In the godswood, the world felt still—cradled in silence and old magic. Jinx sat with his back resting against the ancient heart tree, its red leaves whispering gently above him in the breeze. His eyes were closed, and in his hand he held a small silver object, delicate yet regal. The faint light of the afternoon glinted off its polished surface, revealing the unmistakable sigil of House Targaryen: a three-headed dragon, coiled in silent fury.
A soft melody drifted from the device, haunting and beautiful, weaving itself into the very air around him. It wasn't music meant for war or celebration—it was sorrowful, like a lullaby whispered by a ghost long past. Jinx's expression remained still, unreadable, though the corners of his lips curled down ever so slightly, as though caught between memory and regret.
To any casual observer, he appeared alone. But Jinx was far from unguarded. He could feel them—eyes watching from the shadowed edge of the clearing. The Stark family, cautious and unsure, lingered just out of sight. Ser Rodrik Cassel and his nephew Jory stood silently at the ready, their hands near their sword hilts. They were trained men, disciplined and alert.
But discipline faltered against the pull of the music.
Two small figures had broken from the tree line, stepping into the clearing as if in a trance. Arya and Jon, the two youngest wolves with fire still in their eyes, wandered slowly toward Jinx, drawn by the mournful tune. Arya's steps were light, curious, and filled with the boldness only a child could possess. Jon followed closely, quieter, more hesitant—but just as captivated.
From behind them, Catelyn reached out in alarm, trying to pull Arya back, her fingers grasping at air as the girl slipped away from her touch. Her whispered warnings fell on deaf ears. Even her husband—Lord Eddard Stark, the Warden of the North—stood motionless, his body tensed. The melody clawed at his composure, dragging buried emotions to the surface. Only his years of training and stubborn will kept him rooted where he stood.
And through it all, Jinx remained still, as though unaware.
But he knew. He had felt them the moment they arrived.
He just chose not to speak.
Not yet.
The soft melody finally began to fade, its final notes lingering like mist in the still air of the godswood. The ancient trees stood as silent witnesses to what unfolded beneath their crimson canopy. The air was thick with emotion, though no one dared speak.
Jon and Arya had drifted toward Jinx as if pulled by invisible threads, their steps slow and reverent. They reached him in silence, the music seeming to quiet the storm of thoughts in their young minds. With the gentleness of those who knew they were in a sacred space, they sat down beside him—one on each side.
Jinx made no motion to acknowledge them at first. His eyes remained closed, the silver object still playing its final, dying hums in his hand. He looked more like a statue carved into the heart tree's base than a living man. Yet the moment Arya leaned her small frame against his side, as naturally as if she'd done it a hundred times before, his head tilted slightly toward her.
Jon sat in stillness, watching the flicker of emotion cross Jinx's otherwise composed face. It was barely visible—just the faintest tightening around the eyes, a slight softening of the jaw. But it was there. And it spoke louder than any words.
As Arya nestled against him, her head resting on his arm, her breathing slowed. The warmth, the music, the ancient serenity of the godswood—all of it lulled her into a peaceful sleep. Jinx didn't move, didn't speak. He simply allowed her to rest, as though this moment was something sacred, something long missed and dearly needed.
In the shadows, the remaining Starks watched the scene with a mixture of awe and disbelief. Sansa, half-hidden behind her mother, blinked in confusion. Robb's brows furrowed, uncertain. Maester Luwin and Ser Rodrik stood as still as the weirwood roots. Even the usually impassive Vayon Poole found himself stunned silent.
But it was Catelyn's face that revealed the most turmoil. Her lips parted, caught between protest and confusion, but she said nothing. She couldn't. The sight of her daughter—her wild, untamable Arya—curled up beside a man she had sworn to mistrust, silenced her. Because no matter what she believed, Arya looked… safe. Content. As though she'd found something she'd always been missing.
And Eddard Stark, though still guarded, let his breath go in a long exhale. His eyes remained fixed on the man under the tree—the supposed monster, legend, and ancestor now cradling his daughter like a grieving father holding onto one last piece of hope. He felt a weight in his chest that he couldn't explain.
