.
King's chair remained empty.
Jon Arryn sat at the head of the table… his shoulders slightly slumped and his face showing the pressure of his duties. His hair, once silver-gold… was now thin and grey. His beard was tidy, but his eyes looked tired… like someone who had spent too many nights with ledgers and too many mornings fixing the king's mistakes.
He wore a plain but dignified robe embroidered with the falcon of House Arryn. A quill sat in his hand, though he hadn't written anything for several minutes. He stared at the parchment, hoping the numbers would somehow become less troubling.
To Jon's right sat Varys.
His expression was as unreadable as ever… smooth, calm… and slightly amused… like he was watching a play only he understood. His hands rested neatly in front of him, sleeves draping softly. His robe was rich but not showy, with subtle geometric patterns that shimmered in the light when he moved.
His bald head shone in the light. His soft, pale eyes moved from one man to another, missing nothing.
He seemed perfectly calm, but everyone in the room knew it was just for show.
Across from Varys sat Stannis Baratheon.
His jaw was clenched so tight that a muscle twitched near his temple. His dark hair was cut short, and his beard was trimmed with military precision. His armor was plain and practical, worn over a dark leather tunic. Irritation seemed to radiate from him.
He simply stared at the empty king's chair with a look that could have cracked stone.
Renly Baratheon, the new Master of Laws, sat with a bright smile that stood out against his brother's constant scowl. His green cloak was fastened with a golden rose, and his dark hair fell in soft waves around his young, handsome face.
Renly looking relaxed… as someone who had never faced real hardship… his eyes sparkled with amusement… for him, the council meeting was just a pleasant break, rather than a cog of the realm.
He seemed like the perfect charming courtier, but none of the men at the table trusted his smile.
Grand Maester Pycelle sat hunched in his chair, his long white beard spilling over his heavy robes. His fingers were always moving—adjusting his sleeves, stroking his beard, tapping the table, or fussing with scrolls that didn't need attention.
His robe was thick and ornate, patterned with gold thread and quilted sleeves. The chain hung firmly around his neck, clinking softly whenever he shifted.
He looked like he had been sitting in that chair for a hundred years and might stay there for a hundred more.
Jon Arryn cleared his throat, resting his hands on the white marble table.
"We will begin," he said, though his voice lacked its usual firmness. "The king will not be joining us."
Stannis snorted. "The king hasn't joined us in weeks."
Renly smiled at Stannis… "He's hunting… it clears his head."
"It empties it…" Stannis muttered.
Varys's lips twitched. "His Grace enjoys fresh air… a freedom."
Stannis leaned forward, with a scowl… "Freedom from what… he is the King."
Pycelle coughed loudly, a wet, rattling sound that resounded through the room. "His Grace is… ah… a man of great vigor. We must not begrudge him his… pursuits," he sputtered.
Stannis glared at him. "His pursuits are draining the treasury."
Jon Arryn rubbed his temples. "Yes. About that…"
He gestured to the parchment in front of him, the same one he had been staring at for too long.
"The crown is in debt. Again."
Renly raised an eyebrow. "How much this time?"
Jon hesitated.
Stannis leaned forward, looking at the paper… "How much?"
"Enough," Jon said quietly, "that we must consider raising tariffs or cutting expenditures."
Renly laughed lightly. "Try telling Robert he can't host another feast."
Stannis slammed a hand on the table. "This is not a jest!"
Renly's smile faded as he met Stannis's glare. He said nothing.
Varys watched everyone with calm interest.
Jon Arryn reached into his robe and withdrew a tightly rolled parchment sealed with grey wax. The falcon of House Arryn glinted faintly on his ring as he set the message on the marble table.
"There is another matter before us, a message from the North. From Lord Eddard Stark."
"Jorah Mormont has committed an unforgivable crime. He has trafficked in slavery."
Stannis's jaw tightened. "Slavery. In the Seven Kingdoms."
"He fled before he could be detained. The North is locked down. Every holdfast, every port, every road is being watched. Lord Stark requests the crown's assistance in apprehending him."
Renly leaned back, eyebrows raised. "Jorah Mormont? The same man who fought beside Robert in the Rebellion?" he said, incredulous.
