The march back to the shore was heavy with the sound of boots crunching stone and the distant cries of the broken keep. Torches flickered against the fog, and the Black Pearl loomed ahead like a phantom in the night, its hull swallowing what light dared touch it.
The northern lords walked in silence, their eyes glancing at one another as if weighing unspoken doubts. The division of spoils, the children handed off like tokens, the screams of Lord Harlaw still echoing—all of it gnawed at them. Yet none voiced a word of protest.
For the memory of Eddard's vision lingered.
They had all seen him falter earlier in the hall, head bowed beneath a pain that seemed not of this world, his eyes clouded by something unseen. They had watched him speak, voice trembling with awe, of the wolf that devoured a rival pack's leader and bent the conquered wolves to its will. It was not the words of a schemer or opportunist, but of a man touched by the old gods.
And who among them would dare call their lord's vision false?
So the matter was settled. The old gods had spoken through the Warden of the North. Questioning his decree now was as good as blasphemy.
Maege Mormont, grim-faced and streaked with blood, walked at Eddard's side with Ice resting across her shoulder. She said nothing, but her jaw was tight, her pride at carrying out his command warring with a quiet unease. Greatjon Umber muttered once under his breath, only to stop when he caught sight of Eddard's eyes—still glinting faintly with that strange golden hue edged in red.
Even Lady Barbrey Dustin, sharp-tongued and ever ready to dig her barbs into Stark honor, held her silence. The vision had unsettled her as much as it had convinced her.
Prince Oberyn walked more lightly than the rest, spear slung across his back. His lips curled in a smile, though his eyes gleamed with curiosity rather than mirth.
"Wolves who eat wolves," he murmured, just loud enough for Jinx to hear. "Your gods speak with more bite than mine."
Jinx, mask tucked under one arm, let out a low chuckle. "Or perhaps they speak the same tongue, and only men give them different names."
Oberyn's brow arched at that, but he said nothing more. The Red Viper's charm hid his unease better than the northern lords could hope to.
As for Jinx, he trailed just behind Eddard, violet eyes half-lidded with thought. He had seen visions before, borne on the currents of the Force. He knew the look on Eddard's face when it struck him—terror, awe, the weight of something vast pressing against the mortal mind.
The lords thought it the will of the old gods. Jinx knew better. This was the wolf-blood awakening, raw and hungry, and it would change the Warden of the North in ways even Eddard did not yet comprehend.
Jinx smiled faintly, the expression unreadable in the half-light.
By the time they reached the docks, the fog was thick as wool. The Black Pearl loomed above them, its masts vanishing into the night sky, its hull gleaming like obsidian.
And though doubt still lingered in the hearts of many, none spoke it aloud. Their lord had seen a vision, and the gods themselves had given their blessing. The wolf would devour, as it always had.
The fog rolled off the sea in thick, ghostly waves as the men of the North returned to the docks of Harlaw. Their boots were heavy with the weight of plunder, sacks of silver and gold, barrels of fish, casks of wine, bolts of silk and wool—all the spoils of a fallen house dragged across the cobbles. Torches lined the quay, casting flickering light over their triumphant return.
At the forefront walked Eddard Stark, Ice still sheathed across his back, his jaw grim and silent. Beside him, Jinx carried himself with the same air of cold authority he had held in the hall, mask clipped once more at his belt, violet eyes scanning the harbor like a predator sizing its prey. Oberyn followed with his spear in hand, his smile too charming for the blood still clinging to his boots.
The Black Pearl towered over the dock, its sails furled, masts piercing into the heavens. Already her deck bustled with sailors and northmen alike, unloading and tallying the loot that had been ferried down earlier. The ship, gleaming like obsidian in the torchlight, seemed less vessel and more omen—a promise of terror for whoever next drew its attention.
They had nearly reached the gangplank when a shout came from the rear of the column. A soldier, young and red-faced from running, stumbled forward. He carried something long wrapped in oilskin. The moment he reached the lords, he dropped to one knee, bowing his head as he spoke.
"My lord Stark. My prince. Ser. In the wreckage of the lord's solar we found this—hidden beneath a false board."
He pulled back the oilskin, and the torchlight caught on dark rippling steel. A collective gasp rippled through the assembled men.
