Chapter 96 – Everyday Life in Winterfell
From afar, the gray castle could already be seen—silent and solemn atop a high hill. Its design was ancient and austere, without ornate spires or decorative reliefs. There was nothing flashy about it at all.
This fortress was incredibly old, with a history spanning seven or eight thousand years. Legend held that it was built by Brandon Stark the Builder—the same Stark ancestor who raised the Wall at the edge of the world.
Yet compared to the Wall, that colossal structure stretching across the continent from east to west, the castle before them seemed almost modest.
Winterfell was called a city, but in truth it was nothing more than an enormous stronghold. Though it looked imposing from the outside, its actual footprint was small—only a few acres at most—and incapable of housing a large army.
As a result, most of the troops were stationed outside the castle, in the nearby winter town where common folk lived. They waited there for their respective lords to return from the war before heading back to their own lands. Only a small number, received personally by the lord of Winterfell, continued on toward the castle itself.
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"Hey, Charles!"
Just as they reached the winter town, an excited shout rang out from afar. Looking up, Charles saw a little girl with brownish hair hopping up and down, waving at him enthusiastically from a distance.
She barely managed a few hops before a red-haired woman beside her scolded her in a low voice. The girl immediately wilted, shutting her mouth in embarrassment.
Then the group approached.
"Sir Cranston."
As soon as she came close, the red-haired woman bowed deeply to Charles. "Thank you for everything you've done for my father and my husband. House Tully and House Stark will always remember this. You will forever be our most honored guest."
"You're too kind, Lady Stark," Charles replied with a smile.
Though this was their first formal meeting, the children gathered around her made her identity obvious.
Catelyn Tully—Lady of Winterfell, wife of Eddard Stark, and eldest daughter of Hoster Tully, Charles had saved.
She was clearly warm and sincere. Judging by the scene, she had brought nearly the entire family out to welcome him.
As they exchanged pleasantries, Charles glanced over the children beside her.
Arya, making faces at him unabashedly, needed no comment. Sansa stood nearby like a proper young lady, wearing a composed yet genuine smile.
Next to her was a sleepy little boy rubbing his eyes—likely the youngest of the Stark sons.
Finally, Charles' gaze lingered on one particularly striking child among them.
Chestnut hair, blue eyes, and a delicate, likable face—around ten years old. He was being carried in a specially made basket on the back of a large man, his legs hanging limply beneath it, devoid of strength.
This one… would be important in the future.
Charles searched his memory quietly.
But before he could examine the boy more closely, the sharp cry of a raven suddenly echoed from deep within Winterfell, as if calling out to him.
Charles glanced in that direction, thoughtful.
---
On the night they entered the castle, a grand banquet was held. Present were the entire Stark family, along with Ser Rodrik, Maester Luwin, and all of Winterfell's key figures.
One thing was immediately apparent: in the North, social status was far less rigidly divided than in the South.
Here, commoners and nobles could sit at the same table and dine together, without strict hierarchies separating them.
Of course, the "commoners" referred to here were household retainers and sworn men of the lord's family—not ordinary farmers.
Winterfell was cold. Despite having encountered beings that were far from human, Charles himself was still very much human in physique, and the moment he arrived, he felt a chill run through him.
Thankfully, the temperature inside his chambers was quite comfortable.
Winterfell was built atop natural hot springs. Through an intricate system of pipes, scalding spring water was channeled throughout the main keep, radiating warmth into every room.
But no matter how comfortable the chamber was, he couldn't stay inside forever—especially after sensing that Winterfell harbored some kind of secret.
So early the next morning, escorted by guards sent by Lady Stark, he headed toward a certain part of the castle.
Before long, however, he returned disappointed.
---
"The heart tree is the symbol of the Old Gods," Lady Catelyn said, giving Charles a curious look. "I thought you would go to the godswood the moment you arrived."
They met on the second-floor corridor of the castle, just as Catelyn was about to attend to her daily affairs and Charles was returning from the godswood.
"There's nothing particularly interesting about a sept," Charles replied. Recalling what he had just seen, he frowned inwardly.
The heart tree was equivalent to an idol of the Old Gods, and the godswood was the place where their followers prayed—much like a sept for the Faith of the Seven. The difference was that the Old Gods had no priests.
Instead, they had something… more unusual.
Despite the heart tree's peculiar nature, the godswood itself was empty. He hadn't seen any actual ravens, nor the mysterious presence he vaguely remembered.
Yet the loud raven call he had heard upon arriving the day before couldn't have been an illusion. That sound was far too powerful to belong to an ordinary bird.
"Is it hiding… or did I come to the wrong place?" he wondered.
As he pondered, a burst of noisy laughter suddenly rang out nearby. He glanced over and saw several children playing.
Three boys were in the courtyard, while Arya stood on the second-floor wooden corridor, glaring down at them in frustration.
"Those two are Big Walder Frey and Little Walder Frey—my foster sons," Catelyn explained, noticing his gaze, as if she intended to stay and receive guests for a while.
But seeing her troubled expression, Charles said, "If you have matters to attend to, my lady, please go ahead. I have guards with me—I doubt I'll get lost."
Catelyn hesitated briefly, then nodded.
"Very well. Thank you for your understanding." With that, she hurried off.
She had never been able to accept her son's disability, so when the "suspect" Tyrion Lannister was brought here, she naturally couldn't remain calm—despite having captured the dwarf once before.
Charles understood her feelings, but he didn't believe Tyrion was the culprit.
This wasn't trust or sympathy—it was his staff.
The staff could determine whether someone was lying.
"Good luck," he murmured to himself.
Shaking his head slightly, Charles walked along the wooden corridor to Arya's side. The girl was puffing with anger as she stared down at the courtyard.
At a glance, he saw Bran Stark carefully aiming a bow, while the two Frey boys crowded around the target, laughing and deliberately distracting him.
"Those Frey worms are so annoying!" Arya muttered.
As she spoke, she suddenly noticed Charles beside her and asked curiously, "Do wizards walk without making any noise?"
"No," Charles replied calmly. "You just weren't paying attention."
Just then, loud laughter erupted again. Looking down, he saw that Bran's arrow had missed the target.
Arya immediately stomped toward the stairs.
Charles grabbed her arm. "What are you doing?"
"Going to hit them!" she snapped, fury written all over her face.
"You have a bow. Why not use that?"
"I might miss," Arya replied, lifting a broom she had secretly picked up. "Mother doesn't want them hurt. My sword won't miss."
A broom?
Charles shook his head, took the bow from her hands, and drew an arrow. With a brief aim, he released it.
The arrow shot like lightning and buried itself in the dirt of the training yard—right in front of one Frey boy's heel.
The shrill laughter stopped abruptly.
The boy stared at the arrow half-sunk into the ground, then slowly looked up. Seeing Arya holding the bow, his face flushed with humiliation and anger.
"You horse-faced freak—what are you doing?!"
Arya didn't respond. She just stared blankly at the bow that had just been placed back into her hands.