The heavy council doors had only just closed over the matter of Red Rain when they creaked open again. A young soldier stumbled in, out of breath, helm tucked under one arm. His eyes flicked across the assembled lords before fixing on Eddard.
"My lord," he said quickly, "a party has just ridden through the western road. They bear the sun-and-spear of Dorne. It is Prince Oberyn Martell himself, come with his household."
A ripple passed through the chamber. Maege Mormont muttered something about snakes slithering north, while Greatjon Umber gave a bark of laughter and rose to his feet. "The Red Viper, here of all places? Seven hells, I'll see this with my own eyes."
Chairs scraped, boots echoed, and one by one the northern lords moved to follow Eddard. Even Luwin looked uneasy, shuffling his robes as he trailed after.
Jinx did not move at first. He remained seated, masked face tilted slightly, as though tasting the moment. Beneath the black glass of his visor, violet eyes burned with an excitement no one else could see.
Oberyn Martell.
The name alone brought back an echo of his first life—the easy grin of Pedro Pascal, the warmth of a man he had once considered a friend beyond the screen. How strange, how utterly strange, to feel that same anticipation here. Would this Oberyn be like him? Would he bear the same charm, the same fire? Would the Seven, or the Force, truly grant him that gift of familiarity again—like how Ned Stark wore Sean Bean's face without knowing it?
Jinx's gauntleted fingers drummed once against the arm of his chair. "Interesting," he murmured softly to himself. Then he rose, fluid and composed, sliding Red Rain into place at his hip beside the crossguard saber.
Eddard glanced back at him as they made for the gate. "You seem almost eager."
From behind the mask, Jinx's voice came smooth, unreadable. "The Viper is not a man to meet lightly, my lord. But perhaps he is one worth meeting."
Together, Stark, lords, and the masked stranger strode through Barrowton's battered streets toward the gate, where the banners of sun and spear were already snapping in the wind. And though none could see it, beneath the mask Jinx's lips curved into the faintest smile—half anticipation, half memory.
The gates of Barrowton creaked open to reveal a blaze of sun-and-spear banners against the gray northern sky. Riders in flowing Dornish silks and light mail entered the courtyard, their horses snorting in the cold air. The northerners on the walls muttered—never had the South seemed so alien as when gilded saddles and bright crimson sashes spilled into their battered town still reeking of smoke and salt.
At their head, Prince Oberyn Martell dismounted with fluid grace. His cloak was a deep blood-orange trimmed in gold, his tunic loose and light despite the chill that made even the Mormonts' furs seem thin. Dark eyes glittered with mischief as his boots struck the muddy ground. Behind him came two young women: Nymeria Sand, with her bow slung casually over one shoulder, gaze sharp as a hawk's; and Sarella, restless and muttering, pulling her hood tighter against the northern wind.
"Lord Stark," Oberyn said warmly, bowing with a theatrical flourish more suited to a tourney than a war camp. "You honor me with such a welcome. It has been far too long since fire met ice."
Eddard inclined his head stiffly, hand resting on Ice's pommel. "You come far from Sunspear, Prince. May we ask what brings you to a land at war?"
Oberyn smiled, slow and knowing. "Curiosity. Whispers carried on raven wings. And, I will confess, a hunger to see whether the stories of the North's… stranger ally are true." His eyes slid from Ned to the masked figure standing just behind him.
Jinx.
Clad in black armor, mask glinting faintly in the torchlight, he stood with arms folded. No greeting, no flourish—just stillness that seemed to suck the air around him.
Oberyn stepped closer, boots squelching in the mud, and tilted his head. "And you must be he. The ghost from nowhere, who bends lords to listen and makes the frozen earth bloom. Tell me, do you smile behind that mask? Or is the mystery the smile itself?"
The northern lords bristled, Greatjon Umber shifting with a growl, Maege Mormont snorting like a bear who'd smelled a trap. But Jinx said nothing. Only a faint tilt of his head, as though amused.
Oberyn circled once, like a dancer measuring his partner. "I have seen many masks, stranger. On knights, on mummers, even on lovers hiding their blushes. But you—" He paused, eyes glittering. "—you wear yours as if the world itself does not deserve to see your face. That is… terribly enticing."
Nymeria rolled her eyes, muttering under her breath. Sarella groaned audibly. "Father, please—he's not going to swoon for you."
Laughter rippled nervously among the Dornish retinue. The Northerners only stiffened more.
Still, Jinx remained motionless. Then—finally—his voice, smooth and cool through the filter of the mask: "Charm is a blade, Prince Martell. Effective, but wasted when you do not know the armor you strike against."
Oberyn's grin widened, unabashed. "Ah, but even the finest armor has gaps, if one looks closely enough." He leaned in, close enough that his breath misted on the steel. "And I am very good at finding gaps."
The mask gave nothing away. No twitch, no intake of breath. But under it, Jinx's violet eyes gleamed, privately amused.
Eddard's jaw tightened. "Enough games. Prince Oberyn, you are welcome under my protection for as long as you remain here—but do not mistake the North for Dorne. We have little patience for riddles or charms."
Oberyn raised both hands innocently, stepping back with a chuckle. "As you say, Lord Stark. Though I cannot help but wonder… which will prove more dangerous to me: the wolf at my front, or the serpent in my shadow?" His eyes flicked once more to Jinx, lingering, probing.
And though none could see behind the mask, Jinx smiled quietly to himself. Oberyn Martell was exactly as he remembered—reckless, magnetic, and fearless. And it would be interesting—very interesting—to see just how far his charm would go against someone who could not be swayed so easily.
