Midday summer warmth covered Wintertown… like a quilt… even in the North, the air felt gentle and carried the scents of sun-warmed wood, fresh bread, and blooming heather.
Earlier drizzle had dried. Leaving the stones shining and the streets lively.
Erick wiped his hands on a cloth after caring for the last of the sick. Mora and Dalla packed the crates… sleeves rolled up… cheeks red from the heat.
Strike rested nearby. Flicking his tail and soaking up the sun, his coat shining.
They were just about to climb onto the wagon when a voice stopped them.
"Healers…"
The voice was soft and firm enough to make Erick turn.
Old Nan stood there, her hands clasped together in front of her.
She had been there the whole time, quiet and patient, watching with sharp eyes that missed nothing.
"My name… is Shiera," she said, bowing her head slightly. "May I have a chance to speak with you… please."
Erick stepped down from the wagon.
"You don't look sick," he said kindly, pretending to check her posture, her breathing, and the steadiness of her hands. "How can I help you, my lady?"
Old Nan's eyes softened.
"No… I am not sick. But there is someone I would like you to see. If it is not too much to ask. One more patient… please."
Erick already knew who she meant.
Hodor, the boy whose mind had broken in a way no maester could explain.
He was a mystery, even in the story Erick remembered.
If he was honest, Erick wanted to see Hodor, to examine him, and to understand how a greenseer could destroy someone's mind.
"Hm," Erick murmured as he glanced around. "And where is this person?"
Old Nan spoke, her voice trembling with hope she tried to hide.
"If it is not hard… please follow me."
Erick glanced back at Mora and Dalla and gave a small shake of his head, signaling them to get on the wagon and follow.
Then he turned back to Old Nan, "Lead the way."
A brief smile appeared on her face.
She started walking toward Winterfell, moving slowly but with determination in her steps.
Erick and the group followed…
---
Erick walked beside Old Nan… entering the fortress as a guest… it was a novelty for Erick. Guards at each gate stepped aside without question… Old Nan's presence silenced any doubt.
Only Strike made them pause. His massive size drew wary glances, but no one challenged Old Nan to stop.
At the final gate. The one leading into the heart of Winterfell. Guards finally spoke… Mora, Dalla, and Strike were asked to remain behind.
Only Erick… the "old healer," was permitted to enter. He nodded, keeping his disguise steady, and stepped through the archway into the sunlit courtyard.
Summer light made Winterfell look almost regal. The dark stones, usually cold and brooding, warmed in the sun and took on a subtle sheen. Erick noticed that no steam rose from the walls. In winter, the hot springs beneath the castle always gave off warmth, but now there was nothing. He wondered if a temperature-regulating array, woven into the castle's magic, was at work.
They crossed the courtyard… young and old trained with wooden swords, sweat shining on their brows. The clang of steel echoed through. Old Nan led him toward the stables, and even from a distance Erick saw him.
A towering young man stood there… broad-shouldered… seven feet tall.
Hodor had no hunchback yet… just raw strength mixed with gentle confusion… he brushed a horse's mane with slow, careful strokes… but his eyes darted around… tracking things no one else could see besides him.
Fear showed in every glance, and Erick understood why. He knew the story and the tragedy.
Old Nan stopped beside him, her voice soft. "This is my son… Walder."
They didn't approach… they just watched. Erick lowered his voice to a whisper. "It isn't physical… It's something mental." Old Nan heard him but said nothing. She had already seen enough to know this healer was different from any she had met.
Hodor kept brushing the horse, unaware of the world around him. Erick looked around the courtyard and saw too many eyes and ears… "Is there a place where I could examine him more closely…? Somewhere more private… with fewer people watching?"
"Yes, we… "
A sharp voice interrupted her.
"What is happening here?! Old Nan… who is this?!"
Everyone in the courtyard stopped moving.
Erick turned, and there she stood on the viewing platform… Catelyn Stark. Young, beautiful, dressed in dark northern blue, hair pulled back, eyes blazing with anger. She looked at them as if they were insects.
"Who is this man? How dare you bring strangers into my home!" The hatred in her voice shocked even the guards. "Seize them both!"
No one moved.
