The dawn was gray over Barrowton's docks, mist curling low along the water like ghostly fingers. Every lord of the North—and their families—stood waiting in their cloaks of fur and wool, their breaths misting in the chill air. Even Oberyn and his daughters had joined the gathering, though their Dornish silks stood out starkly among the sea of muted grays and browns.
Eddard Stark stood at the very front, Ice strapped across his back, his hands clasped behind him with the patience of a lord but the tension of a man long past his limit. His eyes lingered on the river, its surface smooth and silent, carrying no sign of this "gift" Jinx had promised.
"How much longer must we wait?" Ned asked, his voice carrying over the murmur of the crowd.
There were nods and grumbles of agreement from the gathered lords. Greatjon Umber shifted restlessly, Maege Mormont crossed her arms, and even Lord Manderly tugged at his beard impatiently.
Jinx, standing at ease with his ever-smiling mask, only tilted his head. "Ye of little faith, my dear wolfie," he said, the words rolling smooth and teasing from behind the mask.
The Dornish contingent—Oberyn and his daughters—snickered at the strange pet name, their eyes glinting with amusement at how easily this masked stranger prodded Ned Stark, Warden of the North.
But then Jinx raised one gloved hand and snapped his fingers. The sound cracked like thunder in the hush of dawn. All eyes snapped to him, then to where he pointed downstream.
At first, there was nothing. Only the faint ripple of water beneath the fog. Then—a silhouette emerged. Dark, immense, and gliding silent as a specter. The mist seemed to part around it as though the river itself feared to touch its hull.
Gasps rippled through the gathered crowd.
The ship was unlike any vessel the North—or perhaps even Westeros—had seen. She was long and sleek, her hull a polished black that drank in the light of dawn and gleamed like obsidian. Her sails, vast and curved, were as dark as a raven's wing, stitched with subtle sigils in thread of deep violet that caught the morning light. A figurehead carved in the likeness of a snarling wolf with eyes of pale crystal jutted proudly from the prow, and every line of the vessel spoke not of mere craft, but of artistry.
It was as if a dream had sailed out of the pages of a legend—a fairy tale come to life, a phantom ship that should not exist.
Even the seasoned Manderly sailors, who had seen every kind of hull from White Harbor to Essos, stood slack-jawed. Rodrik Cassel muttered a prayer under his breath, while Jory simply whispered, "By the old gods…"
Eddard himself could not deny the awe curling cold and sharp in his gut. He felt it in his bones—this was no ordinary gift.
Jinx's voice broke the silence, rich with satisfaction.
"Lords and ladies of the North," he said, spreading his arms as though to present the ship itself. "I give you The Black Pearl. A vessel born of my design, crafted in secrecy, and made to carry House Stark into an age where even the seas will bend to your will."
The crowd erupted with murmurs, excitement mixing with disbelief. Oberyn Martell's smile spread like wildfire across his face, eyes gleaming. "Seven hells," he said softly, almost reverent. "Now this… this is a gift worthy of legend."
The ship eased into the dock with a ghostly grace, its massive black sails lowering with barely a whisper. Every creak of timber sounded deeper, older, as though the vessel itself was alive. The lords of the North pressed forward, their eyes wide, while the Stark children clutched at one another's sleeves, equal parts terrified and enthralled. Even Oberyn Martell, who had seen wonders from Sunspear to Volantis, was silent, lips parted in appreciation.
Jinx stood at the fore, hands clasped behind his back, his masked face tilted toward the ship like a proud father admiring a child. Then he turned to the gathered host.
"You see only the skin," he said smoothly. "But it is within that the true marvel lies. Come."
He gestured, and the gangplank descended with a heavy thud. Eddard was first up, Ice across his back, his stride steady though his gut twisted with unease. The lords followed, muttering amongst themselves, Oberyn strolling with the easy swagger of a man convinced nothing could impress him further.