"Nightfall," whispered Maege Mormont, her eyes widening. "The blade of House Harlaw."
The northern lords murmured, voices taut with awe. Valyrian steel was rare enough, but here it was in their hands, won by conquest. Every man and woman present knew the truth of such spoils—it belonged to the North now, and only Eddard Stark could decide its fate.
The soldier offered it forward, and for a heartbeat all eyes turned to Eddard. But before the Warden could take it, Jinx stepped past him, silent as shadow. His gloved hand closed around the hilt, lifting the sword free.
A ripple of outrage ran through the northern lords—steel rasping as some half-drew their swords, growls echoing from throats not yet cooled from battle. But Jinx only raised the weapon before his eyes, the torchlight dancing on its black ripples.
"It was I who broke this hall," Jinx said, his voice carrying with unnatural clarity. "It was I who split their lord and cast him down. By the laws of conquest, the sword is mine."
The words hung heavy. Even the lords who bristled could not deny the truth of it. Slowly, one by one, their hands dropped from their hilts, though their eyes never left Jinx.
From behind, Oberyn Martell laughed softly, his voice a silken mockery.
"First Red Rain, now Nightfall. You gather Valyrian steel as if they were playthings, my masked friend. Before long, you'll have more blades than most of the great houses combined."
The Red Viper's smile gleamed in the torchlight, but his eyes were sharp, curious.
Jinx tilted his head, violet gaze unblinking. "Do not mistake me for a collector, Prince. Nightfall won't remain mine for long. I plan to see it reforged—not as another longsword, but as a rapier."
The lords blinked, startled by the foreign word. But Jinx continued, voice steady.
"And if the steel yields enough… a dagger as well. A gift. A promise. Motivation for the one among us who must grow faster than any other." His gaze slid past the lords, to where Arya Stark would have stood had she been there. "For the day she becomes not just my pupil, but my apprentice."
The statement struck like a hammer. The lords murmured in shock, Eddard's jaw tightened, and even Oberyn's smirk faltered before twisting into something more intrigued.
No one dared argue in that moment. The weight of what Jinx had declared, the promise of Arya's future bound to a reforged Valyrian steel blade, settled over the group like a shadow. Some looked uneasy, others curious, but none spoke against it. For after tonight's battle, after the god-touched vision of their Warden, and after watching Jinx crush a ship in his fist as if it were driftwood…
Who among them still dared call him wrong?
The group moved on, the lords filing onto the Pearl, their voices hushed with unease and anticipation. The black ship swallowed them one by one, carrying the spoils of war and the seeds of change.
And Jinx, Nightfall resting easily in his hand, smiled faintly to himself.
The hall of Harlaw had been subdued when Jinx claimed Nightfall, but once aboard the Pearl the lords gave vent to their thoughts.
Maege Mormont stood proud, her broad shoulders squared, her voice booming. "If the blade is to be reforged, then so be it. Let it go to a warrior worthy of it—and if the girl Arya is to wield its twin, then perhaps the North gains a warrior-queen in spirit, if not in title." Her daughter Dacey grinned at that, muttering something about sparring with the girl once she was old enough.
Greatjon Umber laughed, a thunderous sound that shook the timbers of the ship. "Ha! Three blades of the dragon-forged, in one man's keeping! Aye, it unsettles me, but better in the hands of a friend than lost in the sea. If he can carve one into something for little Arya, then perhaps the gods themselves have a sense of humor." Smalljon, wide-eyed, only whispered, "A girl with a blade like that… even I wouldn't cross her."
Lady Barbrey Dustin narrowed her eyes, her expression unreadable. "It seems a dangerous precedent, giving strange men the steel of the ancients. But if Lord Stark allows it…" She left the rest unsaid, though her tone carried a sting. Jinx caught the edge of her gaze but offered only the faintest curl of his lips beneath his mask.
Oberyn Martell, still lounging with his spear across his lap, smirked. "A rapier, you say? Ah, now you tempt me, masked sorcerer. Dornishmen know the beauty of a thin blade better than any northman. Perhaps I will spar with this girl one day, if only to see whether her teacher's boasts are truth."