"The same," Jon confirmed.
Pycelle cleared his throat. "Most troubling. Most troubling indeed."
Stannis slammed his fist on the table with a sharp crack. "It is treasonous and cowardly. He must be found," he declared fiercely, his eyes scanning the room for any sign of hesitation.
Varys folded his hands more neatly, his countenance unreadable. "The North is vast. If Lord Stark has not caught him already, the man must be quite desperate."
Jon rubbed his temples. "Ned believes Jorah has fled the continent entirely. Perhaps to Essos."
Renly frowned at that... "Then what does he expect us to do? Send ships after him?"
Stannis glared at his brother… "If that is what it takes."
Varys tilted his head. "The Free Cities are… complicated. Some tolerate slavery, some profit from it. If Jorah has crossed the Narrow Sea, bringing him back may be diplomatically delicate," he mused.
"Ned is not asking for miracles. Only cooperation. If Jorah is sighted in any port, any city, any tavern, the crown must be ready to act."
Renly tapped a finger on the marble table… drawing attention… "What of House Mormont? Will they suffer for his actions?"
"Ned writes that Lady Maege and her daughters are innocent. Jorah's wife, Harlen Mormont, provided the evidence. He plans to clear their name himself."
Stannis nodded approvingly. "Good. Punish the guilty, not the loyal."
Pycelle stroked his beard. "Still… the North rarely asks for aid. When they do, it is wise to listen."
Jon set the parchment down. "Then it is agreed. We will issue orders to every portmaster and harbor watch from Dorne to the Wall. If Jorah Mormont sets foot on Westerosi soil, he is to be seized."
Stannis looked at Jon, "And if he is found in Essos?"
"Then we will… consider our options."
Renly smirked. "Meaning we'll hope someone else catches him first."
Stannis shot him a look sharp enough to cut steel and straightened in his seat. "Enough. A lord of the North has broken the law. The realm must respond."
The council fell silent.
Jon Arryn folded the parchment carefully. "Lord Stark has never asked for much. We will not fail him in this."
Jon Arryn had barely finished speaking when Varys shifted ever so slightly in his chair.
"If I may add something… relevant," Varys said softly.
Stannis shot him a suspicious look. "Relevant to what?"
"Relevant to the North."
That grabbed everyone's attention... Jon Arryn set aside his quill and gestured for him to continue.
"My little birds have been whispering about an unusual tale from the North."
Renly leaned forward, intrigued. "A tale? The North rarely produces anything amusing."
Stannis glared at him, but Varys continued smoothly.
"It seems someone has been seen—a youth, by all accounts, wearing a grey cloak and a mask shaped like a cat's face."
Pycelle blinked rapidly. "A… masked boy?"
"Yes. And according to the gossip, he rescued villagers from slavers near the coast and killed all the slavers himself."
The room fell silent.
Renly's smile faded. "A child killed slavers?"
Stannis's jaw tightened. "That is Impossible."
Jon Arryn leaned back, troubled. "Ned said nothing of this in his letter."
Varys spread his hands gently. "Lord Stark is a cautious man…. he would not report rumors until he had proof."
Pycelle tugged at his beard. "A masked vigilante in the North… most concerning."
Renly smirked. "Perhaps the North has invented its own knight. A… Cat Knight."
Stannis scowled. "If someone is killing slavers, he is either a criminal or a zealot."
Varys tilted his head. "Or simply someone who dislikes slavers."
Jon Arryn exhaled slowly… looking at the Varys… "Do we know his allegiance?"
"None. He appears alone, with no sigil, no banner, and no name."
Renly tapped the table. "A nameless boy who kills slavers. Sounds like a bard's tale."
Jon Arryn looked at the parchment from Ned Stark, then glanced up at Varys.
"Do your birds believe he is connected to Jorah Mormont?"
Varys smiled. "No, my lord. If anything, he seems to be cleaning up the mess Jorah left behind."
That earned a long, heavy silence.
Jon Arryn finally spoke. "We will not act on rumors. If this masked boy appears again, I want to know."
"Of course, my lord Hand."
Renly grinned. "I suspect His Grace will find this… entertaining."