The moment they stepped onto the deck, they knew something was wrong—or right, depending on how one judged it. The deck stretched far longer than it should have, with corridors branching down into spaces no hull that size could possibly contain. The air itself carried a subtle thrum, a resonance that prickled the skin.
Rodrik Cassel touched one of the railings, his hand trembling. "Gods… it feels warm, like a living thing."
Jinx's laughter carried low and pleased. "That's because it is, in a way. Sith alchemy has bent the wood and the space it holds. What you see within is twice—no, nearly thrice—the size the hull should allow. She carries the strength of a fortress, yet sails like a gull on the wind."
The northern lords stared, some muttering prayers to the Old Gods, others simply crossing themselves in awe.
"And should a blade strike her planks, or a storm batter her frame," Jinx went on, his voice smooth and certain, "she will heal. All she requires is wood to feed upon—stores already kept in her belly. That is her only weakness. Without timber, she mends more slowly. But with it? She is near indestructible. Nigh unsinkable, save by dragon's flame, wildfire, the grasp of a kraken… or other forces better left unspoken."
A ripple of disbelief shuddered through the lords, but none voiced it aloud. For they had already seen Jinx crush a ship in his fist as though it were a child's toy. If he claimed this vessel could not sink, who among them could deny it?
Eddard placed a hand upon the blackened railing, feeling the grain beneath his palm. The wood was strange, cold yet resilient, as though it carried the strength of mountains. "What is she made of?" he asked, his voice low.
Jinx's masked head turned slightly, as though savoring the question. "Shade-of-the-night," he said at last, "ironwood, and weirwood. Each chosen for their essence. Shade for the resilience of forgotten sorcery, ironwood for unyielding strength, and weirwood… for the blessing of your Old Gods. Woven together through craft no maester can name, bound in a hull that will outlast empires."
The words struck the men like a hammer blow. No one spoke. Even Luwin, so quick with his doubts, had no retort. He only stared, pale-faced, at the living timber around him.
"And speed?" Oberyn asked suddenly, his tone lazy, but his eyes sharp with interest. "All this durability is well and good, but ships win wars with swiftness."
Jinx tilted his head, as if smiling beneath the mask. "With this vessel, the sea bends differently. She will move two and a half times faster than any craft you've known. No galley, no longship, not even the sleekest merchant vessel of Braavos could hope to match her. In calm seas she will fly, and in storm she will dance. To pursue her is folly. To escape her is impossible."
The silence stretched. Then Greatjon Umber let out a bark of laughter, a sound half-disbelieving and half wild with the thrill of it. "By the gods," he roared, "the Ironborn won't know what struck 'em when this beast prowls the seas!"
Only Eddard remained still, his gaze locked on Jinx. "And you give this… to the North?"
Jinx inclined his head. "I give this to you. A root to grow a tree, a vessel to carry a people. With The Black Pearl, House Stark will never be hemmed in by land alone. The seas themselves will belong to you."
The lords of the North gathered around the rail, voices rising with excitement, suspicion, and ambition.
"Surely such a vessel belongs under Stark command!" growled Greatjon Umber, his meaty fist slamming against the railing.
"The Pearl must sail with a Mormont at the helm," Maege countered, her hard eyes glittering. "We have lived and died by the sea for generations. Who else could wield such a gift properly?"
Even Lady Dustin, her sharp face pale with awe, spoke up from where she lingered by Eddard. "Barrowton's harbor stands closest to the southern trade routes. It should rest in my port, to grow the North's purse and power both."
Their voices overlapped, swelling into argument. Jorah Mormont quietly pressed his claim, Sarella Sand quipped about how Dornish hands might sail her best, and all the while Eddard stood grim, hand resting on Ice, his eyes flicking often toward Jinx. For it was Jinx alone who had the authority here—the one who had conjured this ship from nightmare woods and sorcery.
Jinx listened in silence, his gloved hands folded behind his back. Then, as the bickering grew too loud, he raised one hand. Power surged unseen, and silence fell like a winter storm.