Eddard Stark listened to them all in silence, his hand resting on Ice's familiar pommel. For a time, doubt gnawed at him: the old ways, the whisper of honor, the memory of his father's lessons. To give a daughter—his wildest daughter—over to such a path seemed reckless.
But then Jinx's words returned to him, sharp and clear:
"What is honor truly worth, if it does not make the life of your family better and safe?"
Eddard's chest tightened. He thought of Lyanna, of Brandon, of Rickard, of Ashara. He thought of the blood shed in the Rebellion and the cold emptiness that followed. He thought of Sansa, so eager to be a lady of songs, and Arya—untamed, fierce, and already slipping from her mother's southern grip.
If Arya was even half as powerful as Jinx hinted… then she would never be at the mercy of men like Aerys, or Gregor Clegane, or Balon Greyjoy. She would shape her own fate.
And if Arya could be forged into such strength, then Robb—steady and dutiful—would rise alongside her, Jon too. Together, with future children yet unborn, they would secure not only the Stark line but the North itself for generations.
For the first time in many years, Eddard Stark felt a quiet, dangerous thing stirring in his heart. Hope
The fire from the looted Harlaw keep still smoldered in the distance, red sparks lost in the fog that rolled across the shore. But in the godswood aboard the Pearl, before a carved piece of weirwood set in the ship's hull, Eddard Stark knelt. The smell of salt and smoke clung to his hair.
He set Ice down across his knees and bowed his head.
"Old gods… hear me, if ye ever do. I have led men to death today, as my father did, as his father before him. I told myself it were for the North, for their wives and children, for Winterfell's line. But tonight, I wonder if it were for summat else… for pride, or fear of bein' seen weak beside that masked devil."
His fingers tightened on the pommel of Ice. The words of Jinx gnawed at him: What is honor truly worth, if it does not make the life of your family better and safe?
"Honor. I've clung to it like a shield all my life. Brandon had his boldness, Lyanna her fire, Benjen his freedom. All I had was honor. And what did it bring me? A grave for me father. A sister dead in a bed of blood. Brothers burned or butchered. A marriage I never asked for. Seven hells… did I bury my own heart with them, all for this damned 'honor'?"
The godswood was quiet save for the creak of the ship's hull. He thought of Arya, wild and sharp-eyed, swinging a stick as if it were a blade. He thought of Robb, steady, eager to please. Of Jon, quiet, with shadows in his eyes. Of Sansa, dreaming of songs, blind to the North's harsher truths.
"If that strange man is right… if Arya can be forged into summat greater, stronger than me… then mayhap all this blood and ash won't be for naught. If Robb and Jon learn his ways, if my children's children wield more than steel and oaths… then the pack survives. Gods forgive me, but maybe the pack thrives."
Eddard looked up at the weirwood's face, its red eyes glaring from the carved wood. For the first time, he wondered if the visions of his ancestors were less about keeping vows and more about seizing what was needed to endure.
"Tell me, old gods… is this wolf's blood ye gave us a curse, or a gift I've yet to grasp? Show me the truth. I'll bear the weight, so long as the children do not."
When the breeze shifted through the sails, it almost sounded like a whisper through leaves. He closed his eyes, breathed deep, and rose. Ice felt heavier than before, but his heart… lighter.
Eddard knelt still in the dim godswood aboard the Pearl, Ice across his knees, when the air shifted. What had been the steady sway of ship and tide suddenly stilled, and then — surged.
The sea rose with a howl. Waves slammed against the Pearl's hull, ropes snapped taut, men cursed and scrambled on deck. The masts groaned as if the very sea sought to tear them free.
On his knees, Eddard gasped as a force — not wind, not wave — filled his chest. The ache of grief, of honor clung too tightly, of guilt unspoken, was burned away by something vast and cold and sharp. His eyes widened as the world bent different: every man on deck a flicker of light and weight, every rope and nail humming with tension, the living sea itself pulsing with unseen breath.
The weirwood carving aboard the Pearl bled red sap, its carved eyes staring into his. And in his mind's eye, the wolf appeared again — fangs bared, the pack leader of another torn down, its surviving kin bowing low as the North's wolf stood astride them, blood steaming from its jaws.
Eddard's hand tightened around Ice. He could feel the Force coursing through him now, deeper than any sword stroke or battle prayer. It was not just strength — it was clarity. His honor, his doubts, his fears, all weighed and seen for what they were: chains. The wolf within him stirred, and this time he did not push it back.