The feast at Barrowton had long since ended, the fires in the hall burning low. Most of the northern lords had retired, too weary from the day's bloodshed to stay awake. Only the faint echo of laughter from Dornish voices carried through the cold stone passages.
Jinx, as ever, had slipped away early. The godswood of Barrowton was not so grand as Winterfell's, but he'd found a place among the trees where the night air was quiet enough to think. He sat on a stone bench, mask glinting in the moonlight, when a soft tread approached behind him.
"Do you ever tire of skulking away from revels, masked one?" Oberyn Martell's voice was low and silken, warmed with wine.
Jinx did not turn. "Some find noise comforting. I find silence… necessary."
Oberyn emerged from the shadows, cloak loose around his shoulders, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. He leaned against a tree, watching Jinx with a wolfish interest. "Necessary, or safe? Men wear masks for one of two reasons: to hide a weakness, or to wield a weapon. I've yet to decide which you are."
The violet glow of Jinx's eyes glimmered faintly through the narrow visor. "Perhaps I am both."
Oberyn chuckled, stepping closer until the cold northern air seemed to carry Dornish spice with it. "You are infuriating, you know. No past. No name beyond a word that tastes of mischief. No face. And yet you walk beside lords as if you were their equal, their better. Do you not worry that curiosity might become a blade at your throat?"
"Curiosity cuts both ways, Prince," Jinx replied evenly. "You came north not for politics, nor duty. You came for me. To see whether I was shadow or substance."
Oberyn's grin spread, unabashed. "I will not deny it. The moment I heard whispers of you—sorcerer, whisperer, masked phantom bending the Starks—I knew I had to see. And here you are. A riddle in black steel. Tell me, stranger… what are you really?" His voice dropped into a near-whisper. "Man? Monster? God?"
For a long moment, only the whisper of wind stirred between them. Then Jinx slowly lifted a hand, pressing it to the clasps of his mask. With a faint hiss, the seal released. The mask came away, and for the first time Oberyn looked upon the face beneath.
The Dornish prince froze.
It was beauty and danger woven into one: flawless skin pale as moonlight, hair falling like dark silk, and those eyes—violet, luminous, carrying secrets older than kingdoms. Too perfect, too otherworldly, as if no mortal blood could have crafted such a visage.
Oberyn staggered back a step, one hand flying to his nose as blood suddenly trickled down it. He gave a bark of startled laughter even as crimson stained his fingers.
"Seven hells," he breathed, shaking his head in disbelief. "You are… unfair." He tilted his chin, grinning through the blood, eyes still drinking in Jinx's features. "No wonder you hide your face. If you walked unmasked, half the world would fall to its knees, and the other half would try to kill you out of envy."
Jinx gave no smug smile, only regarded him with quiet amusement. "Satisfied, Prince?"
Oberyn dabbed his nose with a kerchief, still chuckling. "Satisfied? No. Intrigued beyond reason? Entirely. And I begin to understand why the North follows you. Gods help us, I think I might too."
The mask slid back into place with a hiss, erasing the vision as if it had never been. Only the glint of violet eyes remained.
"Careful, Prince," Jinx said softly. "Curiosity may be the death of you yet."
Oberyn licked the blood from his lip, smiling wider. "Perhaps. But what a delicious way to die."
The mask hissed back into place, violet eyes hidden once more behind the ever-smiling visage. Without another word, Jinx rose to his feet, the movement smooth as if fatigue never touched him. He crossed the chamber to a small chest that sat beside his belongings, its wood darkened and bound with iron clasps.
From within, he drew out a crystal-clear bottle, the faint shimmer of Wolfblood Vodka catching even the dim light. He poured two cups, the liquid swirling like liquid moonlight, and offered one to Oberyn.
"Careful," Jinx said softly, tilting his own cup before sipping. "It burns like truth."
Oberyn raised his cup in salute, his smile wicked. "And truth is the rarest poison." He drank deeply, eyes widening briefly at the fire-and-snow taste, before smirking again. "Mmm. I see why your Northmen worship you already."
Jinx set his cup down, fingers laced against the table's edge. His voice dropped to something quieter, colder. "Now… let us not waste wine or words. I know why Doran sent you north. To see me. To weigh me like some curiosity against the scales of Dornish politics. But that alone would not have pried you from your paramour's bed. You came because of your own hunger. You want to know why."
Oberyn leaned forward, dark eyes gleaming with mischief, but also with honesty. "I have walked the length of Essos. I have studied with poisoners in Lys, kissed magisters' daughters in Volantis, and seen blood mages cut their own hearts in Qarth. I know the scent of power, Jinx. It drips from you like sweat. And here you are, training wolves' cubs in shadows, changing the course of the North. You are more dangerous than any sorcerer the world has whispered of since Valyria burned."
He swirled the vodka in his cup, gaze never leaving Jinx's mask. "I came because I want to see if magic is truly alive again. I came because if the world is shifting, I will not be left to hear it only in rumors. I came… because I want to taste the flame for myself."
For a long while, Jinx said nothing, only tapping a single black-gloved finger against the rim of his cup. Then, slowly, he laughed, the sound low and unsettling, echoing oddly beneath the mask.
"You are a man who cannot help but flirt with death," Jinx said at last. "And I am the sort of man who cannot help but answer curiosity with consequences. You may not like what you find, Prince."
Oberyn smiled wider, lips stained with vodka and wine. "Then let us find out together."
In the blink of an eye, the chamber was filled with a violent hiss, a sound like a serpent exhaling fire. Magenta-black light flared as Jinx's crossguard blade roared into existence. The blade burned so close to Oberyn's throat that he felt the searing heat prickle the fine hairs along his skin.
