Two weeks after the raven from Castle Black first reached Winterfell, the ancient stronghold no longer resembled a castle preparing to receive royalty.
It had become a place waiting for war.
The first group evacuated from the Wall had arrived several days earlier: wounded brothers, elderly men, stewards, builders, boys too young to stand inside the northern tunnel, and every healer or raven keeper Lord Commander Rodrik Umber believed the Watch could not afford to lose. They had brought Maester Aemon with them, along with Torrhen Woods, who remained trapped in the same unnatural sleep that had claimed him after his escape from the Haunted Forest.
Those men brought warnings.
They brought Rodrik's final letters.
They brought the knowledge that five hundred brothers had chosen to remain behind and defend Castle Black.
What they did not bring was any knowledge of what happened after the southern gate closed behind them.
They had not witnessed the battle.
No raven had arrived after Rodrik sent his farewell. No rider appeared along the kingsroad bearing word that the tunnel had held or fallen. The brothers who escaped first could say only that the line of decay had been drawing closer when they departed and that five hundred men stood beneath the Wall waiting for whatever emerged from the dead forest.
For days, Winterfell heard nothing.
That silence had begun to feel like an answer.
The royal party remained within the castle, though every trace of celebration surrounding Prince Rhaegar and Elia Martell's visit had disappeared. The feast prepared for their arrival was never held. Musicians remained in Winter Town, unwanted and increasingly frightened, while the food meant for noble tables was divided among soldiers, travellers, and the wounded brothers of the Night's Watch.
Rhaegar spent much of his time beside Maester Luwin, reading every report sent from the Wall before the ravens fell silent. Ser Arthur Dayne rarely left his prince's side, while Ser Barristan Selmy questioned the evacuated brothers whenever Maester Aemon judged them strong enough to speak.
Elia divided her time between the wounded and the Stark family.
Xuehara Stark barely slept.
Every morning, she visited Torrhen Woods and watched the unconscious boy breathe. She never tried to wake him, though her gaze frequently settled upon the scar Dark Sister had left across his ribs. Sometimes Eddard sat beside the bed when she arrived, his hand resting near the young ranger's wrist as though he might feel the truth inside Torrhen's pulse if he remained quiet enough.
Neither mother nor twin received the answer they wanted.
By midday on the fourteenth day, light snow had begun falling over Winterfell.
The weather was calm enough that the guards atop the northern wall could see far along the kingsroad. White fields stretched beneath the grey sky, broken by bare trees, scattered farms, and the long dark ribbon of the road disappearing toward the Wall.
One guard saw movement near the distant tree line.
At first, he assumed it was another patrol returning from one of Rickard's northern outposts. The figures appeared only as dark marks against the snow, too far away to count and moving without banners.
Then one of those figures fell.
Two others stopped and struggled to lift him.
The guard narrowed his eyes and leaned across the battlement. "Ser," he called, his voice losing its casual tone as he pointed toward the road. "There are men coming from the north."
The officer of the watch crossed the platform, raised a Myrish lens, and stared through it.
He lowered it almost immediately.
"What do you see?" the younger guard asked.
The officer's face had gone pale.
"Black cloaks."
For a heartbeat, neither man moved.
Then the officer turned so sharply that his cloak snapped around him.
"Ring the bell. Open the gates and send every wagon we have. Bring healers, blankets, broth, wine—anything warm. Tell Lord Stark that the Night's Watch has returned."
The bell began ringing across Winterfell.
Not the violent, frantic alarm that warned of attack, but a repeated summons that sent guards and servants spilling into the courtyards. Stableboys ran for horses. Wagons meant to carry provisions north were emptied and rushed toward the gates. Maester Luwin's assistants gathered medicine, clean cloth, and warmed stones while northern soldiers pulled their own cloaks from their shoulders and piled them into the carts.
Rickard Stark was standing over a map of the lands between Winterfell and the Wall when the messenger reached him.
"How many?" Rickard asked, already fastening Ice across his back as the guard fought to catch his breath.
"We cannot tell, my lord. Fewer than a hundred, perhaps. They are moving in scattered groups, and many are supporting one another."
Rickard's hands stopped upon the buckle.
Five hundred brothers had remained at Castle Black.
Across the room, Xuehara slowly rose from her chair.
"Is Jinx with them?" she asked.
The messenger's gaze shifted toward her and fell immediately to the floor. "We could not see anyone clearly enough, my lady."
Xuehara was already walking past him.
Eddard moved almost as quickly. Brandon followed, pulling on his gloves while Lyanna and Benjen hurried behind them despite the servants calling for them to remain inside.