Above, sailors cried in panic, pointing at the boiling sea. Ropes thrashed like snakes, barrels rolled loose, and water sprayed over the decks. Oberyn shouted in Dornish curses, trying to steady his daughters, while Maege barked to her Mormont kin to lash down the cargo.
Through it all, Jinx stood on the quarterdeck, arms folded, his mask tilted ever so slightly. Where the others saw danger, he saw a truth: his friend, the Wolf of Winterfell, had finally taken his first step into the current of what he truly was.
The storm did not crush the Pearl. Just as suddenly as it had risen, it stilled, the sea falling eerily calm, like a beast sated after a kill. Men fell quiet, panting, trembling, looking from one another to the weirwood carving that still dripped red.
Eddard rose from his knees. His hair was plastered to his brow, his cloak heavy with spray, but his eyes… his eyes gleamed with gold, ringed faintly with red.
Jinx's smile curved beneath his mask.
"There y'are, wolf. Finally."
The deck of the Black Pearl was silent, save for the drip of seawater from ropes and the creak of timbers settling after the sea's wild tantrum. Men who only moments before had been shouting in panic now stood dumbstruck, staring at their lord.
Eddard Stark, still damp from sea spray, rose to his full height with Ice in his hand. His eyes glowed faintly, not with torchlight, but with something older, deeper — gold rimmed with red. The Northern lords felt their throats tighten. Some muttered prayers to the Old Gods, others simply bowed their heads, unsure whether they were in the presence of their liege lord… or something more.
Maege Mormont, fierce as any she-bear, dropped to one knee. "The gods've touched 'im," she whispered, awe in her voice. Greatjon Umber, who feared no man, swallowed hard and muttered, "Seven hells… the wolf's woken." Even Oberyn Martell, ever the skeptic, studied Ned with rare silence, his lips curled not in mockery but in intrigue.
It was Jinx who broke the silence. He began to clap. Slowly, deliberately, the sound echoing against the still air of the deck.
"Well, well, wolfie…" Jinx drawled, his voice carrying through the night, half amusement, half reverence. "Ye've done it. A feat few ever could, or will. Ye've gone beyond what fate had written for ye… and taken the helm y'self."
He stepped forward, mask tilted, violet eyes glinting through the slits. "Most men let fate drag 'em like a hound on a chain. You? You tore the chain, and for once… you're steering the ship."
Eddard's grip on Ice tightened, his face unreadable, though his chest heaved as if he had just crossed some unseen battlefield. The words struck him deeper than he'd admit. For years he had been the quiet warden, the dutiful brother, the reluctant husband, the loyal friend. He had always followed — Robert's wars, Jon Arryn's guidance, his father's honor. Now, for the first time, he felt he was no longer following.
Oberyn's lips curled into a smile, slow and dangerous. "Seven save us, Stark. Mayhap you've just become interesting."
Maege bared her teeth in a grin. "Aye. Gods grant us a wolf who leads, not one who kneels."
The crew, sensing the shift, began to cheer, some pounding their fists on the rails, others shouting Ned's name. Even the Dornish girls, Nymeria and Sarella, exchanged looks — wary but excited, as though witnessing the rise of a legend.
Through it all, Jinx's smirk never faltered. He leaned closer to Ned, voice dropping low enough for only him to hear.
"Remember this feelin', wolf. The gods gave ye a taste o' power. Don't waste it on chains of honor. The helm's in yer hand now. Don't let go."
And with that, he turned back to the crew, raising his hand high, voice ringing clear:
"Raise the sails, lads! The North's wolf has found his teeth, and the seas themselves bow before him!"
The Pearl erupted in thunderous cheers, and as the sails unfurled and caught the wind, even the waves seemed to surge forward, carrying them faster than before.
The sea had settled. The only sound was the steady lap of waves against the hull, the faint creak of the Black Pearl as it cut across the water. Eddard Stark sat at the small wooden table, Ice leaning against the wall at his side. His mind still churned with the memory — the wolf devouring its rival, taking half, leading the rest. It hadn't felt like a dream. It had felt real.