Oberyn's body jolted at first—the shock of flame and death that close—but he did not flinch away. His eyes, dark as a Dornish night, locked onto the mask before him without wavering. There was no plea. No retreat. Only defiance.
Jinx leaned in ever so slightly, tilting the blade so its heat kissed Oberyn's jawline. Fear, Jinx thought, probing with the Force. Or the lack of it.
But what he found was not the blank acceptance of a man broken, nor the reckless calm of one too arrogant to recognize danger. Instead, woven beneath Oberyn's carefully guarded composure, there was regret. It pulsed like an old wound.
Jinx remembered another moment—Eddard Stark, two weeks ago, when he had pressed this same test upon him. The wolf-lord's eyes had been steady, his voice steady too: "I learned how to die a long time ago." A resignation born from loss and duty.
But Oberyn… his defiance was different. His regret was sharper, more personal. Jinx did not need words to name it. He saw the echoes of a woman's scream, a baby's cry. He saw fire, steel, and the monstrous shadow of a knight known as the Mountain That Rides.
Elia.
Jinx pulled the blade back an inch, his voice low and edged like the weapon in his hand. "Your mask is charm. Your armor is wit. But beneath them both… you carry the weight of vengeance unclaimed."
Oberyn smirked, though it was strained now, his voice husky but steady. "And if I do? What of it?"
Jinx deactivated the blade, the room plunging back into shadow. He leaned back, his mask tilting. "Then I know the kind of man you are. And I know what drives you. Fearless men are many. Men who endure regret… they are the dangerous ones."
For a heartbeat, the silence between them was heavy, vibrating with unspoken truths. Oberyn exhaled, a sly smile tugging his lips again as if nothing had cracked him at all. But the blood trickling faintly from his nose betrayed what he had seen—and felt—when Jinx had pressed too close to his soul.
For a moment Oberyn simply stood there, hand brushing faintly at the blood trickling from his nose, smirk still curling his lips like armor against what had just been exposed. He tilted his head back and gave a throaty laugh.
"You look too deep into me, masked one," he said, voice low and honeyed, trying to regain the swagger that had always served him so well. "Most men see Oberyn Martell and notice the smile, the blade, or the bed. You? You go straight for the scars beneath. How very… inconvenient."
Jinx, still seated with the hissing saber now extinguished, tilted his head. The mask hid any expression, but Oberyn could feel the weight of being measured again. "Charm hides truth," Jinx said evenly. "But truth always bleeds through, sooner or later."
Oberyn wiped the last trace of blood away, and when he met Jinx's violet gaze behind the mask, his own grin had softened. Less mockery. More respect. "Then perhaps it is good you see it. For I prefer friends who know my regrets… and do not flinch from them."
With that, Jinx moved. He rose in one fluid motion, gliding over to his personal pack. From it he drew a bottle—its crystal-clear glass catching the faint firelight, the liquid within glowing faintly like ice kissed with moonlight. Wolfblood Vodka. The same northern spirit Oberyn had heard whispers of even this far south.
Without a word, Jinx fetched two cups. He poured with deliberate care, the clear stream singing against the metal rims. Then, slowly, almost ceremoniously, he reached up and unsealed his mask once more. The hiss of air filled the room before the face beneath was revealed: flawless, otherworldly, violet eyes luminous in the firelight.
Oberyn actually felt his pulse quicken, but he managed this time to temper the hunger, to cage the lust behind a sly smile. "Seven save me…" he muttered, shaking his head as if to clear it. "The gods truly favor me tonight, to drink in such company."
Jinx extended his glass, voice smoother now without the mask's distortion, resonant and strangely beautiful. "Then let us call it what it is. The beginning of something rare. A friendship built not on masks, but on truths shared."
Oberyn, eyes gleaming, lifted his own glass until it clinked lightly against Jinx's. "To truths then… and to dangerous friends."
They both raised their cups and drank deep, the second time that night Wolfblood burned its way into them—not with fire, but with a warmth that filled the body and lingered like the promise of something more.
=======================================================================================================================================================================================
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.
=======================================================================================================================================================================================
The hall was lit by torch and hearthfire, the smell of salt and smoke from the recent battle clinging to the stone. Maps of the Iron Isles were spread across the long oak table, weighed down by daggers, goblets, and half-emptied pitchers of ale. Around the table sat the gathered lords of the North: Greatjon Umber, booming laughter subdued for once; Jorah and Maege Mormont, steel-eyed and sharp-tongued; Barbrey Dustin, her mouth thin as a blade's edge; and others besides. At the head, Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, with Jinx at his right shoulder, Oberyn Martell lounging across from him, a wry smile already curling his lips.
The tension was thick enough to choke on.
Eddard's hand rested on the pommel of Ice, though not in threat—more in anchor, to keep himself steady as the arguments swirled. "The Ironborn will come again," he said, voice low, steady. "They always do. Better to bar the gates of the North, strengthen our shores, and bleed them when they land. Defense is what we know. We are wolves, not krakens."
Lady Barbrey Dustin gave a sharp laugh, her eyes flashing with something close to hate. "Wolves? Wolves that bury their tails between their legs, perhaps. You speak of defense as if it is noble. It is cowardice, Stark. Always waiting. Always reacting. That hesitation cost my husband his bones. You marched south with promises, yet I have no body to lay in the barrows of my line. I will not suffer more waiting."
The words struck like darts, though Eddard's face betrayed little. Jinx, however, tilted his masked head toward the woman, his voice carrying lazy amusement. "What is her deal, wolfie? She gnaws at you like a dog with a bone."