Jinx finally opened his eyes, the silver object still cradled gently in his palm. With a quiet click, he closed it. The music stopped. The silence returned.
Arya stirred at once, blinking as the dreamlike spell was broken. She lifted her head and looked up at him, confused at first, then smiling sleepily.
"You stopped the music," she murmured, rubbing her eyes.
Jinx looked down at her with a faint, amused smirk. "Even songs must rest, little wolf," he said softly, voice calm and low like a whisper carried on winter wind.
The clearing remained still for a long moment. Time itself seemed to hesitate.
And then, for the first time since his return to the world, Jinx turned his head—not toward the two children at his side, but toward the tree line, where he knew the rest were watching.
His eyes—dark and ancient—met Eddard's.
No words were exchanged.
But something passed between them in that gaze. Something old, something powerful.
Something like understanding.
Jinx raised a single hand, and Arya slowly began to rise—not by her own movement, but as if lifted gently by invisible threads. Her feet touched the earth softly, and she blinked at him in quiet wonder.
Jon stood up as well, eyes fixed on the older man, feeling something strange stir inside him—respect, confusion… maybe awe.
Jinx rose last, joints cracking like dry branches in the silence as he stretched. A satisfied groan rumbled from his chest.
"Ahhh… That feels better," he said lazily, rolling his shoulders. Then his tone shifted, crisp and sharp, like a sword unsheathed. "Now, onto why you're here."
Everyone froze.
Jinx turned slightly, arms behind his back, gazing at the weirwood tree like it might answer him. Then he continued with terrifying calm:
"I've been watching you for two days now—observing. Studying. And I've come to a conclusion…" He glanced at them with unsettling neutrality. "Most of you are going to die."
A cold, still silence followed.
Then steel sang as Eddard Stark and Ser Rodrik Cassel unsheathed their swords in a heartbeat, stepping forward with fire in their eyes. Even the others behind them tensed, hands instinctively moving toward hilts and daggers.
But Jinx didn't move. Didn't blink. If anything, he looked bored.
"Seven Hells," he muttered, rubbing his temple with two fingers. "You lot are quick to temper… That's useful, at least."
His gaze swept the clearing, resting finally on Eddard.
"Let me clarify: I'm not going to kill you. You're my blood. My family. I don't kill kin." His voice lowered. "But others will. And it won't be because of prophecy, fate, or some divine punishment. No… it will be because of you, Eddard."
Eddard's grip on his sword tightened. "Explain yourself."
"Oh, I will," Jinx said, eyes gleaming like moonlight on a frozen lake. "Let's start with the basics. Shall we go down the list?"
He turned slightly and raised a single finger.
"First: you were fostered in the Vale longer than necessary. Not entirely your fault—I mostly blame your father. Brandon was fostered in Riverrun too, but not nearly as long. He was the heir. You? You were the afterthought. And while you were there, you soaked up Jon Arryn's lessons like good broth. Honor. Duty. Order." He scoffed. "All good things. All things that choke a Stark."
Eddard said nothing, but the insult was clear. Even Catelyn looked uneasy.
"Second," Jinx continued, "you locked away your wolf blood. That fire in your veins, that gift—you sealed it. Smothered it. Did you know that of all families in the world, only two have a connection to what the old ones called 'the Force'—us and the Valyrians. And even then, for them it was a gamble. For us? It was in our bones. Until men like you began snuffing it out."
A third finger rose.
"Third: when you stood at the Trident's bridge, you hesitated. A real Stark would've carved through any man who stood between him and his blood. Your own brother, Brandon—hotheaded fool that he was—strangled himself trying to save your father. He died for it. But he acted. That was the wolf blood. You?" He shook his head. "Over-tempered. The Vale made you too careful."
"Enough," Eddard growled, voice low and dangerous. But Jinx ignored him.
"Fourth: you married her." He gestured toward Catelyn. "An Andal. You diluted the Stark bloodline. Diminished the wolf in your cubs."