The snow grew heavier as the wagon proceeded deeper into the woods. The road narrowed, lined with tall pines heavy with frost. Their branches bent under the weight, forming a tunnel that muffled sound and dimmed the late-afternoon light.
Galen pointed ahead. "There… see the rooftops?"
Through the trees, small shapes appeared... low wooden cabins… smoke wafting from stone chimneys, and a group of sheds made from rough-cut timber. The hamlet was small, barely a dozen buildings, but warm light shone from the windows.
It was a place built by people who lived alongside the forest.
The wagon creaked into the center of the hamlet.
A group of hunters stood near a skinning rack, working on a freshly taken stag. Their cloaks were mottled with snow, their boots caked with mud and pine needles. They paused as the wagon approached, eyes sharp but not unfriendly.
One of them, a broad-shouldered man with a thick beard and a leather jerkin patched many times, stepped forward.
"You're far from Winter Town, road's rough today."
Galen nodded. "We're traveling south. Thought to trade before nightfall."
The hunter's gaze drifted to the crates in the wagon.
Elira lifted a basket. "A tonic and herbal teas, for aches, fevers, and winter cough."
The man's expression softened. "Then you're welcome here."
Hunters were practical. They cared less about names or origins and more about usefulness.
Within minutes… the hamlet gathered around the wagon… men, women inspected jars… sniffed herbs, asked questions. Children peeked behind their parents… curious about the strangers.
Erick stayed quiet, in his disguise as an older man, he let Elira do the talking… she could explain remedies in a way that even the most skeptical Northerner could accept.
Galen traded for dried venison, smoked trout, and a bundle of furs. The hunters insisted on giving more than they took. Winter was harsh, and healers were rare.
At one point, Erick noticed a man limping. The man had injured his leg, and it was now infected. At the man's nearby house, Erick checked the injury more closely. It was bad, but still treatable. In the shabby hut where the man lived with his wife and three children, Erick saw garlic drying.
He couldn't treat everyone, so he asked his wife to help him grind garlic. He explained simply that garlic was the best plant for this kind of injury. They made a paste, washed the infection, and applied it. Erick told his wife that for the next two weeks, the man should take garlic and continue applying the paste to the wound, along with a clean bandage. He explained the steps in detail.
When the other hunter families found out the old man was a healer, things went just as they had in Ironpine. Erick treated people until dark. Fortunately, the worst case was the man with the injured leg, who already had a treatment plan. Others had winter problems, and anyone who came to Erick got help or advice on how to treat themselves.
A boy of about ten had nothing to trade for treatment, but Erick helped him anyway. He reassured the boy, saying he was lucky and could pay him back another time.
By the time the last trade was finished and Erick had treated everyone, night had fully settled. The sky was deep blue-black, with faint stars behind drifting snow. The hunters invited them to share a meal, but Erick declined.
Elira smiled apologetically. "We're tired. We'll rest early."
The hunters understood. Travelers often preferred privacy.
They offered the group a place in the barn. It was warm, dry, and out of the wind.
The barn was larger than they expected, built from thick logs with a high roof and a loft full of hay. The air had the scent of straw, woodsmoke, and animals.
Two goats bleated softly from a pen… a sleepy dog looked up but decided the newcomers weren't worth barking at.
Strike strutted inside… like he owned the place.
Galen laughed. "It seems he likes this place."
Erick rolled his eyes behind the disguise.
They settled near the back wall, where the hay was thickest. Galen spread out blankets, and Erick checked the wagon one last time.
Group left the hunter's hamlet before dawn, wheels crunching across frozen earth as the Kingsroad stretched ahead like a pale ribbon through the winter woods.
The snow had stopped sometime in the night, leaving the world washed clean and quiet. Frost clung to the branches, glittering dimly in the early light.
By mid‑morning, the trees thinned... and Torrhen's Square appeared.
It didn't appear slowly, like a village rising from the mist. Instead, it appeared all at once, like a fortress carved from the land.
The Kingsroad curved around a dense stand of pines, and then the forest simply fell away. A wide clearing opened before them, grass stiff with frost, sunlight spilling across it in long golden beams.
And in the center of that clearing stood Torrhen's Square.
A massive stone castle, square as its name suggested, stood with walls thick enough to withstand a siege and towers rising like watchful giants.