Rhaegar met the Starks in the corridor, Elia beside him and both Kingsguard knights close behind.
"What has happened?" the prince asked, turning as Rickard passed.
"The men who remained at Castle Black have reached the northern road," Rickard answered without slowing. "Or what remains of them."
No one asked another question.
They reached the outer courtyard as the gates opened.
The first wagons had already gone out to meet the survivors, but many of the black brothers continued staggering forward rather than waiting to be collected. They moved with the empty stubbornness of men who had forgotten how to stop.
The first two appeared through the falling snow with their arms wrapped around one another's backs. Neither seemed strong enough to support the other, yet they remained upright because each would have fallen alone. One had lost his sword and used a snapped spear as a walking staff. The other dragged one foot behind him, leaving a crooked streak through the snow.
More followed.
Some carried wounded brothers between them. Others pulled sledges fashioned from branches, belts, and torn cloaks. Men whose faces were hidden beneath bloody bandages guided those who could no longer see. One brother walked with his arm tied tightly against his chest and a broken arrow still embedded through the shoulder because no healer had been present to remove it safely.
Black wool had turned grey beneath ash and snow.
Mail hung from bodies made thin by hunger.
Few had escaped without blood upon them.
Northern riders reached the first group and dismounted, but the exhausted brothers recoiled. Several raised broken weapons with hands that barely possessed the strength to hold them.
"Easy!" the captain called, stopping well beyond striking distance and lifting both hands. "You are near Winterfell. Look at my cloak. Stark men."
One of the survivors stared at the direwolf clasped over his chest.
The sword slipped from the brother's fingers.
"Winterfell," he breathed.
His knees buckled before the captain could answer.
The riders began loading them into wagons, though many resisted until their wounded companions were taken first. Some had to be assured repeatedly that no one would be left behind on the road.
By the time the first wagon passed beneath Winterfell's gates, the entire outer yard had filled with people.
Healers knelt beside stretchers. Servants carried bowls of broth and cups of watered wine. Northern guards removed their cloaks and wrapped them around strangers while the surviving brothers were lowered into rows upon straw, blankets, and every available patch of sheltered ground.
Xuehara stood near the center of the yard.
Her eyes searched every face.
The first wagon held six men. None was Jinx.
The second carried brothers burned badly enough that their features had disappeared beneath salve and linen. Her body tensed until Maester Aemon, standing nearby with one hand upon a steward's arm, spoke quietly.
"Your son is not among them."
Xuehara turned toward him. "How can you know?"
"I had the names of the injured taken before the wagons entered."
Her shoulders loosened slightly, though no relief reached her face.
The third wagon arrived.
Then the fourth.
Still no Jinx.
Elia moved among the wounded almost immediately. Arthur protested when she knelt beside a man whose hand had been crushed beyond saving, but she silenced him with an impatient movement of one hand and helped hold the brother steady while Luwin's assistant cut through his frozen glove.
Rhaegar remained near Rickard, his attention moving from the wounded men toward the northern road.
"What happened there?" he asked quietly, more to himself than anyone else.
Ser Barristan heard him.
"Whatever it was," the older knight murmured while watching a brother carried through the gates with half his face burned, "these men did not believe they would survive it."
The final large wagon entered the yard near sunset.
An old ranger sat upright against its side despite every effort to make him lie down. His left arm had been bound against his chest, his shoulder broken so badly that it sat lower than the other. A blood-blackened bandage covered part of his brow, and his white beard was stiff with frost.
Mors Flint had served the Night's Watch for forty-six years.
He looked as though every one of those years had fallen upon him during the march south.
His eyes moved across the crowded courtyard until they found Rickard Stark.
"Lord Stark," he called, though his voice came out little louder than torn parchment.
Rickard crossed the yard and reached the wagon as Mors tried to climb down. The old ranger's boot touched the ground, but his leg folded beneath him. Rickard caught him beneath his uninjured arm before he fell.
"Stay seated," Rickard said as he helped him back against the wagon. "You have nothing left to prove by standing."
Mors looked at him without recognition for several seconds.
"Rickard Stark?"
"Yes."
The old ranger's gaze moved over Rickard's shoulder.
Xuehara stood there with her children. Eddard and Brandon had come to either side of her, while Lyanna held Benjen's hand tightly enough to whiten both their knuckles.
Mors's face broke.
Eddard saw the grief before the old man spoke, and something inside him recoiled.
"Where is my brother?" he asked.
Mors closed his eyes.
Xuehara stepped in front of Eddard, her cloak moving around her like dark water. "Tell me where Jinx is."
The old ranger opened his eyes again.