Eddard's jaw tightened, but he gave a clipped reply. "Her husband rode with me in the Rebellion. Fought beside me at the Tower of Joy against the Mad King's kingsguard. He fell there, and I—" His eyes fell to the table, heavy with memory. "I could not bring his body home."
Jinx hummed, low and knowing, as if filing away a piece of the puzzle. "Ah. A grudge sharpened on grief. Understandable. But grief makes poor counsel."
Before Barbrey could spit venom again, Oberyn leaned forward, his dark eyes alight, lips curling in that easy, dangerous smile of his. "For once, I agree with the masked sorcerer." He gestured lazily to the map, long fingers tracing the jagged coastline of the Iron Isles. "Why wait for krakens to crawl upon your shores? Strike them in their nests. It will be glorious. The sea runs red, the islands burn, and the world will whisper of Northern steel and Southern fire cutting the Ironborn down to size."
Greatjon barked a laugh at that, slamming a fist on the table. "Aye! Better than waiting like sheep in the fold!"
But others murmured uneasily. Jorah Mormont frowned. "To cross the sea is to risk our strength. The North bleeds slow, but it bleeds deep. Lose too many men on the Isles, and winter will claim the rest."
Maege growled agreement. "The Isles are rocks. Let the krakens drown in their own tide."
It was Jinx who silenced them. He rose with deliberate slowness, his gloved hand tracing the map until it pressed flat against Harlaw Isle. "You cling to fear of loss, yet loss is inevitable in war. Do you know what I have learned, through thousands of battles, hundreds of wars, a dozen rebellions?" His masked face turned toward the lords, violet eyes glinting through the slits. "Defense is a slow death. Always. Attack is life. Attack is victory."
The words rolled like thunder, and for a moment no one dared speak.
He went on, voice cold and precise. "Harlaw is the key. Stronghold of stone, heart of their sea lanes. Break it, and you break them. And…" his gloved hand tapped once, sharp against the map, "you take Nightfall. Every victory must be complete."
Eddard's eyes flickered, catching the truth behind the words. Greed, or strategy? Perhaps both. Yet Jinx's conviction was ironclad, and for all his doubts, a sliver of grim amusement wormed its way into Stark's heart.
Robert's voice echoed in his mind—wolves are not sheep.
Eddard straightened, looking across the faces of his bannermen, then to Oberyn, smirking with the promise of blood and glory, and finally to Barbrey Dustin, whose bitter gaze burned holes in his composure. She would never forgive him, but perhaps she would follow him if he chose to act, to strike, to do what he could not at the Tower of Joy.
The choice pressed upon him, heavy as the blade of Ice.
Eddard Stark sat in silence, the flickering light of the war council chamber catching on the steel of Ice resting across his knees. Maps of the Iron Islands and the western coasts were sprawled before him, covered with small carved tokens representing ships, men, and fortresses. Every eye in the room was on him, waiting for his word—the order that would send hundreds, perhaps thousands, to their deaths.
He could already picture it: the black banners of House Stark raised above decks and battlements, the screams of men cut down, the mourning wives and children left behind. Honor might demand boldness, but honor did not comfort widows.
For a long moment, he hesitated.
Then, like an unwelcome whisper in his mind, Jinx's voice stirred from memory. He recalled their hours in the godswood, where the stranger had tested him—not only with sword and sweat, but with words sharp as any blade.
"It is better to act and repent than not to act and regret."
That had been the first saying. Jinx had repeated it like a mantra, driving it into his skull. Action, even if costly, was better than paralysis. To sit idle while foes grew bold was not caution—it was cowardice dressed in noble robes.
"Whosoever desires constant success must change his conduct with the times."
The second lesson. Eddard had hated it at first, for it stank of southern schemers, of men like Baelish and Varys. Yet Jinx had not spoken it like a court whisperer but like a commander, a man who had seen empires rise and fall. Winterfell's ways were old and strong, but even the roots of the heart tree had once been tender shoots that bent with the wind.
And lastly, the one that had chilled him most:
"Wars begin when you will, but they do not end when you please."
Those words had settled like frost in his bones. He thought of his father and brother burned by wildfire, of Lyanna's deathbed whispers, of the rebellion that had begun with righteous fury and ended with him standing beside Robert in the ashes, clutching a crown neither of them had truly wanted.
Jinx had told him these things so he would recognize the weakness in himself—weakness that the Vale had cultivated, with its high halls, soft politics, and dreams of chivalry. "Those are the words of a fool," Jinx had said once, voice as cold as the godswood air. "A fool who does not know reality, or worse—a fool who does not know how to bend reality so his words become truth."
Now, staring down at the map, Eddard realized he stood at that very fork. To cling to old notions of honor and defense was to risk being that fool. To act—swiftly, decisively, even ruthlessly—was to gamble lives, but perhaps save far more in the long winter to come.
Slowly, he exhaled, the ghost of his breath curling in the candlelight. His men would march. His ships would sail. And the North would strike first.
The chamber was heavy with smoke from the braziers, the maps stretched wide across the oak table. Carved tokens of wolf, kraken, and ship had been placed, moved, and argued over for hours. Lords and ladies stood shoulder to shoulder, their faces grim.
Eddard Stark had listened to them all—the bluster of Greatjon Umber, the sharp-tongued doubts of Lady Barbrey Dustin, the measured reports from Rodrik and Jory, even the sly interruptions of Oberyn Martell, who seemed half amused and half hungry for war. And of course, Jinx—mask gleaming, voice calm and certain, needling Ned to abandon hesitation.
