The throne of the King of Winter was not the end.
They pressed onward, through winding passages long forgotten, past crumbling ruins and across dark subterranean rivers. Through caves where the only sound was the distant drip of water on ancient stone, until at last they glimpsed light ahead.
Bright white sunlight spilled down from a clear northern sky, illuminating a realm of weathered trees that had endured a thousand winters. Their gnarled trunks stood defiant against the elements, patches of snow clinging eternally to the ground beneath their spreading branches.
"The Wolfswood," whispered the old soldier, his weathered face solemn in the cold light.
The oldest and most vast forest in all the North.
No wonder we could still draw breath so deep beneath the crypts, Joffrey thought. The ancient builders had known their craft well.
By the time they emerged through a hidden entrance and reached the gates of Winterfell proper, they had walked a full hour, and the sun had already begun its descent behind the western hills. Lord Eddard Stark rushed toward them, his normally stoic face betraying his concern.
"Where in the seven hells did you disappear to?" he demanded. "Do you have any notion how worried everyone has been?"
The Lord of Winterfell turned to the side. "Vayon, find the men searching the crypts. Tell them the children have been found and to come up at once."
Winterfell's steward, Vayon Poole, bowed his head. "At once, my lord," he said, and hurried away to carry out his master's command.
Arya tugged excitedly at her father's arm, her gray eyes wide with wonder. "Father, the crypt goes on forever and ever! And there's this huge, enormous throne at the end!"
"The throne of the King of Winter," Bran added breathlessly, unable to contain himself. "It must be!"
Lord Stark's expression remained stern. "Never mind thrones. Your mother is half-mad with worry. Inside, all of you, and quickly." He cast a pointed glance toward Joffrey, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Besides, the King of Winter is naught but a tale these days. Winterfell belongs to the North, and the North has no kings anymore."
Joffrey offered an apologetic smile, carefully crafted to appear genuine. "Forgive me, Lord Stark. The fault is mine alone. Don't blame Bran and Arya for this adventure—I fear I put the notion in their heads."
"Upon reflection, I should never have disturbed the rest of Stark ancestors," he added with a convincing show of contrition.
Bran, still too innocent to perceive the undercurrents between the adults, confessed in a small voice, his face flushing red as a Dornish pepper. "Actually, Father, I was the one who insisted on going. Please don't misunderstand His Highness."
"Honesty is a rare and noble virtue," Eddard said, placing a calloused hand on his son's thin shoulder. "I don't blame you, Bran. I'm merely grateful you've returned safely."
Bran and Arya exchanged glances and sighed with relief.
As they made their way back to the main keep, the two young wolves proudly regaled their father with tales of their underground adventure, each trying to outdo the other with descriptions of the wonders they had seen in the ancient crypts.
Joffrey felt Lord Stark's gaze resting upon him, heavy as a shadowcat's. The message was clear enough: the Lord of Winterfell knew full well who had truly instigated this excursion into sacred Stark ground. Presuming to intrude upon the secrets of House Stark, disturbing the hallowed dead, and leading two young wolves into unknown dangers.
Silently, Joffrey imagined the sound of a bell: Ding, system notification, Eddard Stark's favor -1, Winterfell reputation -1.
Fortunately, his status as Crown Prince served as shield enough against open rebuke.
The moment they stepped into the great hall, King Robert's booming laughter washed over them like a wave breaking on the shores of Storm's End. Dinner, it seemed, would not lack for a centerpiece.
A wild aurochs—slain by the King's own hand, as he had no doubt reminded everyone a dozen times already—turned slowly on a massive iron spit above a roaring fire. Bright yellow fat dripped from the beast's flanks onto the hot coals below, igniting small bursts of flame with each sizzling drop.
Never had an aurochs received such loving attention. Each time a layer of meat was properly roasted, servants hurried forward to carve precisely the right amount, then carefully brushed the exposed flesh with marinades spiced to suit the various palates of the noble guests—some fiery, some fragrant, others sweet as summer honey.
Joffrey chose the spicy meat. The flesh was firm between his teeth, with a wild flavor unlike anything raised in a castle pen. Not unpleasant, he decided.
Bran approached, emboldened by their shared adventure. The half-day spent exploring the crypts had, in the boy's mind at least, forged a bond of friendship with the Crown Prince.