Because on one side stood the Lady of Winterfell… and on the other stood Old Nan… who had served four generations of Starks, a living relic, a mother‑figure to half the castle. Touching her would be suicide.
The silence grew heavier as Catelyn's anger increased.
"Now! Or I will puni… "
"By the gods… Catelyn."
A voice echoed loudly across the courtyard.
Eddard Stark stood behind her, coming down the steps. For a moment, Catelyn looked truly afraid, but she quickly hid it. She pointed at Erick and Old Nan.
"Do you see this? This is what I warned you about! They have no respect for House Stark! She does as she pleases!"
Ned's face tightened, and pain showed in his eyes. "Catelyn, go to your chambers. Now." He said the last word with a tired, disappointed sigh.
Catelyn gritted her teeth. She looked around… at the guards, at the servants, at the people staring at her… and realized she had lost this moment. With a sharp huff, she turned and walked away.
The tension in the courtyard eased.
Ned looked at the people still frozen in place. "Back to your duties." They obeyed instantly.
Then he walked over to Old Nan and inclined his head, a gesture of respect he rarely gave. "I'm sorry, my wife…" He stopped, swallowing the rest of his words.
He turned to Erick. "Old Nan, explain. Who is this man?"
Old Nan bowed her head. "My apologies, Lord Stark. The situation was rushed. I meant to inform you, but time was short. This gentleman is one of the Weir‑Grip healers. My child…" Her voice cracked.
Ned stepped closer and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "I understand. You don't need to continue."
He turned to Erick… still seeing only the old man disguise. "I am Eddard Stark, Warden of the North."
He extended his hand.
Erick shook his hand, though he was panicking inside. He had never given his disguise a name. Different faces flashed through his mind until one stuck. It wasn't ideal, but it would do.
"My name is… Hiruzen."
Saying the name out loud embarrassed him, but his transformation kept it hidden. On the outside, he looked calm.
Ned nodded. "I have heard much of the Weir‑Grip healers. I am grateful for what you do."
"Now, I will attend to my duties." He walked away.
---
Old Nan led Erick and her son through the warm stone corridors of Winterfell. Summer light came through the narrow windows, painting the floors gold. Her servant quarters were deep inside the keep, and when she opened the door, Erick was surprised by how spacious it was. The room was larger than he expected for a servant, neat and orderly, with a small shelf of books and a bed that had been repaired many times. It smelled faintly of lavender and old parchment.
Walder sat on the edge of the bed, his large hands trembling. Panic showed on his face, but he let himself be laid down, trusting his mother more than anyone else.
Erick stepped closer. "I will need to do my examination in private," he said gently, turning to Old Nan and expecting her to leave.
But she didn't move.
"No," she said, her voice steady. "I will stay here to observe."
Erick blinked. "That is not something… "
"I know you use magic to heal people," she interrupted, her tone calm but unyielding. "I only wonder how you hide it so well."
Erick froze… it wasn't that she was wrong.
He knew people would notice eventually… his unusual methods… but because she openly said the word 'magic,' without fear or hesitation. This world was already different from the one he knew… but hearing it spoken so plainly… still surprised him.
"You don't need to pretend," she continued.
She lifted a finger and pointed toward a candle on the table.
Something pulsed in the room.
Erick didn't see it, but he felt it. The air thickened for a moment, heavy enough to press against his skin.
The candle burst into flame.
Old Nan turned pale, her breath shaking. Whatever she had done had drained her strength. She dropped to her knees.
"Please… if you can heal my son, or at least tell me what is wrong with him, I will give you everything I have. Please."
Erick stared at her, stunned. "You said I used magic," he said slowly. "Explain."
Old Nan looked up at him, confused by the question but willing to answer if it would help her son. "I was in the market today," she said. "I watched how you treated the sick. You didn't use magic on everyone, but with that first girl, I am certain you did. Your magic is gentle and controlled. If I hadn't paid close attention, I would have missed it. Most magic is heavy, wild, even dangerous. And you weren't afraid to help others with magic. I don't know how you do what you do, but please…"
Erick absorbed every word, cataloging it. "Why are you saying I need to be worried?" he asked.