The weight of it pressed on him, heavier than Ice at his back. The fate of the North, perhaps the realm, hung on his word.
Lady Barbrey's voice cut through again, sharp as a lash.
"You risk too much, Lord Stark. Strike into the Islands? Folly. We are wolves, not krakens. Better to hunker in our dens and wait until they wash against our shores."
Greatjon slammed his fist on the table.
"Wait and let them burn more villages, eh? I'll not sit on my arse while the Ironborn raid our coasts. Give me the word, Stark, and I'll sail tonight!"
Oberyn leaned lazily on his spear, eyes glittering with mischief.
"The Umber speaks true. Wolves in dens rot. Wolves on the hunt feed. If you're to end this rebellion, end it with fire and steel. And Seven hells, I've not crossed half the realm to watch you brood in silence."
Ned's eyes flicked to Jinx. The masked man said nothing, only watching him, waiting—as he always did.
Eddard's hand tightened on the carved direwolf token before him. He thought again of those lessons in the godswood. Better to act and repent than not to act and regret… The words echoed like a drumbeat.
Slowly, he rose to his feet. The chamber fell into silence.
"I have heard your counsel," he began, his voice low but carrying. "And I have weighed it, as a Stark must. But I am not blind to what the Ironborn are. They do not stop. They do not sue for peace. To wait is to invite more raids, more dead, more grief."
He looked to Lady Barbrey first, meeting her cold eyes.
"You say we should hunker down and endure. But the North has endured for thousands of years, and still the kraken strikes whenever it pleases. That ends now."
Then to Greatjon, who stood grinning like a wolf ready to spring.
"You want battle? You shall have it. But not with wild fury. With purpose. With precision."
Finally, his gaze swept to Oberyn and then to Jinx.
"We will strike the Iron Islands. Not with half measures, not with waiting games. With fire and sword, until they bend the knee or drown beneath the waves. House Stark will not cower in Winterfell while our people burn."
A ripple moved through the gathered lords—shock, pride, even fear.
Lady Barbrey's lips tightened, but she said nothing. Greatjon roared approval, slamming the table so hard the tokens jumped. Oberyn smiled, sharp and predatory, as if savoring the promise of blood.
And Jinx… Jinx inclined his head ever so slightly, violet eyes gleaming behind the mask. For the first time, Ned thought he saw approval there.
Eddard drove the point home, voice ringing.
"Our first target will be Harlaw. They are the strongest seat, the richest, and they hold Nightfall. Break them, and the rest will falter. With the Black Pearl at our command, no fleet in Westeros can match us. We strike swift, we strike hard, and we make an end of this rebellion before it festers."
There was silence for a moment, then a swell of sound—cheers from some, muttered curses from others, the scrape of steel as men thumped swords to shields. The decision had been made. The course was set.
And though the weight of it pressed on him still, Ned felt something else too—something he had not felt since the days of Robert's Rebellion. Resolve.
The docks of Barrowton groaned with the weight of barrels, crates, and the ceaseless tramping of boots. Men shouted as they loaded salted pork, smoked fish, hardtack, and casks of fresh water into the belly of the Black Pearl. Torches flickered in the late afternoon gloom, casting the great ship's black hull in a ghostly sheen.
Eddard stood with his cloak pulled tight, eyes scanning the process. Beside him, Lady Maege Mormont—broad-shouldered, fierce-eyed—kept her arms folded as she watched her men direct the loading. Jinx leaned casually against a mooring post, mask glinting in the torchlight, every movement radiating a predator's patience. Oberyn, of course, looked the least concerned, rolling his spear idly across his shoulders, golden eyes fixed on the Pearl like a man sizing up a lover.
At length, Oberyn broke the silence, his voice smooth and edged with challenge.
"Tell me, Lord Stark… Lady Mormont… why are we not already gone? Even now the Ironborn must be sniffing the air like carrion crows, wondering why their raiders have not returned. Every hour we waste is another chance for them to be warned."
Maege grunted.
"Because we'll not sail half-manned and half-fed into kraken waters. The North fights hard, but even wolves need teeth and meat. My Mormonts will not march blind into the sea without strength at their backs."
Eddard nodded in agreement, his face grim.
"Aye. Men, food, weapons. We may have the Pearl, but a single ship, no matter how strong, is not an army. The Ironborn thrive on reckless charges. We must not stoop to their folly."
Jinx's voice cut in then, soft but carrying, sharp as frostbite.
"And yet folly wins wars more often than caution. You mistake what we hold in our hands."
He pushed off the post, walking toward the Pearl, gloved hand trailing along the railing as he spoke.
"This ship is not like theirs. Its speed eclipses anything the Ironborn can build. By my estimate, if we sail at dusk, we will reach Harlaw by nightfall."
Both Stark and Mormont looked at him, skepticism in their eyes. Jinx went on regardless.
"And tonight, and the two nights after, the sky will be moonless. Darkness will be our cloak. We do not need thousands for this strike. What we need is silence, swiftness, and a blade at the throat. Strike unseen, and the kraken will thrash in panic. Kill or capture their lord, and their courage drowns with him."
Maege scowled.
"And if your fancy ship fails you? If your magic cannot mask us from sharp Ironborn eyes?"
Jinx tilted his head, mask gleaming as if amused.
"Then we kill them anyway. But this is the moment, Lady Mormont. The advantage is ours, and advantage must never be wasted."
Eddard's hand tightened around Ice's hilt, his eyes drawn to the black silhouette of the Pearl. He thought of Jinx's words in the godswood, of the lessons he had drilled into him. It is better to act and repent than not to act and regret.