Catelyn's mouth opened in shock. Her face turned pale with fury, but Jinx went on without acknowledging her.
"Your children still have strength—but it's scattered. Robb has discipline, Sansa the political eye. But it's Jon and Arya who carry the deepest well of our blood. You? You're just below them—but only barely. Experience and cunning can close that gap."
And then his expression shifted. Cold. Unforgiving.
"But your greatest flaw, Eddard Stark—your true failure—is your honor."
Eddard flinched as if slapped.
"Yes. That sacred code you hold like a sword—honor. It will get you killed." Jinx stepped closer now, his voice dropping like a blade in snow. "It got your sister killed. It made you wait—too long. It got Elia Martell and her children butchered because you chose diplomacy over retribution. And worst of all… it ruined your heart."
Jinx stared into Eddard's eyes with a kind of cruel understanding.
"You lost the woman you loved—Ashara Dayne—because you were trapped at a bridge. Then you married a stranger out of duty. Out of honor. You let the greatest match between House Stark and House Dayne—the only house with a history to rival ours—crumble into dust. That was the day you buried yourself."
Each word was like a hammer. And Eddard… said nothing. His sword lowered, just slightly. Not in surrender—but in pain.
Every one of Jinx's accusations had struck something raw. Elia. Lyanna. Ashara. Memories, regrets, and failures he buried deeper than the crypts below Winterfell.
In the hush that followed, Jinx turned back toward the heart tree. His hand brushed its white bark with quiet reverence.
"I'm not your enemy, Ned," he said softly. "I'm your mirror. And whether you want to or not… you're going to need me."
Catelyn Stark stepped forward, her hands clenched at her sides, her voice steady—but with a tremor of righteous fury beneath it.
"You presume too much," she said coldly, placing herself slightly in front of her husband. "You speak of blood and force and ancient power like a mad prophet, but you forget who you speak to. My husband is a good man. A just man. The North stands because of his strength and his honor. You insult him as though you know better—but you do not. You are no Stark of Winterfell."
Jinx tilted his head slightly, blinking once as if mildly entertained. Then he chuckled.
"Oh, Cat…" he said, his voice dripping with calm disdain. "You poor girl. You've been playing the part of Lady Stark so long, you've started believing the performance."
Catelyn's eyes narrowed, her anger rising. "You have no right—"
"I have every right," Jinx snapped, his voice suddenly sharp as broken glass. "Because I remember what you've forgotten. I was there when Winterfell's name made kings tremble and whispers fill the halls of Valyria. I don't care how well your husband keeps his ledgers or how justly he passes judgment from a wooden chair. The world doesn't fear 'just men.' The world breaks them."
He stepped closer, and despite the calm in his tone, something heavy hung behind his words—like the weight of storms.
"Your Ned is a decent man, yes. A dutiful one. But you mistake that for greatness. His honor is a chain, and one day it'll drag him beneath the ice—and the North with him."
Catelyn opened her mouth again—but nothing came out. Because deep down, behind the pride and the love… she feared Jinx might be right.
The silence that followed was broken only by the wind whispering through the leaves of the godswood.
Then Jinx turned toward Arya.
The young girl had stepped slightly forward, her head tilted, eyes narrowed in quiet intensity—not with fear, but with curiosity. Something about this man—this stranger—spoke to something she couldn't name.
"Arya," Jinx said, softer now. "You're not like the others."
She blinked.
"You're like me," he continued. "Favored by Death. The Many-Faced God, the Faceless Men call it. But I know the truth… it's not a god. It's a force. A tide. And you… you were born to swim in it."
Arya didn't quite understand what he meant, but she felt it. Her chest stirred, a quiet ember catching fire.
"You have something your brother doesn't. Something your sister will never have. You're a shadow in motion. A storm in silence." Jinx knelt so his gaze was level with hers, and in his eyes, she saw something ancient—dark, yet strangely familiar. "Right now, you and Jon are nearly the same in potential. A coin's toss. But in time..."
He smiled—not kindly, but with a kind of cruel pride.