The door opened without a knock. Jinx entered silently, mask tucked beneath his arm, violet eyes glowing faintly in the lantern light. He poured himself a cup of Wolfblood, then another, setting one in front of Ned before taking a seat opposite him.
"Still tryin' to puzzle it out, aye?" Jinx said, voice low, carrying that strange lilt — half amusement, half weariness.
Ned's hands tightened around the cup. "A vision," he muttered. "The gods sent me a vision. That's what it must have been."
Jinx tilted his head, studying him for a long, unsettling moment. Then, slowly, he shook his head.
"No, wolfie. Not a vision. What ye felt… what ye were… that was no dream. That was you steppin' through the veil, crossin' the line folk whisper about but never dare cross."
Ned's brow furrowed, his jaw tense. "Then what was it?"
Jinx leaned forward, the faintest grin tugging at his lips. "Ye weren't dreamin', Ned. Ye were there. Inside yer chosen familiar. A bond deeper than words, deeper than oaths. Call it wargin' if ye like — the Northern tongue's as good as any. But this was more. What you touched tonight goes beyond the sight o' mortal men. Only two things I've ever seen run that deep — true love that burns the soul… or a friendship that binds stronger than blood."
The words struck Ned like a hammer blow. His throat went dry. He had heard tales of skinchangers, aye, but always thought them half-myths, old wives' tales told by wildlings and crones. And yet… what he felt, what he saw, had been real. Too real.
Jinx sipped his drink, unbothered, watching Ned wrestle with it. "The wolf ye saw ain't just some beast. It's part o' ye. Yer rage, yer grief, yer hunger for justice… all knotted up in one body o' fur and fang. That bond will only grow stronger if ye let it. Stronger than steel, stronger than chains o' honor ye wrap yerself in."
Ned looked down, staring at his reflection in the cup. "And if I lose myself in it? If the beast devours me?"
Jinx's smile was thin, sharp. "Then ye weren't strong enough to hold the helm ye just claimed." He leaned back, tapping two fingers against his chest. "But from where I'm sittin'? Ye've got it in ye. The gods showed ye because they want ye to claim it. Because the North'll need more than a dutiful lord, wolfie. It'll need a Stark who ain't afraid to sink his teeth in."
For the first time in years, Ned Stark felt a shiver — not of fear, but of possibility. The gods had given him strength. The stranger at his side had given him a name for it.
And the wolf within him stirred.
The lantern swung lazily above the table, its light throwing jagged shadows over the map of the Iron Islands. Salt-stained edges curled where fingers had pressed too long, and ink marks showed their progress from Barrowton to Harlaw, then out to sea again.
Eddard leaned over it, one gauntleted hand pressing against the parchment. His jaw was set tight, the wolf's blood simmering just beneath the surface. "We've struck Harlaw. But the Ironborn will answer. Where next?"
Jinx sat across from him, mask laid to one side for once, violet eyes gleaming in the half-dark. He drummed a gloved finger against Orkmont's outline, tracing its rocky coast.
"Here," Jinx said simply. "Orkmont. Two days' sail if we push her pace. Less, if the Pearl wants to run."
Eddard frowned. "Orkmont's a strong isle. Two minor houses hold it—Orkwood and Tawney. A Goodbrother branch too. Attacking it head-on could bleed us."
Jinx smirked faintly, like a player waiting to reveal his winning hand. "Aye, if we were to go knockin' on their front gate. But I sent a raven already—signed with Harlaw's seal. Told them we'd be comin' from the west. Instead, we strike straight east. Hit Tawney first. They're weaker, soft-bellied compared to their neighbors."
Eddard's brows knitted. "And what of the Goodbrothers?"
Jinx's tone sharpened. "Word is their lads just returned from Bear Island. Brought back more than spoils—brought back women. A dozen Northern salt wives."
The words landed like an axe in Ned's chest. Fury surged before he could leash it. The deck beneath them trembled, the lantern above shuddering as if the ship herself felt his rage.
Crewmen outside the cabin shouted in alarm, feet thundering as the Pearl pitched unnaturally.
"Peace, wolfie." Jinx lifted a single hand. The vibrations stilled in an instant, the sea outside settling. He gave a crooked grin. "Strong… but untempered. That's why these next two days matter."
Ned's breathing slowed, though his fists remained clenched.
