King Robert, having journeyed to the frozen North, had not abandoned his lifelong passion for the hunt.
Each evening since their arrival, the high table had groaned beneath the weight of game personally slain by the king's hand—wild bear with honey and herbs, stags dressed with garlands of winter berries, wild boars with apples stuffed between their jaws.
This day, Robert had risen even earlier than usual. Scarcely had dawn's pale fingers stretched across the eastern sky when he had roused Lord Eddard from his bed, insisting his old friend join him in pursuit of fresh quarry.
Their hunting party included Benjen Stark, newly arrived from the Wall; Jory Cassel, captain of Winterfell's guard; the ever-eager Theon Greyjoy; grizzled Ser Rodrik; and Tyrion Lannister, who had somehow been coerced into joining despite his notorious discomfort on horseback.
Joffrey, however, had remained behind.
For reasons of his own, the Crown Prince now found himself escorting young Bran and Lady Sansa on an expedition through Winterfell's ancient stones.
The ruined tower where clandestine meetings might occur unseen was, naturally, absent from their itinerary. Joffrey's quarry lay elsewhere—in the mysterious crypts beneath the castle where generations of Starks slept their dreamless sleep.
What secrets might Winterfell conceal in its depths? he wondered.
Six burly guardsmen strained together to draw open the massive ironwood door that sealed the entrance to the crypts. The ancient hinges protested with metallic shrieks, as though warning the living against disturbing the dead.
Bran, familiar with the passages below, led their small party forward. Sansa linked her arm through the prince's, her touch feather-light through layers of wool and fur. Together, they descended the winding stone staircase that spiraled down into darkness.
The staircase seemed interminable, each step carrying them deeper into the earth.
The passage narrowed as they descended, stretching ahead into impenetrable shadow. With each turn of the spiral, the air grew colder and more biting, as though they journeyed toward some icy hell that awaited the faithless.
Though they carried lanterns, the flames seemed to offer illumination without warmth, casting more shadows than they dispelled.
"It's dreadfully cold," Sansa murmured, her breath forming pale clouds before her lips.
Joffrey drew Dragonflame from its scabbard, fully activating the sword's fire magic. Immediately, a comforting warmth radiated outward, along with a rich golden light that pushed back the oppressive darkness.
Bran's eyes widened with undisguised wonder. "Your Highness, that sword is truly magnificent!"
Joffrey laughed with genuine good humor, pleased by the boy's enthusiasm. "When you become a knight yourself, young Stark, perhaps I shall gift you a blade no less impressive than this one."
Bran regarded him with sudden intensity. "Your Highness must keep such a promise," he said, his voice solemn despite his youth.
"That goes without saying," Joffrey assured him.
A brilliant smile transformed Bran's face, making him appear even younger than his years.
Their trio continued forward into the depths.
The enchanted firelight spilled throughout the subterranean passage, somewhat diminishing the sepulchral atmosphere that had prevailed for thousands of years.
On either side of the broad corridor stood ranks of granite pillars, sentinel-like in their eternal watch. Between these columns sat the stone likenesses of the Starks of Winterfell—Kings of Winter and Lords of the North who had ruled since time beyond memory.
Each statue rested upon the lid of its own stone sarcophagus, iron swords laid across granite laps to keep restless spirits bound to their bones. At their feet lay carved direwolves, forever snarling their defiance at death itself.
Joffrey observed the unmistakable evidence of time's passage.
Many of the iron swords had deteriorated into rust-colored dust, barely maintaining their original shape. How many centuries have passed since these were forged? he wondered.
His gaze traveled over the stone faces arrayed before him.
The statues were crude by southern standards, yet possessed a certain stark majesty—ancient, solemn, and dignified in their simplicity. Joffrey could not know how accurately they captured the features of the dead, but recognized none of them regardless.
Only a handful of names had survived in historical accounts available to him.
Brandon the Builder, who had raised both Winterfell and the Wall with magic now forgotten. Brandon Ice Eyes, who had seen beyond death itself. Theon the Hungry Wolf, whose raids had terrorized the eastern shores. Torrhen, who had knelt to Aegon the Conqueror, trading his crown for his people's lives...
Joffrey understood with sudden clarity that Eddard Stark represented an anomaly among the lords of his ancient line.
Ned Stark, raised in the Vale by Jon Arryn, had absorbed more of the Arryn's lofty ideals of honor than the practical ruthlessness of his northern ancestors. His adherence to "As High as Honor" overshadowed the traditional Stark warning that "Winter is Coming."
Had Brandon the Wild Wolf not been burned alive by Aerys Targaryen, Eddard would likely have served as his elder brother's bannerman rather than ruling the North himself. Would the Stark legacy have followed a different course under such circumstances?
Joffrey recognized another truth about the Starks of old.
The traditional Lords of Winterfell had inherited the blood of the direwolf—wild and untamed in their hunger for advantage, circling their enemies like a wolf pack thirsting for blood. Who could say what glorious or terrible deeds these stone figures had performed in life, or how much blood had stained their hands?
As they passed each statue, Joffrey felt himself touching the distant history of House Stark, each face a page in their unwritten chronicle.
Finally, they reached the most recent sepulchers and paused.
One statue clutched an iron sword in a white-knuckled grip, its long face stern in the flickering light—the unmistakable Stark features etched in stone.
To either side stood two additional figures, one male and one female, both without the traditional iron swords across their laps.
Beyond them lay only empty niches, waiting in the darkness for deaths yet to come.