Old Nan stared at him, shocked that he didn't know. "Hiruzen… you cannot be serious."
He said nothing.
She sighed, realizing he truly was ignorant. "I think you are very lucky," she said quietly. "Lucky you have never encountered them."
"Encountered who?"
"Hunters," she whispered. "No one knows who they are. But they hunt magic‑users across Westeros. Those who can use magic must hide constantly."
Erick's brows tightened. "Imagine for a moment that I know none of this," he said. "In exchange… tell me everything you can."
"I already said I would," she replied. "Ask, and I will answer."
Erick nodded once, then turned back to Walder. "Don't worry," he said softly. "Nothing I do will hurt."
His hand began to glow with soft blue chakra. He placed it gently on Walder's chest, letting the energy seep into the young man's body. His chakra spread like a mist, examining every corner… arms, legs, spine, organs. Finally, it reached the head.
And there it was.
There was a flickering energy… sometimes gone, sometimes exploding through Walder's brain like a storm. It was wild and rampant, tearing at him from the inside. This magic seemed to touch time and space, mixed with something like mind-control, though that was only Erick's guess.
The energy felt like Yin chakra, but it was twisted, corrupted, and heavy.
Erick withdrew his hand slowly.
Old Nan watched him with wide eyes. She had seen his gentle magic move through her son's body, so different from her own crude, heavy spells. He sustained it effortlessly, without any artifact or focus.
"I will tell you honestly," he said. "I can't heal your son."
Old Nan's shoulders sagged… she had prepared herself for the worst.
"But," Erick continued, "while examining this energy, I found several possible solutions. However…" he said, meeting her eyes, "my knowledge of this energy… this magic, as you call it… is limited."
Old Nan stared at him, stunned. He had just used magic more skillfully than she ever could, and now he claimed he didn't understand it?
"What do you mean?" she whispered.
"I don't want to say more than necessary," Erick replied. "But I will say this… You are mistaking my energy for magic."
Old Nan's breath caught. She had never heard of any power that was not magic. What else could it be? She wanted to ask… but didn't.
Erick stepped back from the bed.
"What now?" she asked, steadying herself.
"I have answers, and possible solutions… but to help your son fully… you must tell me everything you know… about magic."
---
Sunlight poured over Torrhen's Square, turning the stone courtyard into a bright scene of dust, sweat, and steel. Air shimmered with heat, carrying the scent of pine and the sound of horses stamping in their stalls. Torrhen banners hung still on the walls in the warm air.
In the center of the courtyard, Helman Tallhart and his son Leobald circled each other with wooden swords.
Helman moved like a man who had spent his entire life in armor… broad‑shouldered, his footwork grounded, every step measured. Leobald, twenty‑two and full of fire, matched him blow for blow, sweat dripping down his brow as he pressed forward with youthful aggression.
Their swords cracked together with a sharp thwack.
Leobald pushed, trying to overpower his father, but Helman shifted his weight at the last moment, letting the force slide past him. Their blades crossed again, and Helman twisted his wrist just enough to confuse the angle, forcing Leobald to stumble a half‑step.
Leobald recovered quickly, swinging low.
Helman hopped back lightly… surprisingly lightly for a man his size… letting the wooden blade cut through empty air. Leobald followed with a high strike, then a thrust, then a sweeping cut meant to catch Helman's ribs.
Helman dodged every one.
Even when their swords met, Helman never stayed locked. He slid away, twisted, angled his blade to redirect Leobald's strength. He fought like a man who refused to be hit… always moving, always shifting, always one breath ahead.
Leobald grinned through his exhaustion and lunged.
Helman stepped aside, hooked his foot behind his son's ankle, and swept him off balance. Leobald hit the ground with a grunt, dust puffing around him. Before he could blink, Helman's wooden sword rested lazily against his throat.
"Dead," Helman said with a smirk.
He offered his son a hand and pulled him up with ease.
But even as he laughed with Leobald, Helman's eyes drifted… sharp, calculating… to the far side of the courtyard.
The strange visitors from the inn were preparing to leave.