"You've power enough to drown this ship without meanin' to," Jinx continued, his tone half-teasing, half-teacher. "But raw strength's a wildfire—it burns everything, even what ye swore to protect. That's why you'll meditate. Twice a day. Not like a maester scribblin' prayers, but like a wolf sniffin' the wind—feel every stir, every shift, every scent. Learn to ride it."
Ned exhaled, shoulders still tight. "Two days will not be enough."
"No," Jinx agreed. "But it'll be a start. And when we reach Orkmont, you'll bleed off the rest the right way—in battle. You an' me at the front. Not just for the fight, but for the men. They see you cuttin' through the foe, they'll follow, no matter how dark the water."
Eddard's eyes flicked back to the map, lingering on Orkmont. His voice was quiet, but resolute. "Then it will be Orkmont."
Jinx raised his cup, a sly glint in his eye. "Good. Now drink, wolfie. Ye've got two days to learn how to leash the storm inside ye… before I turn ye loose on theirs."
Day One – Wrestling the Storm
The Black Pearl cut through the gray waters, her enchanted hull whispering against the sea. Above, gulls wheeled, but on the foredeck there was no sound but the steady slap of waves and the rasp of Eddard Stark's breath. He knelt on the planks, Ice laid beside him, hands resting on his thighs.
"Close yer eyes," Jinx's voice carried, calm but firm. "Listen. Not with ears—ears'll only give ye the gulls, the creak of the timbers. Listen with the wolf inside."
Eddard tried. At first, all he felt was the ache in his back and the restless tide within his chest. His mind kept straying—to Winterfell, to Catelyn, to Robb, Sansa, Arya, Bran, baby Rickon. And always, Lyanna's face in the crypts.
The air around him began to shift, his anger stirring, the timbers beneath vibrating faintly.
"Stop fightin' it," Jinx said, standing behind him with arms folded. "You're tryin' to bury it, Ned. Burying only makes it rot inside ye. Don't chain it. Guide it."
Eddard's fists clenched. The lantern beside them rattled on its hook. "How do I guide rage?" he muttered.
Jinx crouched, voice low. "Anger's a sword. Point it where ye want it. Don't swing blind. Don't let it master ye. Let it sharpen ye."
The deck calmed as Eddard exhaled slowly, eyes closed. For the first time, he felt the difference—anger not suppressed, but directed, narrowed to a blade's edge.
Day Two – Learning to Move the World
Morning broke with pale light through fog. Jinx had set a small iron goblet on the deck between them.
"Now," Jinx said, "make it move."
Eddard frowned. "With my hands?"
"With your will." Jinx tapped his temple. "Not strength of arm, wolfie. Strength of focus. See it movin'. Feel it movin'. Make it truth."
Eddard scowled at the cup. Nothing happened. Sweat beaded on his brow as he strained, his jaw working.
Jinx smirked. "Ye look like you're tryin' to pass a stone. Relax." He waved his gloved hand, and the goblet danced into the air, hovering. "See? Not force of muscle. Intent. Demand the world obey ye."
Hours passed. Eddard's temper flared with every failure, and with each flare the sea itself seemed to answer—the waves slapping harder against the hull, ropes snapping taut, gulls scattering. Crewmen muttered prayers.
"Focus!" Jinx barked. "Ye're lettin' the storm inside spill out. Narrow it, Ned. Aim it at the cup."
Finally, near dusk, the goblet quivered—shifted—and scraped an inch across the deck. Eddard sagged in shock, chest heaving.
A grin split Jinx's face. "There ye go. First step. Took me weeks, what you just did in days." He clapped Ned's shoulder. "Soon, ye'll lift steel. Walls. Ships, if ye wish."
Eddard shook his head, weary but steady. "It felt… unnatural."
"Unnatural?" Jinx chuckled. "It's as natural as breathin', wolfie. The gods didn't give ye this for nothin'. They gave it to ye so ye could shape fate with yer own hands."
That night, Eddard stood at the railing, staring into the fog. His body was exhausted, but his spirit restless. For the first time since the rebellion, he felt the wolf inside him was not a curse—but a power waiting to be honed.
And behind him, Jinx watched silently, a faint smile beneath the mask.