"He took Castle Black."
The courtyard continued moving around them, but the words created a silence among everyone close enough to hear.
Rickard's hand tightened around Mors's arm. "Explain."
Mors stared down at the sword resting across his knees. Its edge was broken, and dried blood covered nearly the entire blade.
"He came out of the forest at sunset," he said, each sentence dragged through pain and exhaustion. "Lord Commander Umber was waiting behind the northern gate with the five hundred. Prince Jinx came alone."
Eddard swallowed. "What condition was he in?"
"Covered in blood." Mors's gaze drifted as though he were seeing the tree line again. "Barely any clothes left on him. Wounds everywhere. Dark Sister in his hand."
Rhaegar's attention sharpened at the name.
"Dark Sister was truly recovered?" he asked, stepping closer before he appeared able to stop himself. His violet eyes fixed upon the old ranger with an intensity that briefly made Arthur glance toward him. "You saw the blade yourself?"
Mors nodded weakly. "Saw it cut through the gate. Saw it cut through men and steel."
Rhaegar's expression tightened with disbelief and fascination, but Xuehara did not look at him. Every part of her attention remained fixed upon Mors.
"Did Jinx speak?" she asked.
"No. Only growled. Howled like a wolf."
Her fingers curled beside her legs.
Mors drew in a shallow breath. "There was something tied against his side."
Xuehara's eyes narrowed.
"What?"
"A dragon egg."
The words stopped the entire circle.
Even Rhaegar, who had maintained his composure through the reports of hundreds dead, visibly faltered.
Elia had just approached from behind Arthur. She stopped with one bloodied cloth still clutched between her gloved fingers.
Brandon stared at the ranger. "A what?"
Mors looked from him to Rickard, as though uncertain whether the shock meant they did not believe him.
"A dragon egg," he repeated. "Large as a man's chest. Covered in moss and fungus. The shell was scaled. No mistaking it once the torchlight reached it."
Rhaegar stepped forward.
"Where did he find it?" The prince's earlier restraint disappeared beneath the urgency in his voice. "Was it taken from the Milkwater with Dark Sister? What color were the scales? Did the shell appear petrified, or was there warmth inside it? Did it move? Did anyone—"
Xuehara turned her head.
She did not speak.
One look was enough.
Her face remained beautiful, but there was nothing gentle in it. Her dark eyes settled upon Rhaegar with such cold, murderous clarity that the prince's next question died before reaching his mouth.
For the briefest moment, Rhaegar understood that he was not speaking to the lady of Winterfell or to a noblewoman expected to bow because dragon blood flowed through his veins.
He was speaking to a mother being told that her missing son had crawled from a dead forest drenched in blood.
The egg might have been the greatest discovery made in generations. It might have altered the future of House Targaryen and the entire realm.
At that moment, it was also something Jinx had carried against his body while starving and wounded.
Rhaegar saw in Xuehara's expression that one more eager question about the egg—one hint that he considered it more important than her child—might lead to Ice becoming the second Valyrian sword drawn in this story.
He took one slow step back.
Arthur Dayne's fingers had tightened around Dawn's hilt, though even he appeared uncertain whether drawing the blade would improve his prince's chances if Lady Stark moved.
Elia lowered the bloodied cloth and gave Rhaegar a pointed look.
"Let him finish," she said quietly.
Rhaegar inclined his head, his earlier questions sealed behind tightly pressed lips.
Xuehara turned back toward Mors.
"What did Jinx do with the egg?"
"He protected it." The old ranger's voice softened despite the terror in his eyes. "When he entered the tunnel, he put it down outside the fighting. Wrapped cloth beneath it so it would not touch the frozen ground. Only came at us once it was safe."
Something changed in Xuehara's face.
Not relief.
Something more fragile and painful.
A sign that her son was still capable of caring for something even while the rest of him drowned beneath hunger.
"Continue," Rickard said, his voice rough.
Mors swallowed.
"Rodrik closed the gates. The prince tore through them."
Brandon's brows drew together. "With Dark Sister?"
"With his hands first." Mors's good hand trembled against the broken sword in his lap. "Bent the iron. Ripped the inner gate open, then cut through what remained."
Barristan stared at him. "The northern gate was built to withstand giants."
"So were the men behind it."
No one answered that.
Mors looked down again. "Lord Commander Umber fought him inside the tunnel. Fought better than any man I have ever seen. Cut Jinx open, broke bones, put a sword through his belly."
Xuehara's breath caught.
Eddard stepped closer to her, though she remained standing without assistance.
"Did Rodrik kill him?" Benjen asked before fear could stop him.