Oberyn smiled like a wolf in firelight.
"The masked one is right. The Ironborn are raiders. Let us raid the raiders. Quick, cruel, and glorious. Tell me, Ned Stark—does the wolf's blood in your veins not hunger for such a hunt?"
Ned's jaw worked silently. He could feel every pair of eyes on him—the Dornish prince's gleam, Maege's scowl, Jinx's unreadable mask. The decision, as always, fell on his shoulders.
The dock was tense, the air thick with the clash of competing wills. Eddard still stood rooted, cloak snapping in the evening wind, torn between his northern caution and the restless hunger stirring in his blood. Maege Mormont frowned, arms still crossed, while Oberyn smirked knowingly at his hesitation.
Then a younger voice spoke. Daemon Sand—Oberyn's squire, if Jinx remembered correctly—shifted uneasily beside his prince. His dark eyes flicked between the lords before he finally found his courage.
"Why not simply take what we need from the Ironborn?" the boy asked. His tone was respectful but steady. "If we strike their ships and their holds, their food and their stores will fill ours. They raid to feed themselves. Why shouldn't we do the same?"
The dock fell silent. Even Oberyn turned to look at his squire, brows lifting with surprise. Jinx tilted his head, the faintest chuckle escaping the vox of his mask.
"This boy has a good head on his shoulders," Jinx said, voice calm and certain. His gaze fell on Oberyn. "You've trained him well."
Oberyn's lips curved into a proud smile, his golden eyes glinting.
"Daemon has been with me two years now. A favor for his father… my cousin. I knew the boy would find his teeth sooner or later."
Maege snorted. "Bold words for one so green." Yet even she did not dismiss the idea outright.
Eddard, however, was caught in the storm inside his chest. To steal? To raid? It went against everything he had sworn to uphold. His father's voice echoed in his memory, stern and steady. The North does not break its oaths. The North does not take what is not earned.
But then Jinx's lessons returned to him, sharp as a blade cutting through doubt. Listen to the wolf's blood, Stark. It is the key. You starve it, it turns wild. You harness it, it becomes strength.
Eddard closed his eyes. Beneath the cold wind and the restless waves, he heard it—his blood howling, a call to action. Not reckless, not wanton. But decisive. Alive.
When he opened his eyes, they burned with that golden glint Jinx had once coaxed out of him in the godswood.
"Board the ship!" Eddard barked, his voice carrying across the docks like thunder. "All men to the Pearl! Ready arms and rations. We sail with the tide!"
The words ignited the waiting soldiers. Cheers rang out as boots hammered on the planks, and the lords of the North exchanged startled glances. Maege gave a curt nod, approval in her eyes despite herself. Oberyn grinned like a man about to step into the dance of his life.
And Jinx—Jinx merely stood back, folding his arms, watching the wolf of Winterfell bare his fangs at last.
The Pearl rocked gently against the dock, the air thick with the smell of pitch, salt, and the eager anticipation of men who had not yet seen battle but knew they soon would. Torches flickered along the railings, casting the crew in amber light as they hurried supplies aboard.
Then, without a word of warning, Jinx reached for the locks at his collar. A hiss of steam broke the night air as he unsealed his helm. Slowly, almost ceremoniously, he lifted the smiling mask away. For the first time since Winterfell, the gathered host saw his face.
Perfect symmetry, violet eyes catching the torchlight like molten jewels, smooth pale skin unblemished by age or scar. He stripped the armor piece by piece, revealing a frame carved like marble—lean muscle with the grace of a dancer, hardened like a warrior, sculpted as if the gods themselves had chiseled him in mockery of men.
The dock fell silent. Then chaos erupted.
Half the soldiers froze, mouths agape. Several dropped what they were carrying, sacks of grain spilling across the planks. More than a dozen men stumbled back as crimson leaked from their noses, muttering curses as they tried—and failed—to look away.
Dacey Mormont, never one to hold her tongue, let out a low whistle.
"Seven hells," she said with a grin sharp as a blade. "If the gods made bodies like that more often, I'd be offering myself every moon."
A chorus of nervous laughter followed, though none dared joke too loudly. The Bear Island woman wasn't known for making idle jests.
Only two men seemed entirely unshaken: Eddard Stark, arms crossed, face grim as if nothing about Jinx surprised him anymore; and Prince Oberyn Martell, who only smirked knowingly, his eyes glinting with that same sharp lust he kept carefully buried. Both had seen enough of Jinx by now to expect the impossible.
Jinx, for his part, neither preened nor hid. He simply reached for a bottle, poured himself a draught of Wolfblood, and drank with elegant calm, as though nothing about this display was unusual.
"Compose yourselves," he said, voice smooth, unmasked. "You'll need your strength where we're going. Ships don't fall to their knees at beauty—only steel, fire, and cunning win wars."
The words jolted the crew back to themselves, though not without a dozen sidelong glances, as though each feared they'd just been caught staring at something sacred and dangerous all at once.
The long tables in the captain's hall were laden with wooden bowls, steam curling into the rafters. The rich scent of venison, frostberries, and herbs filled the air, cutting through the salt and pitch that clung to every ship. It was a smell so inviting that hardened soldiers—men who'd eaten nothing but salted pork and hard bread for weeks—were near drooling before the bowls even touched the table.
Jinx, still unmasked, ladled out the stew himself. He moved with a fluid grace, his every gesture carrying the same elegance he fought with, though now tempered with something almost… domestic. No one dared speak until their bowls were full.
The first spoonful silenced the hall.