"You will surpass him. And not because you're smarter, or stronger, or more loved. But because Death walks beside you, little wolf. And one day… you'll walk beside it too."
Arya's breath caught in her throat. Her fists curled, not in fear—but in fierce anticipation.
Catelyn looked horrified. "She's a child—"
"She was," Jinx interrupted flatly. "She won't be for long. The world won't let her stay one. And neither will Death."
He rose again, towering over them all, his presence like a second shadow beneath the trees.
"Prepare them," he said to Ned, not looking back. "Or lose them. There won't be a second warning."
And with that, Jinx turned away, back to the heart tree—leaving the silence shattered, and every heart in that clearing changed.
Eddard Stark was on his knees.
He hadn't meant to kneel—his body had simply collapsed under the weight of it all. Not from injury. Not from weakness. But from the soul-crushing burden of truth. The cold, bitter kind that stripped away illusions and laid bare the bleeding heart of failure.
His eyes stared at the snow-covered earth, unmoving.
Everything Jinx had said—every word, every accusation, every crack in his honor—rang with the sharpness of steel on bone. He saw it now. The hesitation. The quiet compromises. The lives lost while he clung to the false hope that doing things the right way would be enough.
It wasn't.
And it wouldn't be.
His breath came in quiet clouds of frost.
"…How do I save them?" he asked at last, his voice low, broken—like wind whispering through a crumbling castle. "Tell me what to do."
Jinx did not turn.
He remained seated before the heart tree, his gaze distant—locked on something beyond time.
"To save them…" Jinx said, his voice a deep, cold rumble, "you must bring forth the true beauty buried beneath the snow."
Eddard's brow creased, confused—but listened.
"The North was never meant to be ruled by soft hands and warm words. Its soul was never meant for peace. It's carved from frost, sharpened by storms. But that fire—the old, untamed flame—was buried. Smothered. I tried to unearth it once… I failed."
His hand, gloved in black, reached down beside him.
With a movement as fluid as water and sudden as lightning, he plunged his fingers into a thick patch of snow that no one had noticed before. The ground hissed as if it recognized what lay beneath. Slowly, deliberately, he drew it out.
A sword.
Long and slender, forged of a black metal that shimmered like obsidian beneath starlight. Its core pulsed with a dim, crimson light—like a heart buried in stone. Twin dragons coiled at its hilt, their wings framing the guard, their fangs bared toward the blade. Ancient. Alive.
He held it not to admire it—but to command it.
He rose to his feet and turned, for the first time, to face Eddard fully.
"This," Jinx said, pointing the blade directly at the man kneeling before him, "is your first step."
Eddard raised his eyes, and for a moment, he looked older than he ever had. Tired. Haunted. But then, something beneath the frost in his bones began to stir.
The wind carried a soft growl. The heart tree's red leaves rustled with ancient breath.
He turned slowly, and his eyes fell on the ancient greatsword Ice, stabbed into the earth like a forgotten monument. With a deep inhale, he reached for it.
The leather grip burned cold in his hand as he ripped it free from the frozen ground with a defiant growl. Snow and ice shattered from its edge like broken chains. He rose, slowly, the weight of the great blade familiar in his grasp.
No longer Lord Stark.
No longer Warden of the North.
Just a wolf, sharpening his fangs.
He stepped forward into the clearing, sword at the ready, and stared into the eyes of the man who shattered him and now offered him rebirth.
"I accept," Eddard said, voice steel-bound, as snow began to swirl around them.
Jinx smiled—not with triumph, but with approval.
"Then let the North remember…" he said, lowering his blade into a stance. "What a true Stark looks like."
And as the wind howled and the godswood watched, the past and future clashed beneath ancient trees—with the soul of the North hanging in the balance.
The clearing fell silent.
Only the wind dared breathe.
Jinx stood still, the crimson-eyed blade in his hand angled low, the black steel humming faintly—as if it too hungered.
Across from him, Eddard Stark gripped Ice. The greatsword felt heavier than he remembered… yet somehow more alive. Like it, too, had been waiting for this.