"Lord Rickard, is it not?" Joffrey asked, inclining his head respectfully toward the central figure.
He then acknowledged the statues of Eddard's elder brother Brandon and sister Lyanna with similar reverence.
In a strange way, he owed his present circumstances to these three individuals. Without their deaths, without the tragedy Robert called "the wrong spring," the Targaryens might still occupy the Iron Throne, and he might never have existed at all.
That completes the obligatory visit to the Stark crypts, he thought. As a dutiful guest, I should be satisfied.
Yet he had detected no trace of the magical energies he sought.
"Do you know what lies beyond these tombs?" he asked, his curiosity genuine.
Bran's expression shifted as he recalled Old Nan's stories and Maester Luwin's more sober histories. The apprehension he had initially felt had transformed entirely into curiosity.
"No one knows for certain," the boy replied with growing excitement. "Shall we explore further? There must be something of interest down there!"
Sansa's grip on Joffrey's arm tightened noticeably at this suggestion.
"We've been below ground for ages," she protested. "Won't they be concerned about our absence? We should return to daylight before we're missed."
Bran looked to Joffrey with naked hope in his eyes.
"Please, Your Highness, let's continue onward. There must be something extraordinary waiting to be discovered!"
Joffrey decided to send Sansa back to the surface with an escort, while he and Bran pressed forward into the unknown depths.
To his surprise, when he and Bran resumed their exploration, their party had not diminished but grown.
The sound of running footsteps echoed through the narrow passage ahead, accompanied by breathless laughter. Joffrey could only sigh in resignation.
"Arya, Bran—contain your excitement," he called into the darkness. "Mind you don't dash yourselves against the stone walls."
They had passed beyond the statues of the honored dead now. The corridor was lined with empty niches carved from the living rock, awaiting future generations of Starks.
This section of the passage extended considerably further than the occupied portion, with countless alcoves prepared for those yet unborn.
Joffrey marveled at the foresight—or perhaps arrogance—of the Stark ancestors. They had prepared resting places for thousands of descendants across millennia yet to come, a testament to their absolute confidence in the endurance of their bloodline.
Ahead, Bran and Arya skidded to a halt, then turned back toward the main party.
"Come quickly!" Arya called, her voice unnaturally high with excitement. "There are dead people ahead—or rather, their bones!"
The guardsmen accompanying them immediately tensed, hands moving to sword hilts.
"Your Highness," their captain urged, "we should return to the surface at once. The angry spirits of the ancient dead show no mercy to the living. Your safety must be our primary concern."
Joffrey dismissed such superstitious nonsense with a contemptuous wave. "They're nothing but old bones. What possible threat could they pose?"
Bran and Arya fell into unusual silence as the soldiers cautiously advanced ahead of the party, probing the darkness with outstretched torches. The atmosphere of their expedition had shifted, taking on the mysterious quality of true exploration into the unknown.
The enchanted firelight of Dragonflame gradually pushed back the shadows, revealing a passage that sloped gently downward.
A sharp crack broke the silence as one of the guardsmen trod upon something brittle. The man leapt backward in alarm, colliding with a fellow soldier.
Arya, fearless as always, darted forward to retrieve a pale fragment from the floor.
"These are the bones we saw," she announced, turning the object in her hand. "I nearly stumbled over them myself, but I'm too quick to fall."
Bran, unwilling to be outdone, declared proudly, "I didn't trip at all."
Joffrey knelt to examine the scattered remains more carefully. The bones appeared unremarkable—ancient and brittle, surrounded by a fine dust that might once have been flesh or clothing.
How many centuries have these lain undisturbed? he wondered.
He pressed his finger against a fragment and subtly activated his positioning and reconnaissance runes.
Using the bone as a medium, he located the other remains of the same corpse and extended his magical senses to scout the surrounding environment.
His "vision" flickered rapidly between disconnected bones, images appearing and vanishing too swiftly for ordinary comprehension. The complexity of the information strained even his enhanced cognitive abilities.
Finally, amid the chaotic impressions, he glimpsed an ancient throne of black stone.
Joffrey rose to his feet, newfound purpose in his movements.
"There's nothing to fear here," he announced with quiet confidence. "The answers we seek lie ahead."
After a considerable journey through twisting passages, they emerged into a vast, empty hall that bore signs of great antiquity. Beyond this chamber lay yet another, more imposing space.
There, waiting in solemn stillness, stood the Black Stone Throne.
Gods above and below, Joffrey thought, momentarily awestruck.
The abandoned throne of Winterfell radiated an aura of incomparable age and majesty.
While the Iron Throne represented the raw power of conquest, this seat embodied something more primordial—a connection to the very bones of the earth and the blood of the First Men.
It was a throne fit for the Kings of Winter who had ruled before the Andals crossed the Narrow Sea.
This throne, however, surpassed even that legendary seat.
Impossibly massive, emanating a bone-deep cold, crafted from stone of such pure blackness it seemed to devour light rather than reflect it. The throne exuded an indescribable aura that commanded reverence.
The guardsmen fell to their knees involuntarily, as though their bodies recognized an authority their minds could not comprehend.
Old Gods preserve us, their expressions seemed to say. This can only be the throne of the most ancient Kings of Winter, from the dawn of days!
Before this monumental seat of power, Bran and Arya stood transfixed, as if their very souls had been captured by the Black Stone Throne's inexorable pull.
And there, at last, Joffrey saw what he had sought—the unmistakable radiance of magic beyond any rune he had yet mastered.
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