The venison melted on the tongue, rich but not cloying, the tart frostberries cutting through the heaviness with a bright spark. The broth was deep, layered with root vegetables and herbs that clung to the senses like warmth by a hearthfire. The faint burn of ironroot plum brandy lingered at the back of the throat, grounding the sweetness in earthy depth.
One by one, the crew's eyes widened. Gruff voices muttered curses of disbelief. Even seasoned warriors like Rodrik Cassel and Maege Mormont paused mid-bite, staring down at their bowls as though Jinx had conjured sorcery in the pot.
Oberyn Martell leaned back in his chair, licking his lips with an appreciative hum. "Gods be good," he drawled, his dark eyes dancing. "If you fought half as well as you cook, I'd already be dead."
Dacey Mormont thumped her fist on the table. "By the gods, if he weren't so damn pretty, I'd marry him for this stew alone." The room erupted in laughter, loud and genuine, though half the men still kept eating like starving wolves, unwilling to lose a single mouthful.
Eddard Stark, however, ate quietly. He lifted his eyes once to Jinx, who sat at the head of the table, calm as though this reaction were expected. And though Ned's heart still wrestled with doubt about the man, he couldn't deny the truth—Jinx had a way of giving people what they didn't know they needed.
"Eat well," Jinx finally said, voice carrying over the din. "For tomorrow, you'll need more than courage and steel. You'll need strength. And strength, like trust, begins here."
He tapped his spoon lightly against the rim of his bowl. A soft sound, but somehow, everyone heard it.
The hall roared with laughter and the pounding of mugs against oak. In one corner, a circle of brawny men stripped to their shirts wrestled in the old Northern fashion, bare hands and raw strength. Every time a man was thrown to the rushes, the crowd howled and dragged another contender forward.
At the long tables, others drank in reckless challenge. Tankards of Midnight Huckle Mead were drained, slammed down, and immediately refilled. Its smoky sweetness lingered on the tongue, balanced by the deep berry bite and honey-rich body. Even those long used to strong drink were blinking at its strength.
To everyone's surprise, Eddard Stark—stoic Lord of Winterfell, the man known more for his grim silences than cheer—was the one who had brought the mead into being. He bore the revelation quietly, though Oberyn slapped his knee and laughed in delight, raising his cup.
"You, Stark, a brewer as well as a lord? Gods, the songs undersell your people!" Oberyn cried.
His daughters, Nymeria and Sarella, exchanged startled glances. They had always thought of the North as a land of hard stone and harder men, but here they saw joy unshackled, laughter before bloodshed. In Dorne, they prided themselves on being free-spirited—yet compared to this, even their festivals seemed measured.
"Are they mad?" Sarella whispered to her father. "A battle looms, yet they drink as if it were a wedding feast."
"They are not mad," Oberyn murmured back, his dark eyes flicking across the rowdy hall. "They are Northern. And I am beginning to think we have misjudged them all these years."
Maege Mormont wrestled two men at once, her daughter Dacey cheering her on with a voice as loud as any warrior's. Rodrik Cassel, face red from both drink and laughter, lost a wrestling match to his own nephew, Jory, and pretended to sulk.
At the head table, Jinx leaned back, mask set aside, watching it all with a sly glimmer in his violet eyes. He had just been telling Oberyn, with that calm, lecturing tone of his, how he had studied the faith of the Old Gods.
"They are not unlike a pantheon from my homeland," Jinx said, voice rolling smooth as the mead. "The Æsir—gods of war, winter, and fate. They reveled in strength and honor, yet always knew their doom was written. That paradox drove them to live fiercely, without restraint. Sound familiar?"
Oberyn tilted his head, smirking. "It sounds like a people I would not mind praying beside."
Even Eddard, ever solemn, seemed to weigh the words as he lifted his tankard once more. The firelight caught in his eyes, softer than usual, as though the wolf inside him stirred with new understanding.
The hall's wildness carried on into the night: song, drink, and contests of strength that left more than one man bloodied but laughing. And the Dornish guests—so sure they had the measure of all kingdoms—now found themselves revising every judgment.
Perhaps the North was not barbaric. Perhaps, in its own strange way, it was more alive than anywhere else.
The great hall of the Black Pearl thrummed with the echo of laughter and song from the crew still feasting below, but on the upper deck, beneath the cold stars and the steady lap of water against the hull, the council gathered. Eddard Stark, Oberyn Martell, Maege Mormont, and Jinx stood over a broad parchment map weighted with stones, lantern light swaying across its surface.
The map of the Iron Islands was crude compared to the meticulous charts of Pentoshi or Braavosi sailors, but it bore the marks of raiding paths, cliffs, and bays. At its center, outlined in sharper strokes, was the isle of Harlaw, and on it the seat of House Harlaw.
Eddard leaned forward, his rough hands braced on the table. "The holdfast is strong, its walls sheer with the cliffs. A direct assault would cost us too many men. And I will not waste Northern blood in some blind gamble. I want your judgment, Jinx. You have seen more battles than all of us combined."
Jinx, mask glinting in the lamplight, tapped his chin with one gloved finger. He studied the ink lines not as though they were walls and hills, but as if they were living things—veins to be cut, weaknesses to be pressed. His silence stretched, long enough for Oberyn to pour himself another cup of mead with deliberate flourish.
Finally, Jinx straightened and placed a finger on the seaward side of the holdfast. "Here," he said. "Not the walls, not the gates. The food storage caverns. They are cut into the cliffside, accessible by narrow paths from the sea. To the North, food is life—you would guard your stores with as many swords as your walls. But the Ironborn… they sit on the sea itself. They have fish enough to rot before it is eaten. They will not guard grain and salted meats as fiercely as they guard their forges and longships."