For the wolf to wake up.
Then—a flash.
Jinx vanished in a blur of motion, like a shadow through falling snow.
Eddard brought Ice up just in time to block, the clang of steel echoing through the godswood like a bell tolling for war.
The duel had begun.
Jinx flowed around Eddard like a storm made flesh—his body low, twisting, leaping. Every strike and movement reflected a different form, drawing from all Seven Forms of Lightsaber combat: the tight precision of Makashi, the acrobatic elegance of Ataru, the brutal strength of Djem So.
He spun with Form I's balance, shifted mid-strike into Form IV's explosive acrobatics, and countered with Form V's overwhelming strength. Every angle felt unnatural—every movement beautiful and deadly.
Eddard was forced back at first—his stance traditional, grounded. Defensive.
"By the gods…" Ser Rodrik whispered. "I've never seen a man move like that."
"It's not just swordplay…" Jon muttered, "it's—like watching a storm dance."
But with each strike Jinx delivered, something old began to stir in Eddard.
At first, it was in his footing—no longer simply reacting, but anticipating. His eyes sharpened, his movements faster. His swings, once measured and formal, grew more wild, feral—but never uncontrolled.
Jinx came in with a rising slash, the red-core blade singing—but Ice met it mid-arc with a defiant roar of metal. The impact cracked the earth beneath their feet, spraying snow into the air.
Arya's eyes were wide. "He's changing…"
Jinx pivoted, dancing into Form III, spinning defensively, then lunged in with a Form V overhead smash—but this time, Eddard didn't retreat.
He stepped in.
And with a howl, he shoulder-rammed Jinx, something no duelist would expect. It wasn't elegant.
It was Stark.
Jinx grinned as he was shoved back, skidding through the snow. "There it is," he muttered. "The wolf stirs."
The next clash was thunderous.
Eddard now roared with each strike, his swings no longer bound by the stiffness of southern courts. His blade sang the song of winter-born fury. Each movement felt like a memory—of direwolves, of the old gods, of cold wind through stone halls.
And yet—Jinx was still faster.
He flipped over Eddard's slash with a burst of Ataru's grace, landing lightly behind him and bringing his blade around. Eddard turned just in time to parry, and their faces were inches apart.
"You fight like a man who remembers who he is," Jinx said, their blades locked.
"I do," Eddard growled. "I'm Stark of the North. And I will not be bent."
They broke apart, spinning through the snow like dueling spirits.
Catelyn stared in disbelief. "I've never seen Ned fight like this. Not even in the Rebellion."
"That's because he locked it away," Ser Rodrik said quietly. "The wolf in him. The North in him. And now… it's loose."
Jon clenched his fists, his heart pounding. "He's keeping up."
"No," Arya whispered with a tiny grin. "He's hunting."
Back in the clearing, Eddard let out a howl—not literal, but the sound of it was there in his breath. His next blow was faster than it had any right to be. Jinx barely ducked under it, the tip of Ice shaving strands of silver from his hair.
Jinx's grin widened. "You'll do, old wolf."
They clashed again, and again. Sparks flew, snow rose in flurries, and the godswood echoed with the rhythm of blades and the heartbeat of the North.
And then—they stopped.
Both men stood, swords lowered slightly, their breath steaming in the frozen air. Neither had landed a mortal blow. But the point wasn't death.
It was awakening.
Eddard's chest heaved, his hair damp with sweat, but his eyes—his eyes burned with something ancient.
The wolf had returned.
Jinx gave a small, respectful nod.
"Lesson one is over," he said, slipping the red-cored blade onto his back. "Next time, you'll chase me."
Eddard didn't answer.
He just stood there, alive in a way he hadn't felt in decades—surrounded by snow, steel, and the eyes of his children, who were seeing their father as he truly was for the first time.
The North remembered.
The godswood still buzzed with the echo of the clash. The ancient heart tree watched in eternal silence, its red sap eyes reflecting the fire that had kindled in Eddard Stark's soul.