Their wagon was loaded with food… enough for a month, but only for three people. Odd. Too odd. And in the last two days, Helman had noticed something else… Maester Corveth had been acting strangely. Nervous. Avoidant. Watching and interacting with the visitors too closely.
Helman hadn't confronted the maester. Instead, he had sent trusted men to observe quietly.
And now he knew.
His instincts had been right all this time… Corveth was not to be trusted.
Helman wiped sweat from his brow, wooden sword resting on his shoulder as he watched the wagon roll toward the gate. Whatever was happening… it was bigger than anything he could pull apart with steel or strategy.
The sun beat down upon the courtyard stones, filling the air with heat. But he felt none of it… a knot of unease sat heavy in his gut.
---
Summer heat clung to the Red Keep. It turned its red stone walls into a furnace beneath the afternoon sun. Light spilled across the inner courtyards, glinting from polished armor and bright banners snapping in the warm breeze. Servants hurried through the castle like ants, carrying fresh linens, steaming basins, herbs, and buckets of hot water.
The queen was in labor.
Everywhere, voices were hushed. Guards stood straighter at their posts. Lords lingered in shaded galleries, pretending patience while listening for news.
Today was the day Queen Cersei Lannister would give King Robert Baratheon his firstborn.
Inside the keep, the air was thick with tension. Screams came from the Queen's chambers… raw, furious, and unrestrained. Curses followed, each one sharp enough to make Ser Barristan Selmy's eye twitch. He stood rigid in his white cloak. Every inch the perfect Kingsguard, though each insult at the king made his jaw tighten.
Beside him, Jaime Lannister leaned casually against the wall. His golden hair bright in the sunlight. He wore his usual look of effortless indifference, as if the queen's labor concerned him no more than the weather.
Yet each time Cersei cried out from within the chamber, the smallest finger of his sword hand twitched.
The screams continued, echoing through the stone corridors, until finally, mercifully, a new sound broke through.
A child's cry rang out… sharp, demanding, and alive.
A minute later, a servant girl burst out of the chamber, cheeks flushed with excitement. "A prince!" she announced breathlessly. "The Queen and the babe are both in good health!"
Barristan exhaled in relief. Jaime pushed off the wall.
"I'll go see my sister," he said, voice smooth.
Barristan nodded, stepping aside.
Jaime entered the Queen's chambers.
The room was large and richly furnished, Cersei's private domain. Sunlight filtered through tall arched windows draped in crimson silk. The bed dominated the center, its carved posts wrapped in gold-threaded curtains. The air smelled of sweat, blood, and lavender water. Servants were still cleaning, gathering bloodied cloths and discarded linens, but they left quickly when Jaime entered, leaving the room to the three of them.
Cersei lay pale against the pillows, her golden hair damp with sweat, her body still trembling from the long ordeal. Beside her, swaddled in cloth of crimson and gold, lay the newborn prince.
Jaime lingered in the doorway.
Even from where he stood, he could see the child's hair—soft, fine, and golden.
Unmistakably his.
Relief washed through him like warm wine.
He approached slowly, reverently.
"I congratulate you, my queen," he said softly. "Your firstborn is beautiful… like his mother."
Cersei turned her head toward him. Even exhausted, even weak, her features softened into a radiant smile meant only for him. "You're here," she whispered. "Come… see for yourself. Your firstborn."
She looked back at the child with a glow of fierce pride. "This is the beginning of our lineage, Jaime. Just as we always wanted."
The baby slept peacefully, tiny chest rising and falling, innocent and fragile. Jaime felt something tighten in his chest, something dangerously close to tenderness.
"Have you chosen a name?" he asked.
"Yes," she breathed. "Joffrey."
She touched the baby's cheek with a trembling finger.
Then her voice changed, becoming cooler and distant. "And what of that man?"
Jaime knew who she meant. Robert. The king. The husband she despised.
He thought about lying, but Cersei always found out the truth. He let out a short, almost amused breath.
"His last words before disappearing into a tavern were that he was tired of waiting."
Cersei didn't really react. A soft, bitter giggle escaped her lips, strangely reminiscent of the late Mad King… a sound Jaime had hoped never to hear again.
He stood beside her, looking down at the sleeping child, at the woman who ruled his heart, and at the future they had just created…