"I decide," Jinx said softly.
Every lord stiffened. The weight of his masked gaze pinned them. He drew a slow breath, prepared to pronounce his judgment—
—and then, a clamor erupted from the streets of Barrowton below.
Shouts carried on the wind. Guards running. The clang of steel on cobbles. From the deck they saw men fleeing through the alleys—three figures, ragged, quick-footed. Behind them, Stark men-at-arms gave furious chase.
Two of the fugitives were taken almost at once, tackled and dragged down into the mud. But the third—ah, the third was something else.
He ducked between barrels, vaulted low walls, tipped a cart into his pursuers' path. He slipped from their grasp like an eel greased in oil, darting and weaving with uncanny luck and cunning. A lopsided hat flopped across his head, a braid of beads swung at his temple, and though his legs carried him fast, his hands still clutched a bottle of something he had apparently stolen mid-flight.
Lady Dustin's face went red as a weirwood's leaves. "Thieves! In my town! Guards, catch him at once!"
The northerners muttered angrily, insulted by the display. But Jinx… Jinx tilted his head. Beneath the mask, a ripple of recognition flickered across his expression. He knew those escape patterns, the way the man pivoted at the last second, the drunken sway that hid razor precision.
"Oh no," Jinx whispered, too low for the others to hear. "It can't be…"
The figure stumbled, twirled, then winked at a passing maiden before disappearing into another alley, the guards crashing behind him. The chaos below stirred laughter, curses, and indignation alike from the lords on deck.
But Jinx stood very still, watching, violet eyes burning behind the mask. He hadn't expected this. Not here, not in this world. And yet there could be no mistake.
Jack Sparrow.
The air on the deck of the Black Pearl stilled, heavy with expectation. Then Jinx raised his hand.
From the alleys of Barrowton came a startled yelp, followed by the violent crashing of barrels. A heartbeat later, the trickster himself came flying—arms flailing, hat spinning—pulled by an unseen grip through the air like a ragdoll caught in a storm. Jack Sparrow landed unceremoniously before them, suspended above the deck by Jinx's will, his limbs jerking helplessly as though he were a puppet dangling from invisible strings. Only his fingers twitched freely, gesturing with theatrical protest.
Gasps and shouts erupted from the gathered lords and their retinues. Faces turned from disbelief to anger as the pirate hovered in plain sight.
Jinx's voice, calm and resonant through his mask, broke the uproar:
"This," he announced, "will be the captain."
The words struck like thunder.
"Impossible!" barked Greatjon Umber, his thick neck reddening with rage. "You'd give the greatest ship ever forged to a criminal?"
Maege Mormont spat on the deck. "A thief, a drunk, and likely a murderer—better to sink this ship than let him touch her wheel!"
Lady Dustin's voice cut sharp. "This is folly. If you mean to insult the North, stranger, you have succeeded."
Others clamored in agreement, their outrage boiling over at the thought of a ragged pirate leading their prize.
But before the protests could grow, Jinx raised his other hand. Power surged. The very air seemed to thrum, pressing against their lungs. One by one, their voices died in their throats until silence ruled again.
With a flick of his fingers, Jinx released his grip. Jack dropped like a stone, sprawling face-first on the polished deckboards with a grunt. He lay there for a moment, groaning, before adjusting his hat with exaggerated dignity as if he had meant to arrive that way.
Jinx stepped forward, his tone steady, deliberate.
"There is one profession," he said, "that knows these seas better than any lord, any house, any line of sailors passed down through blood." His masked gaze swept over them all. "One breed of man who thrives not through honor, but through trickery, guile, and knowledge of every current, every hidden cove, every storm."
He let the words sink in.
"A pirate."
Several lords stiffened, muttering curses under their breath. Jack, still sprawled, smirked faintly as though savoring the word.
"This ship," Jinx continued, "was crafted to be unlike any other. A trickster among vessels. She is not meant to be predictable, nor bound by tradition. She was made to slip from grasp, to confound pursuit, to strike when least expected. Tell me, then—who better to command such a ship than one who embodies those very things?"