Jinx turned his back to the others and faced the heart tree once more, his fingers brushing over its bark with familiarity, as if it had once known him.
"Time for the second lesson," he said.
Eddard remained standing, Ice grounded before him like a great sentinel. His breathing was steady now, but his eyes betrayed a storm of thoughts.
Jon, Arya, and even Catelyn leaned closer, drawn in despite themselves.
Jinx turned back toward them. His voice dropped—measured, calm, but laced with the gravity of truths older than any of them.
"The Jedi Code," he said, raising one finger.
"There is no emotion, there is peace.
There is no ignorance, there is knowledge.
There is no passion, there is serenity.
There is no chaos, there is harmony.
There is no death, there is the Force."
He let the words hang in the air like frost.
"And now… the Sith Code." His eyes narrowed.
"Peace is a lie, there is only passion.
Through passion, I gain strength.
Through strength, I gain power.
Through power, I gain victory.
Through victory, my chains are broken.
The Force shall free me."
He looked at each of them, then sighed. "Two extremes. One preaches suppression. The other—consumption."
He walked forward slowly, dragging the tip of his black blade in the snow, leaving a scar in the ground like a line between two worlds.
"The Jedi kill what makes them human. The Sith feed it until it devours them. Neither of them truly understand the Force… or the soul."
He looked straight at Eddard now.
"You live like a Jedi—calm, composed, chained to an ideal. And yet, your soul screams like a Sith—vengeful, passionate, wounded. But you've given no voice to that storm inside you."
Eddard looked down. "Then what is the way?"
Jinx stopped. His voice dropped, quiet—like the whisper of wind before winter's howl.
"My way."
He drew in a breath, and began to speak—not with force, but with reverence. It was a vow. A promise. A revelation.
"Through death, we remember.
Through peace, we endure.
Through passion, we rise.
The Force is not light nor dark—
It is the breath between life and decay.
We are the silence in the storm,
The blade in the shadow,
The last whisper before the end.
In balance, we transcend.
In death, we become eternal."
A hush fell over the woods.
Even the wind stopped to listen.
Jon took a step forward, eyes wide. "That's… not just a code. That's a truth."
Jinx gave a slight nod. "It is a truth. One carved in blade and blood, trial and pain. I made it when I stood at the edge—between the darkness that nearly consumed me, and the light that couldn't save me."
Catelyn frowned. "You speak like a priest. But you speak of death like it's a gift."
Jinx tilted his head. "Death is a gift. It's only men who misuse it that make it ugly."
He turned to Arya. "And you, little wolf… you walk that edge already. Favored by the god your people call the Many-Faced. The Faceless Men serve death, but they do not understand it. You will. One day, your howl will eclipse even your brother's. But not yet."
Arya blinked. "But… I'm not ready."
"No," Jinx said with a faint smile. "But you will be. Snow sharpens steel. And pain sharpens the soul."
He stepped back and gestured to the godswood.
"This place… this land… is the heart of something forgotten. A bloodline and a power older than dragons or kings. It's time to remember it. To embrace not just what you were taught—but what you are."
Then, to Eddard, he said:
"The North will not be saved by men who forget. It will rise again with those who remember. Now that the wolf inside you has stirred… feed it. Let it grow strong. Because what's coming…"
Jinx looked toward the skies.
"Will devour all who hesitate."
Without another word, Jinx reached behind his cloak and pulled out a scroll sealed with black wax marked by a spiral—a symbol none of them recognized. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed it across the clearing. Eddard caught it with both hands, his brow furrowing.
He broke the seal and slowly unraveled the parchment.
Lines. Diagrams. Words written in a sharp, elegant script. It was some kind of blueprint—a design unlike anything he'd seen before. It outlined the internal workings of motion-driven water mills, wheels that turned not from wind or man, but the flow of underground streams. Accompanying it were notes on piping systems far more complex than the aqueducts of Oldtown.
Even Maester Luwin stepped forward, squinting in disbelief. "These… these concepts are years—decades—beyond our understanding," he murmured, tracing one of the diagrams. "Some of these mechanisms… I don't even know what they do."