The Black Pearl slid through the fog like a phantom. No moon hung above; the only light came from torches on the Ironborn watchtowers, their flames muted by the thick mist. The war drums of House Stark pounded from the decks, low and steady, each beat a thrum in Eddard Stark's chest.
At the prow, Jinx stood tall, mask gleaming faintly. Beside him, Eddard tightened his grip on Ice, the ancient blade humming faintly in his hands, as though it too felt the storm within him.
"They don't know we're here," Jinx murmured, voice like a growl under his breath. "Strike hard. Strike fast. Let 'em bleed fear before they bleed out."
Eddard nodded once. His wolf blood stirred.
The Starks hit the shore like thunder. The first wave of men waded through surf, shields raised, voices raised in the wolf's howl. Ironborn rushed the beach, but the fog confused them, breaking their line.
Eddard charged, Ice carving through the first raider's axe and splitting him from collarbone to gut. Blood sprayed the surf. His men cheered.
Beside him, Jinx's crimson saber screamed to life, cutting through spear shafts and armor as though they were parchment. Sparks hissed, smoke rising with each strike.
Eddard raised his hand—remembering Jinx's lessons. He willed an Ironborn to stumble. Instead, three barrels stacked near the shore exploded outward, rolling straight into his own shield wall. Men cursed, stumbling.
"Seven hells," Eddard muttered, heart lurching.
But as the Ironborn surged to exploit the gap, Eddard shouted: "Close! Tighten!" His men used the barrels themselves as cover, slamming them against the raiders like makeshift rams. The attackers fell screaming into the surf.
From the fog, Jinx barked a laugh. "Didn't mean that, did ye? Gods, Ned—you're makin' mistakes useful."
Another misfire—Eddard tried to shove a raider back. Instead, the sand beneath his feet buckled, tripping both of them. The Ironborn raised his axe, but Ice flashed, severing head from shoulders.
The Stark host split into two columns, pressing toward the Tawney hall. Eddard led the left, Oberyn the right.
Ironborn poured from alleys, howling like madmen. The streets became rivers of steel and blood. The smell of salt and gore clung to the air.
Eddard fought like a wolf possessed. His wolf blood surged with the Force, making him faster, sharper. Yet each time he tried telekinesis, it went awry—crates crashing, doors slamming too early, even knocking down his own bannermen.
But instead of faltering, At last, they reached the Tawney keep. The gates shuddered under Stark rams, then splintered. Eddard and Jinx surged through first.
Inside, the defenders rallied in a desperate shield wall. Arrows rained. One lodged in Eddard's pauldron, staggering him—but rage surged, and with a roar, he thrust out his hand.
This time, not a misfire.
The entire front rank of Ironborn shields blasted back as though struck by a storm wind, crashing against the far wall. Silence gripped the chamber.
Jinx tilted his head, mask glinting. "Now that—that was no mistake."
The Starks poured in, cutting down the stunned defenders.Eddard adapted. He used the chaos. Misfired blasts toppled walls onto Ironborn ambushers. A door he accidentally ripped from its hinges became a makeshift shield, shoved forward by two of his men.
His soldiers began to cheer each wild display, taking it as a sign the Old Gods themselves were fighting through their lord.
When the blood was washed from stone and the hall secured, the wolf banners flew over Orkmont. The Starks had lost fewer than thirty men, while the Ironborn dead lay in heaps.
Eddard stood amid the carnage, chest heaving, blood on his cheek. His men looked at him with awe—not just as lord, but as something more.
Jinx clapped him on the shoulder. "You turned blunders into blades, Ned. Few can do that. The gods gave ye fire, but you—you're forgin' it."
Eddard sheathed Ice, glancing at the bodies. "No. I'm tempering it. For Winterfell. For the North."
And in Jinx's eyes, behind the mask, flickered something rare—pride.
The sea was harsh on the voyage westward, though the northern ships handled the black waves better than most southern keels would. The wind carried the salt like a blade against the skin. Men huddled under cloaks, sharpening axes and mending mail in silence.
Jorah stood at the prow of his vessel, squinting at the jagged outline of the Iron Islands. He spat into the sea.
"They'll come screaming from the rocks. My father said the Goodbrothers think themselves wolves among sheep. Never faced a northern pack before."