The silence stretched, thick with reluctant understanding. Even the angriest of them could not deny the strange logic in his words.
Eddard Stark's face was hard, unreadable, but his hand lingered on the pommel of Ice, as though weighing his trust once more. Oberyn, leaning against the rail, smiled faintly, watching the spectacle with gleaming curiosity.
And at the center of it all, Jack Sparrow finally pushed himself up, gave a wobbly bow to the assembled lords, and slurred with mock-politeness:
"Captain. Captain Jack Sparrow. Pleasure to be at your service."
The outrage had not faded—but it had been silenced. For now, Jinx's will held sway.
The sun had dipped lower, throwing the harbor in amber hues. The lords of the North had gathered once more on the docks beside the Black Pearl, their tempers still raw from Jinx's earlier decree. This time, they were introduced to two new figures who stepped forward with Jack Sparrow's swaggering blessing.
The first was Hector Barbossa, tall and grim, his eyes sharp as a hawk's beneath his wide-brimmed hat, every inch the weatherworn buccaneer. The second was a grizzled man with salt-and-pepper hair, a broad grin, and a flask forever in hand—Joshamee Gibbs, whom Jack and Barbossa casually addressed as Mr. Gibbs, their "loyal quartermaster."
But when Barbossa offhandedly mentioned Gibbs' past, the revelation struck like a hammer blow.
"He was quartermaster," Barbossa drawled, "aboard the Sea Dragon, Aerys Targaryen's flagship."
The silence that followed was absolute—then shattered in an instant.
Every lord besides Eddard Stark drew steel. The Greatjon's greatsword rang like thunder as it left its scabbard. Maege Mormont snarled, her axe gleaming. Even Dacey Mormont, standing at her mother's side, looked ready to strike. Lady Dustin's men surged forward.
And Oberyn Martell—ever quick—leveled his spear directly at Gibbs' throat, the point resting against the old sailor's weathered skin.
"You served the Mad King?" Oberyn spat, venom in his voice. "Then you served the butcher who burned my kin alive. Give me one reason not to drive this through your neck."
Gibbs froze, hands half-raised, flask dangling from one wrist. His eyes darted from blade to blade, but his lips trembled into a forced grin.
Before blood could spill, Jinx raised his hand.
The air thickened instantly, a wave of unseen power pressing down on the lords' arms until their blades quivered, locked in place by the Force. Even Oberyn found his spear immovable, though his dark eyes burned with defiance.
"Enough," Jinx's voice cut through the uproar, calm yet commanding. "This man is not what you think."
He turned his masked face toward Gibbs. "Tell them what you told me."
The quartermaster swallowed, glancing nervously at the spearhead hovering a breath from his throat. With a shaky exhale, he began.
"Aye… I served aboard the Sea Dragon. But I weren't loyal to that mad tyrant. Truth is—" he coughed, voice raw "—I was feeding word to Jon Arryn. Every ship movement. Every troop muster. Where the fleet would sail, when it would strike. If not for me, the Mad King's navy might've burned half your coasts before Robert ever raised his hammer."
Murmurs rippled through the gathered lords. Some scoffed in disbelief. Others frowned, uncertain.
Eddard's eyes narrowed, weighing the man's words. He alone did not raise his sword, though Ice rested heavy at his side.
Oberyn's spear remained poised, but his grip slackened slightly. His voice was low, still sharp. "Proof. Words are wind."
Gibbs' smile faded. "Proof's long gone, m'lord. All I've got are these hands, and a conscience that's seen enough fire and blood to last ten lifetimes. You can cut me down if you like. But if I hadn't done what I did… some of you wouldn't even be standing here."
Silence stretched.
Finally, Jinx lowered his hand. The weight pressing on the lords' blades lifted, leaving them free once more—but the moment had shifted. The edge of their fury dulled into wary uncertainty.