Mors looked toward the youngest Stark boy.
"No."
The single word carried the death within it.
"Jinx killed the Lord Commander," he continued. "Dark Sister through the heart."
A low murmur moved among the northern guards. Several bowed their heads, and one of the brothers lying nearby began crying silently into his blanket.
Mors's expression tightened.
"Rodrik died standing. Both hands still around his sword."
Rickard looked away for a moment.
Rodrik Umber had known what waited for him. He had written his farewell and stood there anyway.
"Jinx left him untouched," Mors said.
Xuehara looked back sharply.
"What do you mean?"
"He ate the others." Mors could not soften it, and his face twisted as the words emerged. "But not Rodrik. Would not even let the power he used touch the body. Everything around him withered—plants, animals, some of our men. Their lives came out of them as magenta light, and Jinx used it to repair himself."
Eddard's eyes lowered.
"He chose not to feed on Rodrik," he murmured.
Mors studied the twin's face. "If there was a choice left in him, that was where I saw it."
The yard had become quieter around them as word of the account spread. Even the wounded seemed to listen.
Mors continued haltingly.
"He broke the rest of the tunnel. Came into Castle Black. We hurt him—arrows, spears, fire. Nothing like Rodrik managed, but enough that he bled. Enough that any ordinary man would have fallen."
"But he did not," Arthur said.
"No."
"How many survived?" Rickard asked.
Mors looked across the yard.
The answer surrounded them.
Men lay beneath blankets in rows. Others were still being carried through the gate, their bodies held together by bandages, stubbornness, and whatever mercy had allowed them to escape.
"Less than a hundred left Castle Black," Mors said. "I do not know how many will live through tonight."
Xuehara closed her eyes.
Five hundred men had remained.
Fewer than one hundred returned.
Eddard crouched in front of Mors so the old ranger would not need to raise his head. "Why did Jinx let you leave?"
Mors's mouth tightened.
"I ordered a retreat when fewer than a quarter of us remained. Thought he would follow us south. Thought we would have to scatter and make him choose who to hunt."
"But he did not chase you," Eddard said.
"No." Mors stared at him. "He watched us leave, then turned back toward the dead."
Eddard absorbed the answer without flinching, though his face had lost all remaining colour.
"There was food behind him," Mors continued. "More than what was escaping through the gate. Do not dress that in mercy because you share his face."
"I am not," Eddard replied, his voice barely more than a whisper. "But he spared Torrhen when he could have killed him. He left Rodrik whole. He protected the egg. He allowed you to retreat."
Mors's eyes hardened.
"He slaughtered hundreds between those acts."
"I know."
Something in Eddard's quiet acceptance stopped the ranger from answering further.
Xuehara stepped closer to the wagon. "When you left, where was Jinx?"
"Inside Castle Black."
"And the egg?"
"He went back for it." Mors's gaze flicked briefly toward Rhaegar, who remained wisely silent. "Carried it into the yard and stayed there. We saw him settle beneath one of the broken galleries before distance hid the castle."
"He remained with it," Xuehara said.
Rickard looked at her. "Days have passed. He could be anywhere now."
"No." Her certainty emerged immediately. "He carried it through the forest while wounded and starving. He protected it before battle. He returned for it instead of pursuing men who escaped him."
She looked north.
"If he wanders, he will return to the egg."
Rhaegar's attention moved toward her again, questions visibly gathering behind his eyes. The importance of what Mors described could not be ignored. A dragon egg beyond the Wall, discovered beside a lost ancestral blade, now guarded by a prince capable of tearing open iron gates—
Xuehara sensed his stare and slowly turned.
Rhaegar looked away.
Elia almost smiled despite the horror surrounding them.
Rickard straightened, decision settling over him. "Get Mors inside. No more questions until Maester Luwin has examined him. Every surviving brother receives shelter, food, and care before any man asks them to repeat what they witnessed."
Mors caught the front of Rickard's sleeve before the guards could lift him.
"Lord Stark."
Rickard looked down.
"Rodrik sent you a letter."
"It reached me."
Relief loosened something in the old ranger's face.
"He wanted you to know they stood."
Rickard's gaze moved across the survivors of Castle Black. Men leaned against one another because neither possessed the strength to stand alone. Some still held broken swords despite being safely behind Winterfell's walls. Others had crossed days of frozen road with wounds that should have killed them because their Lord Commander had ordered them to carry the warning south.
"The North knows they stood," Rickard said, his voice roughening. "Before this is over, every hall from the Last Hearth to Dorne will know."
Mors finally released him.