The stone was deep grey… worn by centuries of northern wind and snow, but still strong and proud.
The banners atop the towers fluttered in the cold breeze, showing the sigil of House Tallhart... three trees on a brown background.
The sky above was a heavy northern grey, but sunlight broke through in places, lighting up the battlements and giving the fortress a nearly sacred glow.
The outer walls were tall and plain, built for defense, not for show. Each stone block was huge, fitted with the skill of ancient masons.
Moss clung to the lower stones… frost made delicate patterns along the edges.
Arrow slits dotted the walls like narrow eyes. Watchmen paced the battlements… their cloaks snapping in the wind.
The main gate was reinforced with iron bands, and the wood was darkened by age and weather. A portcullis hung above, its teeth sharp as a bear trap.
This wasn't a castle meant to impress southern lords. It was a fortress built to survive winter and war.
From a distance, the towers looked like ancient guards watching over the clearing.
The land around Torrhen's Square was left bare on purpose. There were no trees or brush, nothing to hide an enemy. The grass was short and stiff with frost, and the ground sloped gently down, giving defenders a clear view in every direction.
As Erick, Elira, and Galen approached, the stallion seemed to approve of the place. It was a fortress with strength and dignity.
Two guards stepped forward from the gatehouse, spears in hand and cloaks lined with fur. Their expressions were wary but not unfriendly. Mostly, they were surprised by the size of the horse.
Travelers were rare in winter, but they were not unwelcome.
Galen raised a hand in greeting… "We seek trade and shelter."
The guards exchanged a glance, then nodded. "You'll find both here."
The portcullis rattled upward, and the wagon rolled inside.
The inner courtyard was lively for the winter. Hunters unloaded fresh kills, blacksmiths hammered at glowing steel, children chased each other across the packed earth, women carried baskets of firewood, and two Tallhart men sparred with wooden swords.
Smoke drifted from chimneys, carrying the aroma of pine and roasting meat.
The castle wasn't grand or elegant, but it was lively. It was a true northern stronghold in every sense.
After trading herbs and salves with the Tallhart household, they did not stay. They moved back, heading toward Sea Dragon Point.
A pale road cut through frost-covered fields… sky was a muted silver… with clouds hanging low.
Strike's hooves thudded steadily… breath steaming in the cold air.
Galen held the reins… guiding the wagon southward, before turning north onto the smaller road that would eventually lead them back toward the coast, to Sea Dragon Point.
Elira wrapped her cloak tighter. "Feels colder today."
Galen nodded. "Storm coming, maybe."
Erick didn't answer, but he felt it too. There was a subtle change in the air and a heaviness in the wind.
Still, the road was clear.
The road north was narrower, more like a hunter's track, flanked by tall pines.
Birds flitted between the trees, mostly ravens, their black feathers standing out against the white landscape… a fox darted across the path ahead and disappeared into the underbrush.
Elira leaned forward from the back of the wagon. "How long until we reach the coast?"
Erick thought for a moment, looking at the map... "If the weather holds? Two days."
Strike seemed to enjoy the open road much more than the crowded courtyards of Winter Town or Torrhen's Square. His ears flicked forward, his steps were lighter, and now and then, he tossed his head as if daring the wind to challenge him.
Galen chuckled. "He's happier now."
Elira smiled. "He likes the wild."
By late afternoon, the light started to fade. The North didn't offer long days at this time of year. They found a sheltered spot under a group of pines, where the wind was softer and the snow not as deep.
Galen gathered fallen branches for a small fire. Elira made a simple meal of dried venison warmed over the flames. Erick checked the area on the map. Only the wind murmured through the trees.
When they finally settled around the fire, the warmth was a welcome relief. Sparks drifted upward, disappearing into the darkening sky.
Elira looked at Erick. "You're quieter than usual."
He shrugged.
Galen smirked. "That means yes."
Erick didn't deny it.
He thought of Winterfell and how this world was more mysterious than he had expected. It held secrets that weren't in the TV show or the books he'd read.
The fire burned low as the forest grew quiet. Stars appeared, faint behind thin clouds.
Erick lay awake longer than the others, listening to the night.