Jack Sparrow, watching the whole affair with a lopsided grin, leaned lazily on the rail and muttered, "Well, now that that's sorted… anyone for rum?"
But none of the lords laughed.The tension in the dockside hall was thick as tar. Swords still glinted half-raised, Oberyn's spear hovered, and Gibbs stood sweating under their gaze. His words had quieted the fury, but suspicion still gnawed at every Northern lord present.
Eddard Stark stepped forward, Ice's tip lowering to the ground with a heavy clang. His voice was calm, steady, yet carried an edge that silenced the room.
"Enough," he said, silver eyes narrowing at Gibbs. "I'll be the judge of this."
The lords, though reluctant, obeyed, their weapons falling back into scabbards. Only Oberyn hesitated, his dark gaze flicking between Gibbs and Eddard. But even he relented, his spear lowering with visible reluctance.
Jinx leaned back against a timber post, silent now. Behind the mask, however, something stirred. He remembered a conversation with Jon Arryn long ago—one of those hushed exchanges late at night, when the rebellion was still fresh and the realm uncertain. Jon had spoken then of a nameless man, a shadow inside Aerys' fleet who had bled secrets to the rebels. Jon had never given him a name, nor any description, but his tone had carried deep gratitude. Jinx's eyes narrowed. Could this weary, rum-soaked quartermaster truly be that same man?
Eddard studied Gibbs, his expression unreadable. At last, he spoke.
"I knew Jon Arryn well," he said slowly, his voice carrying the weight of memory. "He spoke, once, of an informant inside the Mad King's fleet. A man who gave him knowledge of ship movements, who spared the rebellion from ruin upon the sea. Jon never named you, but if you speak truth, then I believe you may be that man."
The room stilled. Even Oberyn tilted his head, reassessing.
Eddard continued, his tone sharpening. "If that is the case, then Westeros owes you more than a noose. You are no friend of the Mad King. You are a man who risked death to end his tyranny."
He looked around at the gathered lords—Umber, Mormont, Dustin—all of them still bristling with mistrust. His voice rose, iron-hard.
"By my word as Lord of Winterfell, this man is under my protection. He will serve aboard this ship, and none will raise blade or voice against him. The North does not cut down those who fought to rid the world of Aerys Targaryen."
There was silence, broken only by the lapping of the harbor waters outside. The lords exchanged wary glances, but none dared challenge the Warden of the North when his voice took on that tone.
Jinx tilted his head slightly, mask gleaming. He did not speak, but his satisfaction was palpable. Eddard Stark had made his judgment—calm, final, unquestionable. And for once, Jinx thought, perhaps the wolf was learning to bare his fangs in the right places.
Gibbs, pale and shaken, gave a stiff bow, muttering, "Seven bless you, m'lord. I'll not fail your trust."
The moment passed. The swords were sheathed. And though mistrust still lingered, Gibbs had been spared—for now.
The chamber was quiet save for the crackle of the hearth. Shadows from the flames stretched across the stone walls, catching on Jinx's mask as he lounged back in his chair, boot heels crossed at the ankle. Across from him, Eddard Stark stood as if rooted to the ground, Ice resting against the table at his side. His eyes—pale, stern, and unflinching—never left Jinx.
"You were certain," Eddard said at last, his voice low but carrying a weight that pressed into the room. "About sparing that quartermaster. About placing a ship like that in the hands of pirates. Was it truly the right decision?"
Jinx tilted his head, the mask gleaming in the firelight like a frozen smile. Then, slowly, he lifted one gloved hand and set it on the table. "Yes," he said, voice calm, assured. "Magical ships are not meant for plodding, dutiful captains who count their coins and obey their ledgers. They thrive under chaos, under trickery and cunning. The Black Pearl was forged to be a ghost, a trickster of the seas. Best that its master mirrors that truth."
Eddard's jaw tightened, but after a long moment, he nodded once. "So be it."