As the guards carried the ranger toward the infirmary, Xuehara remained in the snow, staring north.
Her son was alive.
He had Dark Sister.
He guarded a dragon egg no living person had expected to exist.
And Castle Black had become his den.
Eddard rose beside her.
"When do we leave?" he asked.
"At first light," Rickard answered, looking toward the wounded men filling his courtyard. "We need their full account, fresh horses, and enough supplies to reach the Wall without becoming another group Jinx can hunt."
Xuehara turned toward her husband.
"We leave as soon as the horses are saddled."
"Xuehara—"
"Our son has spent days alone among the bodies of hundreds of men." Her voice did not rise, yet Rickard's objection died beneath it. "He is wounded, starving, and protecting something he cannot possibly understand in his current state."
Her eyes moved briefly toward Rhaegar.
The Crown Prince remained perfectly silent.
"We are finished waiting."
Yet Fate had no intention of allowing House Stark to leave quietly.
The order to saddle the horses had barely passed beyond the courtyard when one of the guards upon Winterfell's outer wall shouted down toward the gatehouse.
"Riders on the northern road!"
Every head in the courtyard turned.
For one sickening heartbeat, the surviving brothers of the Night's Watch reacted as though Jinx had followed them after all. Men who could scarcely sit upright reached for broken weapons. One wounded ranger rolled from his blanket and tried to crawl beneath a wagon, his breath tearing from him in panicked gasps as healers rushed to restrain him.
Mors Flint twisted upon the arms of the guards carrying him. His good hand clawed toward the sword resting against the wagon.
"How many?" Rickard demanded, one hand already closing around the hilt of Ice across his back.
The sentry leaned over the battlement and raised the Myrish lens again. He remained silent for several breaths before visibly relaxing.
"Banners, my lord," he called down. "A chained giant breaking free."
Rickard's hand stopped.
"Umbers," Brandon said.
The sound of distant hooves reached Winterfell moments later.
Not the measured approach of a visiting lord or the exhausted stagger of the Night's Watch survivors. The riders came hard and fast, tearing down the kingsroad in a broad column that threw snow and frozen mud behind them. The giant of House Umber snapped above the foremost rider, its chains twisting wildly in the northern wind.
Greatjon Umber led them.
He looked enormous even upon horseback. Heavy mail covered his chest beneath a massive cloak of brown bear fur, while a greatsword hung at his side and a round shield had been strapped behind his saddle. His beard was thick, wild, and crusted with snow. Anger had reddened what little of his face remained visible beneath it.
More than a hundred Umber men rode behind him.
Some carried spears, others axes and heavy northern swords, but every one of them had come equipped for battle rather than a lordly visit. Several packhorses followed with food, blankets, and additional weapons strapped to their sides.
The column did not slow until it reached Winterfell's gates.
Greatjon dragged hard upon his reins, his horse rearing beneath his weight as the gates opened. The animal's front hooves struck the ground, and the giant lord drove it into the courtyard without waiting for permission to enter.
"What in the frozen fucking hells is going on?" Greatjon roared before the rest of his men had passed beneath the arch.
His voice thundered across Winterfell.
Servants stopped moving. Several horses startled inside the yard, and one of the injured Watch brothers flinched so violently that the healer beside him nearly spilled a basin of warmed water.
Greatjon's gaze swept over the courtyard.
His anger changed.
Rows of black-cloaked men lay beneath blankets and furs. Some were burned, others bloodied and bandaged, while too many remained utterly still despite the healers working around them. Broken swords and shields had been piled beside the walls. The smell of blood, charred flesh, boiled herbs, and sickness hung heavily in the frozen air.
Greatjon dismounted.
The ground seemed to shake when his boots struck it.
One of his men moved to take the reins, but Greatjon barely noticed. His eyes had fixed upon Mors Flint, whose white beard and broken shoulder marked him clearly among the wounded.
Mors saw the chained giant upon Greatjon's breast.
Something like shame entered the old ranger's face.
Greatjon crossed the courtyard in long strides, pushing past two northern guards without appearing to notice them. He stopped in front of Mors and stared down at him, taking in the broken arm, the blood-soaked bandages, and the ruined sword across his lap.
"Where is Rodrik?" Greatjon asked.
The question was quieter than his arrival had been.
That made it worse.
Mors lowered his eyes.
Greatjon's jaw tightened beneath his beard. "I asked you where my kin is."
Rickard stepped between them before the old ranger was forced to answer while barely conscious. "Greatjon."
The Umber lord's gaze snapped toward him.