But then Eddard saw something that struck a chord.
Near the bottom of the scroll, there was a sketch of Winterfell—specifically its foundations, with arrows pointing to the hot springs beneath the castle. And next to it, notes labeled in three distinct sections:
For House Stark and their honored guests.
For soldiers and visiting allies.
For the people of Winter Town.
Eddard blinked. He remembered—just yesterday—Jinx had offhandedly muttered something to his pet basilisk, Medusa, about "tunneling for the springs." He hadn't thought much of it at the time.
He turned to ask—but was cut off by a sudden, low rumble beneath their feet. The ground quaked softly, not violently, but enough to send a shock through their boots.
Then—CRACK!
Two dozen meters away, earth erupted like a geyser. Snow and soil blasted into the air as a monstrous serpent—thick as a tree trunk and scales glistening black and green—burst from the ground. Its head swayed like a cobra, two glowing yellow eyes locking onto Jinx.
It let out a long, rattling hiss, forked tongue tasting the air, before giving an almost exaggerated sigh and slithering back beneath the earth.
Arya jumped behind Jon. Jon stood frozen. Maester Luwin's jaw nearly hit the snow.
Jinx, completely unfazed, just rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath.
"Lazy beast. I ask her to dig three holes, and she acts like I'm asking her to tunnel through the Seven Hells…"
Eddard stared down at the scroll again, the possibilities spinning in his mind like the gears on the parchment. These weren't just designs for luxury—they were for unity. For preparation. For healing a wounded North.
And Jinx… he wasn't just training him to fight.
He was giving him the tools to rebuild.
Eddard stepped forward, scroll still in hand, the tremble of the earth and the hiss of the basilisk still fresh in his ears. His voice, though low, cut through the silence.
"Why?" he asked simply. "Why are you asking that great serpent to tunnel beneath my home? What are you really after, Jinx?"
Jinx didn't look at him right away. He knelt by the edge of the hole Medusa had left behind, brushing a gloved hand along the exposed soil. Steam gently rose from it now—not smoke, but mist, warm and soft. It curled in the air like dancing spirits.
Finally, he replied.
"Because Winterfell," Jinx said, his voice calm and thoughtful, "wasn't just built with stone and sweat. It was carved by those who understood both sides of the Force. Jedi and Sith. Light and dark. Together."
He looked over his shoulder at Eddard.
"And because of that union… the Force seeped into the land. Into the stone. Into the water. Especially the hot springs beneath your keep."
He stood slowly, gesturing to the mist now rising steadily from the deepening hole. "These waters aren't just warm. They're alive. Step into them, and you'll feel it. They rejuvenate the weary. Wash away fatigue. Soothe not just the body—but the soul."
Just then, the ground rumbled again. A deep, slithering sound rolled under their feet as Medusa burrowed deeper, her tail flicking out for just a second before disappearing into the dark. The tunnel she left behind cracked wider—nearly ten meters across—and suddenly, with a bubbling hiss, water began to rise.
It wasn't aggressive. It was like watching a spring waking from slumber—ancient, patient, and warm.
A soft gasp came from behind. Sansa stepped forward, her breath visible in the chill air.
"But… why outside?" she asked. "Why not make them part of the castle? Something elegant, private—indoors?"
Jinx gave her a small smirk, but it wasn't mocking—it was the kind of look one gives a student asking the right question.
"Because the quiet," he said, turning to face her fully, "the chill in the air, the rustling trees, the snow falling around you as you sink into warmth... that atmosphere makes it a hundred times better."
He looked up at the falling flakes as if they were sacred.
"Besides," he added with a shrug, "there's a serenity in sharing the cold night sky with fire in your chest. The Force... hums louder out here."
Even Maester Luwin found himself nodding slightly, as though the idea made more sense than he wanted to admit.
Jinx turned back to Eddard, his expression neutral, though there was a glint of purpose in his eye.
"I'm not just preparing you for war, Stark," he said softly. "I'm preparing your people for rebirth."