Maege Mormont frowned, arms crossed. "You're suggesting we climb the cliffs in the dark? A dozen men, maybe twenty, sneaking into their belly? That's madness."
Jinx's violet eyes glinted behind the mask. "Not madness—efficiency. A large force would alert every reaver within shouting distance. A small one, skilled and silent, can slip where armies cannot. Once we seize their food caverns, we choke the holdfast from within. No matter how many ships they command, men fight poorly when hungry."
Eddard's mouth tightened. His wolf-blood stirred uneasily at the thought, half repulsed by the trickery, half tempted by its ruthless elegance. "You would have me send my men clambering like thieves through the night."
"Not thieves," Jinx corrected, leaning closer. "Predators. The wolf does not charge the boar head on—he circles, waits, and bites at the unguarded flank. This is no different. War is not honor, Stark. War is survival, and victory."
Oberyn chuckled, raising his cup in a mocking salute. "The masked sorcerer makes a fair point. I would enjoy seeing these Ironborn starve on their own shores." His dark eyes gleamed with mischief. "And it would be a tale worth telling—Stark wolves and Dornish vipers climbing cliffs together under moonless skies."
Maege spat to the side. "It's coward's work. I'd rather take their walls head-on."
Jinx tilted his head. "And how many of your men will you bury afterward, Mormont? I will not stop you if you hunger for a bloody charge, but I deal in results, not graves."
The table went silent at that. Even Maege scowled but did not argue further.
Eddard finally exhaled, eyes drawn to the sea-darkened map. He thought of the men who trusted him, of the young boys training in Winterfell's yard, of Robb, Jon, and Arya—all waiting for him to prove he was not just their father, but their protector. Jinx's words echoed in his mind: war is not honor, war is survival.
At last he nodded, slowly, as if yielding to something deeper within. "Very well. We choose the cliffs. A small force—handpicked men. If the gods grant us favor, we will strike at their belly before they ever know we have arrived."
Jinx inclined his head, satisfaction radiating through the mask. "Now you begin to think like a wolf, Stark. A wolf with teeth bared in the dark."
The lantern light guttered, shadows dancing across the map. Above them, the stars seemed to shimmer brighter, as though even the old gods watched in silence to see what this unlikely council would unleash on the morrow.
The council fire crackled low, its smoke curling toward the starless night. The map of Harlaw's coastline lay spread on a barrel between them, the lantern swaying as if even the sea-wind leaned in to listen.
Jinx stood with arms folded, helm tucked beneath one arm, violet eyes behind the mask gleaming faintly in the dim light. His voice broke the silence first, calm and absolute.
"We waste no more time. Oberyn and I will lead the cliff strike. We are the most suited hands you have available."
Oberyn Martell, leaning with a serpent's ease against the rail, raised a brow, wine-cup in hand. "And why, pray, must I be dragged into this climb like some sellsword thief? It was your plan, masked sorcerer, not mine."
Jinx tilted his head, the faintest edge of amusement slipping into his tone. "Was it not you who said you would enjoy seeing the Ironborn starve on their own shores? Now you'll have the honor of watching it up close. Unless, of course, the Red Viper balks when the fangs are needed."
For a heartbeat Oberyn's lips tightened, but pride was its own snare. He set down his cup with deliberate grace. "Very well. I do not turn aside when the game is already laid. But if I fall on these cursed rocks, I will haunt you in your dreams, stranger."
"That would make two of us," Jinx muttered dryly.
He tapped the map again, shifting their focus. "But this raid will not be won by stealth alone. We require a distraction. Stark—you and the other lords will take a small force to the front gates. Show yourselves, cause havoc. Enough to draw the Ironborn to battle. Once they commit, you fall back. Meanwhile, two hidden parties strike from cover against whatever reinforcements ride to their aid. It will cost blood, but it will buy us the best chance at seizing Lord Harlaw."
He placed a gloved finger on the tower marked with the Harlaw sigil. "Capture the lord, and the holdfast falls."
The name rolled off Eddard's tongue, grim as a curse. "Lord Harlon Harlaw."
The Mormont matriarch, Maege, frowned deeply, her thick arms crossed over her chest. "Why not spare our men entirely? With the powers you wield, you could end this fight in minutes—subdue them all, blast their walls, do whatever it is you do. Why let Northmen die when you could do it yourself?"
The air cooled at her words. Jinx straightened slowly, his presence pressing down like a weight.
"Because this is only the first of many battles," he said, voice low and measured. "I will not squander my strength here. Pyke still stands ahead of us. From the records I've read, Bran the Builder raised that fortress, and if it is anything like Winterfell, its stones are bound to the Force itself. That will not be broken by theatrics and arrogance. If I burn myself here, I risk leaving you all leaderless there. And that…" his eyes swept over them, "…I will not allow."
Silence fell heavy in the council circle. The crack of the fire was the only sound for a long while.
Eddard's grey eyes narrowed, studying Jinx through the smoke. "So men will die here, to save strength for later."
Jinx met his gaze without flinching. "Wars are not won by sparing every man in the opening move. They are won by ensuring there is a final move to be made."
Maege growled low, but even she found no words to counter it. Oberyn smirked faintly, though his dark eyes flickered with calculation.
At last, Eddard nodded once, grimly, though his jaw tightened. "Then so be it. We will play our part. May the gods grant it is enough."
Jinx's smirk curved beneath the mask, unreadable in the shadows. "The gods will watch. But it will be us who decide."