"Do not speak to me as though I have arrived drunk to one of your feasts," Greatjon growled, reaching inside his cloak and ripping out a folded piece of parchment. The black wax had already been broken, and the paper had been crushed so tightly in his fist that its edges were torn. "This reached the Last Hearth two days ago."
Rickard recognized Rodrik's hand before Greatjon thrust the letter against his chest.
Around them, the surviving Night's Watch brothers fell silent.
"He wrote that something was coming for the Wall," Greatjon continued, his voice beginning to rise again as grief fed his anger. "He wrote that five hundred men would remain with him while the rest rode south. He told us not to come north for him, as though an Umber can write a few pretty words and expect his family to sit beside the fire while he dies alone."
"He was not alone," Mors said.
Greatjon turned.
The old ranger had lifted his head again. His face was pale, and each breath visibly hurt him, but there was steel left in his eyes.
"Five hundred brothers stood with him."
Greatjon stared at the wounded men covering the courtyard.
"And where are they now?"
Mors's mouth tightened.
"Most are dead."
The words landed with a finality no shout could match.
Greatjon looked toward the Watch survivors again, counting them without meaning to. He saw men supporting one another because neither could stand alone, men burned beyond recognition, and young boys whose eyes seemed older than his own.
His broad chest rose slowly beneath the bear-fur cloak.
"Rodrik?" he asked.
Mors tried to answer, but his voice failed.
Rickard stepped closer. "He fell at Castle Black."
Greatjon's gaze moved toward him.
For several heartbeats, the giant lord did not react. He stood so still that even the wind tugging at his cloak seemed afraid to disturb him.
"How?"
Rickard looked toward Mors.
The ranger swallowed and forced the words through his ruined throat. "Fighting Prince Jinx."
Several Umber men shifted behind their lord.
Greatjon did not.
"Jinx Stark," he repeated, staring past Rickard toward the Stark family gathered within the yard.
Eddard felt the attention settle upon him first. The resemblance between the twins was impossible to miss, and Greatjon's grief briefly twisted his face into something dangerous.
Xuehara stepped in front of Eddard.
The movement was immediate and almost unconscious. One moment she stood beside her son; the next her body was between him and the largest man in the courtyard, her hand resting near the sword at her hip.
Greatjon noticed.
His eyes narrowed, though he made no move toward them.
"My son was not himself," Xuehara said. Her voice carried none of the apology Greatjon might have expected. There was grief in it, guilt as well, but beneath both remained the hard warning of a mother who would not permit another child to be punished for Jinx's actions. "Whatever happened beyond the Wall consumed his reason."
"My kin is still dead."
"I know."
"Do you?" Greatjon's voice cracked across the courtyard. He took one step toward her, his size swallowing the space between them until Arthur Dayne's hand settled instinctively upon Dawn. "Did you see him die? Did you receive a letter telling you he was choosing which of his men would live long enough to flee while he stayed behind to be butchered?"
Xuehara did not retreat.
"No," she said, her chin lifting as their eyes locked. "I received a letter telling me my son had killed and eaten men who trusted him. I learned that he carried the sword that wounded the only survivor back to the Wall. I have spent every hour since wondering how many more will die before I reach him—and whether there will be enough of my child left to recognize me when I do."
Greatjon's anger remained.
It simply lost its direction.
His gaze dropped briefly toward her hand, which had begun trembling beside her sword despite the strength in her voice.
Eddard stepped from behind his mother before she could stop him.
"Lord Rodrik hurt him," he said.
Greatjon looked down at him.
Eddard's face was pale, but he held the Umber's gaze. "Mors said Rodrik wounded Jinx worse than anyone else. He broke bones, opened his stomach, and fought him until the end."
Mors's good hand tightened around his scabbard. "He did."
Greatjon turned back toward him.
"Tell me."
Mors closed his eyes for a moment, gathering what strength remained. "Rodrik stood behind the gate when the prince crossed no-man's-land. Jinx tore through the iron. We fought in the tunnel, but Rodrik…" His mouth twitched, pride briefly overpowering grief. "Rodrik made the boy fight like a man. No crawling. No biting. Sword against sword."
Greatjon's breath left him heavily.
"He had Jinx bleeding from a dozen wounds," Mors continued. "Drove steel through his belly. Broke his face. Opened his thigh nearly to the bone. The prince killed him in the end, but Rodrik never dropped his weapon."
The Umber men behind Greatjon stood straighter.
Mors looked directly at their lord.
"He died on his feet."
Greatjon's eyes closed.
The hand holding Rodrik's letter curled against his chest, crushing the parchment further. His beard hid much of his face, but it could not hide the pain tightening it.
"And afterward?" he asked.