Greatjon Umber laughed, voice booming over the wind.
"Wolves, aye, but these are drowned ones. We'll gut 'em quick enough. I'll drink from their lord's skull when we're done."
Eddard stood between them, his cloak heavy with salt spray. He said nothing at first, only scanning the horizon. His silence drew out the others, until finally he spoke.
"We don't come for sport. Remember that. Take what's useful. Burn what's not. Any man, woman, or child who resists—cut them down. Spare those too young to raise arms. Nothing more."
Greatjon gave a curt nod. Even his rowdy mirth quieted under Stark's tone.
Jinx leaned against the mast, eyes half-lidded, violet irises catching the low sun like cold embers. He toyed with a black dagger that seemed more smoke than steel. When he finally spoke, his words cut like a whisper.
"They'll fight like cornered dogs. Ironborn never surrender clean. Expect traps. Expect fire. Expect them to drown themselves rather than yield. I'll keep their captains… busy."
Eddard didn't meet his gaze, though his jaw tightened. "Do what you must. But keep your hand steady. I'll not have needless slaughter."
Jinx smiled thinly, as if amused by the word needless.
The fleet beached on a stony shore under a blood-orange sky. Drums beat from the cliffs above, and horn calls echoed like hungry whales. Figures in salt-stained mail and reeking leather appeared on the ridges — the Goodbrothers, howling and rattling axes.
Arrows whistled down. Shields slammed together with northern discipline. Eddard raised Ice high, the moonlight catching its pale length.
"Shields up! Forward! Push them back to their hovels!"
The climb was brutal. Rocks rolled down, smashing men flat. Ironborn dropped nets and chains to drag northerners screaming off the path. Yet the northern line did not break. Eddard moved among them, his sword flashing, steadying their push.
Greatjon roared like a bull, taking a spear in the shoulder and ripping it free to hurl the wielder off the cliff.
"IS THAT ALL, YOU SALT-SUCKING WHORESONS?!"
Jorah fought quieter but no less deadly, cutting down raiders with grim, practiced strokes. His voice carried between breaths.
"Lord Stark — they'll make their stand at the hall. Goodbrothers always keep the fight at home."
Eddard nodded. "Then we end it at their door."
The Goodbrother stronghold was less a castle, more a squat fortress of stone set against the sea, smelling of brine and smoke. The gates were barred, men inside chanting to the Drowned God. The air grew colder as Jinx stepped forward, scythe of shadow and ice forming in his grip with a whisper.
He tilted his head at Eddard. "Want the door opened clean, or broken?"
Eddard stared hard at him. "Open it. But leave enough stone standing for the living."
With a flick of his wrist, Jinx struck the gate. Frost spread like a plague, wood cracking, iron splitting, the sound like screams of the drowned. The doors fell inward, brittle as glass.
The battle inside was chaos. Ironborn surged in mad devotion, some throwing themselves into the flames of their own hearth just to deny capture. Northerners pressed hard, axes rising and falling, the air thick with smoke and salt.
At the high seat of the hall stood Lord Goodbrother himself, a thick man with hair like wet rope and an axe rimed with sea-rust. He bellowed across the din.
"Stark! You think the sea bends to wolves? You'll leave your bones here for the crabs!"
Eddard strode forward, Ice in hand. His voice was low but carried over the madness.
"Your line ends tonight."
They met in a crash of steel — Ice's great length against the broad axe. Sparks and salt spray filled the air. Around them, the north pressed, and the Ironborn howled their last.
When the fighting stilled, the hall was littered with corpses, the sea breeze carrying the stench of blood and brine.
Greatjon leaned against a shattered beam, breathing hard, grinning despite wounds.
"By the gods, Stark. That was a good fight. A fine war-song for the north."
Jorah wiped his blade clean, expression colder. "The Isles won't forget this. Others will rise."
Eddard looked around at the ruin, jaw set. He ordered plainly:
"Take what's worth taking. Salt wives and thralls freed. Children too small for steel — they go north. The rest… burn it."
Jinx lingered by the dead lord's body, violet eyes glinting in the firelight. He whispered something that no one caught, and the corpse twitched — as if hearing him in death. Then he smiled faintly, and turned away.
Eddard noticed, but said nothing.