He moved closer to the fire, letting the orange glow trace the lines of his weary face. "Then tell me this, Jinx. What comes next? Do we defend the North, keep our spears close and our walls strong—or do we carry war to the Iron Islands?" His tone sharpened, but there was no heat in it—only the cool steel of a man who wanted clarity.
Jinx leaned forward, his voice dropping almost to a whisper, though it carried clearly in the stillness. "Defense is a fool's game when you already hold the advantage. I've fought in thousands of battles, Eddard. Hundreds of wars. More rebellions than you'd care to imagine. And never—not once—has digging in and waiting brought anything but waste and rot. It gives the enemy time to gather breath, to lick their wounds, to think."
He tapped a finger against the table, the sound sharp as a blade against whetstone. "The Ironborn are few in number. Their strength lies in surprise, in swift strikes. That advantage is already gone. With the Pearl, we are faster, stronger, and far more dangerous than they can comprehend. To sit in Winterfell and wait would squander everything. It would bore me. And more importantly—"
His masked face tilted toward Eddard, a faint hum of amusement in his voice. "—it would hand them time they do not deserve."
Eddard studied him in silence, his silver eyes narrowing. "So you counsel an attack."
"I counsel victory," Jinx replied. "And victory is never won by standing still."
The fire popped, sending a spray of sparks up the chimney. For a long while neither man spoke, but Eddard's grip on Ice's hilt tightened, and though his voice remained quiet, his heart was already moving toward war.
The flames in the hearth hissed as resin cracked in the log, but Eddard Stark hardly noticed. His mind weighed Jinx's words with the heaviness of a lord who bore the North upon his shoulders. To strike first, to send Northern steel across the sea to take vengeance before the foe set foot upon his shores—it went against the instincts of his house, of his people. The wolf guarded its den; it did not raid like a reaver.
Yet Jinx, ever leaning back with his mask gleaming like a fixed grin, was not finished. He shifted in his chair, voice low and deliberate, the kind that wormed its way under the skin.
"You think only of defense, of holding walls until your foe breaks teeth upon them. But what if, instead, you broke their teeth before they ever came near? Seize the isles, Eddard. Take their strength, their harbors, their very homes. Tear out the roots, and no raider will ever trouble the North again."
Eddard's eyes narrowed. "And where, exactly, would you plant this Northern banner in a den of vipers?"
Jinx's head tilted, as if the answer were obvious. "Harlaw."
The name hung in the air, heavy with implication. Eddard stared at him for a long moment, Ice glinting faintly by his side. His voice was flat, but not without edge. "Convenient. Of all the isles, you choose the seat of House Harlaw. A stronghold, yes… but also the home of Nightfall."
He did not say more, but his meaning was plain.
Jinx gave a soft laugh, one gloved hand brushing at the air as if to swat away the suspicion. "Ah, wolfie, you wound me. To think me greedy, chasing toys while we speak of conquest. I choose Harlaw because it commands the sea lanes. Its fortress is stone, not driftwood. Its hold upon the Isles is second only to Balon's. Break it, and you break the spine of their rebellion."
But beneath the mask, though Eddard could not see it, Jinx's eyes gleamed with amusement. He wasn't wrong about the strategic value—but Eddard's guess had struck nearer the truth than he'd like to admit.
The Lord of Winterfell, however, allowed himself the barest curl of his lips, a humorless smile. "Perhaps. Or perhaps you simply crave another blade for your collection."
Jinx leaned forward, the mask's eternal smile reflecting firelight. "And if I did? Would that be such a crime, when every blade I claim cuts down your enemies?"
Eddard shook his head, a sigh escaping him. "Seven save me. You speak as though war were a game."
Jinx's voice dropped to a murmur, laced with the weight of centuries. "No, wolf. Not a game. A story. And in every story, only one side endures."
For the first time, Eddard felt the stirrings of grim amusement within himself. Greedy or not, dangerous or not, Jinx was no liar in this: his hunger, whether for victory or for steel, aligned with the North's survival—for now.