Mors's gaze lowered.
"Jinx left him untouched."
Greatjon opened his eyes again.
"What?"
"He ate from the others," Mors said, and several of the wounded men nearby looked away at the memory. "Drained life from men, beasts, and the ground itself. But the power went around Rodrik. The prince did not cut him again, did not feed upon him, did not allow the destruction to touch his body."
Greatjon stared at him.
"Why?"
"We do not know."
"I do," Eddard said quietly.
Every face turned toward him.
Eddard swallowed, looking down briefly before forcing himself to continue. "Jinx recognized what Rodrik had done. Perhaps not with words, perhaps not as himself, but some part of him understood that Rodrik stood against him when everyone else fell away."
Greatjon's expression hardened. "Do not turn my cousin's death into proof that your brother remains good."
"I am not." Eddard's voice roughened, and for the first time his restraint slipped enough for the grief beneath it to show. "I am trying to understand why he spared one body when he desecrated so many others. Why he let Torrhen escape. Why he allowed Mors and the others to retreat. Every choice means something because choices are all we have left to prove Jinx is still inside that thing."
Mors watched him in silence.
Greatjon looked at the survivors again.
Then his eyes moved toward the gates, where the remainder of his men waited beneath the chained giant banners.
"We ride to Castle Black," he said.
Rickard stepped forward. "You have only just arrived."
"And Rodrik has been dead for days."
"Which is precisely why charging north in grief will accomplish nothing except adding more Umber bodies to the road."
Greatjon rounded upon him. "You expect me to sit behind your walls after reading that letter?"
"No. I expect you to listen before deciding which direction your anger should carry you."
The two northern lords stood nearly chest to chest, though Greatjon still towered over Rickard.
"I have listened," Greatjon said. "Your son killed my blood and hundreds of sworn brothers. Now you intend to ride north and bring him home as though he were a boy lost in a storm."
Rickard's face tightened. "I intend to stop him."
"Dead or alive?"
The question silenced the courtyard.
Xuehara turned slowly toward Rickard.
Eddard's entire body stiffened.
Rickard looked past Greatjon toward his wife and children. The answer he gave would not remain between lords. It would follow all of them north.
"If he can be brought back alive," Rickard said, each word weighed before he allowed it free, "then he will be."
Greatjon's mouth twisted.
"And if he cannot?"
Xuehara stared at her husband.
Rickard met her eyes.
Pain entered his face, but he did not look away.
"Then I will do what must be done to protect the North."
Xuehara flinched as though he had struck her.
Eddard's hand closed around his sword, though he said nothing. Brandon shifted between his parents without fully stepping toward either, caught between the brother he loved and the responsibility he had been raised to inherit.
Greatjon studied Rickard for several breaths.
Then he nodded once.
"Good."
Xuehara's gaze snapped toward him with such fury that several Umber men reached instinctively toward their weapons.
Greatjon noticed and bared his teeth.
"Do not mistake me, Lady Stark. I do not want your boy's head mounted above my hall." His voice became rougher, grief scraping away some of its anger. "Rodrik's final letter prayed this thing would take no more Umber lives except one. I would honor him poorly if I demanded blood before we knew whether the beast and the boy could be separated."
His enormous hand tightened around the letter.
"But I will not let his sacrifice become an excuse to hesitate while more men die."
Xuehara held his gaze.
"Neither will I."
The answer seemed to satisfy some part of him.
Before anyone could continue, Rhaegar stepped closer, carefully placing himself where Greatjon could see him without seeming to interrupt the northern family's grief.
"Lord Umber," the prince began, "the survivor also reported that Jinx possesses—"
Xuehara looked at him.
Rhaegar stopped.
Greatjon's brows drew together as he glanced from the prince to Lady Stark. "Possesses what?"
Rhaegar's lips parted.
Xuehara's stare remained fixed upon him.
Elia turned her face away, though not quickly enough to hide the faint, exhausted amusement that touched her expression despite the horror surrounding them.
Mors answered instead.
"A dragon egg."
Greatjon looked at him.
Then at Rickard.
Then toward Rhaegar, who had suddenly become very interested in maintaining an expression of royal composure.
"A dragon egg," Greatjon repeated.
"Large and scaled," Mors said. "Covered in fungus and moss. Prince Jinx carried it from the Haunted Forest and protected it throughout the battle."
Greatjon's face went blank.
For perhaps the first time in his life, the Greatjon appeared to possess no immediate words.
Then his head turned toward Rhaegar.
"And what does the dragon prince think of that?"
Rhaegar sensed Xuehara's attention sharpen beside him.
He chose his response with extraordinary care.
"I think Prince Jinx's condition and the safety of the North take precedence over any questions regarding the egg."
Xuehara's gaze remained upon him for another moment.
Rhaegar did not blink.
Greatjon released a low sound that might have been laughter if there had been less grief inside it. "Clever lad."
Arthur Dayne lowered his head slightly, concealing whatever reaction threatened his composure.
Rickard turned toward the Umber men still entering the yard. "How many did you bring?"
"One hundred and thirty mounted men," Greatjon replied. His attention returned to the practical matter of war with visible relief. "Another two hundred follow with heavier provisions. I rode ahead because Rodrik's letter smelled like a farewell, and I had no intention of waiting for a maester to explain it."
"Our horses are being prepared," Rickard said. "The surviving brothers have only just arrived, but Mors has given us enough to know Jinx was still at Castle Black when they escaped."
Greatjon looked north.
"How long ago?"
"Several days."
"Then he may no longer be there."
Xuehara shook her head. "He will remain near the egg or return to it."
Greatjon's eyes moved toward her. "You sound certain."
"He carried it through the forest while starving. Protected it before battle. Returned for it instead of hunting the men who fled." She drew her cloak more tightly around herself, though the cold was not what made her hands tremble. "Whatever else he has forgotten, he has chosen that egg."
"Then Castle Black is his den," Greatjon muttered.
Arthur Dayne stepped nearer the group. "And marching hundreds of armed men toward it may provoke the same response that destroyed the Watch."
Greatjon looked the Sword of the Morning up and down. "You suggest we ask politely?"
"I suggest we avoid repeating the exact failure that left these men lying in the snow."
The Umber lord's eyes narrowed.
Arthur's hand remained near Dawn, but there was no challenge in his posture. Only the disciplined calm of a man offering battlefield judgment whether it pleased those listening or not.
Mors stirred against the wagon. "He reacts to life."
Everyone turned toward him.
The ranger's eyelids had begun drooping, his remaining strength fading rapidly, but he forced himself to continue.
"The more men near him, the worse the hunger became. When he fell in the tunnel, he pulled life from everything around him. Hundreds of us only gave him more to take."
Rickard's gaze hardened with understanding.
"A smaller group approaches Castle Black."
Greatjon immediately shook his head. "I did not ride here to wait behind while you walk into that slaughterhouse with six men."
"And I will not lead an army close enough for Jinx to drain it."
"We need men nearby," Brandon said, stepping closer to the map held by one of Rickard's guards. "Not at Castle Black itself. Keep the main force south along the kingsroad while a smaller party enters."
Eddard looked at him.
Brandon met his younger brother's gaze, their earlier rivalry absent beneath the weight of what lay ahead.
"You, Mother, and anyone Jinx may recognize approach first," Brandon continued. "Father and the rest remain close enough to intervene."
Xuehara's mouth tightened. "I am not using Eddard as bait."
"I did not say bait."
"You did not need to."
Eddard placed one hand gently over his mother's clenched fist. "He will recognize me."
She looked at him.
The same conviction had carried him through every argument since the letter arrived. It frightened her because she believed it.
Greatjon watched them, then slowly unfolded Rodrik's crushed letter.
His eyes moved over the final lines again.
Do not waste Umber lives attempting to rescue a man who has already chosen where he will stand.
The paper shook faintly in his hand.
When he spoke again, his voice was quieter.
"My men will reinforce Winterfell's force and secure the road south of Castle Black. We will not enter the castle unless called."
Rickard stared at him, surprised by the concession.
Greatjon shoved the letter back inside his cloak.
"Rodrik gave his life to buy the North time," he growled, turning toward his waiting men. "I will not dishonor him by handing your starving son another Umber army to feast upon."
He raised one massive hand toward the gate.
"Get the horses watered!" Greatjon roared, his voice returning with enough force to make half the courtyard jump. "Anyone still carrying a clean cloak, give it to the wounded. We ride north with the Starks as soon as their lord remembers which end of Ice to hold!"
Rickard's eyes narrowed. "I remember perfectly well."
Greatjon looked back at him.
"Good. You may need to use it."
Xuehara's face hardened, but before she could answer, Eddard tightened his hand over hers.
Around them, Winterfell moved again.
Umbers dismounted and began helping the wounded Night's Watch. Horses were led toward water. New weapons and supplies passed through the gates while guards shouted fresh orders from the walls.
The journey north had gained more men.
It had also gained the family of the man Jinx had killed.
And somewhere beyond the Wall, Castle Black remained silent beneath the shadow of a starving prince and the dragon egg he had chosen to protect.