"Your Highness," he said eagerly, "I know secret places all around Winterfell—hidden passages and forgotten rooms that no one else remembers. We could explore them together, if you'd like."
Joffrey especially had no desire to visit the Broken Tower. The mere thought of it sent a chill through him that had nothing to do with the northern climate.
"I would be most interested, truly," he replied with a regretful smile. "Unfortunately, the Small Council has been sending ravens urging my father to return south with all haste. I fear I cannot remain in Winterfell much longer. Better I spend what time remains with the people of the North."
Smoothly, he changed the subject. "Your father will make an excellent Hand, Bran."
"When we arrive in King's Landing, you'll find much to marvel at in the Red Keep. There are countless secrets hidden within the Dragonpit and beneath the castle's foundations."
"I only hope Lord Eddard does not refuse the King's offer."
Bran's face shone with hope. "How could Father possibly refuse?"
The word "Dragonpit" had caught the boy's imagination, just as Joffrey had intended. Bran's eyes grew distant as he surely pictured the cavernous ruins where the Targaryen dragons had once been housed. How vast must such a place be? Did the dragonriders live there too?
Joffrey could almost see the boy's dreams taking shape—Bran Stark clad in white armor and white cloak, astride a mighty dragon, sworn to protect his king.
Bran's thoughts were clearly full of the legendary knights of the Kingsguard he had learned from Old Nan's stories: Serwyn of the Mirror Shield from centuries past; Ser Ryam Redwyne; Prince Aemon the Dragonknight; the twin brothers Ser Arryk and Ser Erryk, who had lived and died together during the Dance of the Dragons; Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull; Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning; and Ser Barristan the Bold.
"Your Highness," Bran said suddenly, his voice earnest, "when you become king one day, you must—you must allow me to join your Kingsguard."
Bran, you are destined to become the Three-Eyed Raven, Brandon Stark, the future Greenseer, Joffrey thought to himself. But he merely smiled and said, "Most certainly."
Skinchangers, also known as wargs—these rare individuals possessed the uncanny ability to enter the minds of beasts, to see through their eyes and guide their actions. Some legends even claimed they could continue their existence within an animal's body after death had claimed their human form.
It was said that only one person in a thousand might carry the dormant gift of a skinchanger, and only one skinchanger in a thousand could hope to become a true greenseer.
Why, then, did the gift manifest so frequently among the Starks? How did these skinchangers harness their power? And why could Joffrey detect no magical essence around Bran or his siblings?
What had drawn the current Three-Eyed Raven to seek out young Brandon Stark specifically?
When Joffrey had sat upon the throne of the King of Winter, these questions had found their answers in the ancient runes carved into the black stone.
His sight had pierced the veil of time, reaching back to an age when the North was still called Winter. In that distant era, the throne had not been hidden away in lightless crypts. It had stood beneath the open sky, surrounded by ice and snow and blood.
Countless figures approached the throne through the centuries of his vision—some bringing sacrifices, others struggling or despairing before the seat of power.
Long-faced men and women wrapped in heavy furs presided over the blood rituals. Some wielded bronze scythes, swords, and axes, opening the throats of their sacrifices and letting steaming crimson life flow into the snow and toward the throne's base. Others brought down heavy stones to crush flesh and bone to pulp. Some simply placed severed heads around the throne like grisly offerings, sprinkling blood across the dark stone.
Souls exchanged for magic, a currency as old as time itself.
Joffrey observed as the magical essence surrounding the throne grew brighter with each sacrifice, releasing motes of starlight that drifted toward the shadows below.
Not everyone received this blessing. Most who were touched by the floating starlight shared common features—grey eyes like winter mist, hair dark as a moonless night, and long solemn faces.
Stark. Even then, they had been leaders among their people.
The starlight vanished into their bodies, and Joffrey witnessed these chosen few display extraordinary abilities—yet still no magical aura became visible around them to his perception.
As he stepped away from the throne, the visions dissipated like morning mist, leaving only the empty black stone behind.
But Joffrey now understood the secret of the warg.
Three types of runes adorned the throne: one he recognized as a mental rune, while the other two had initially been mysteries. Now he could name them.
One was a flashback rune, allowing him to witness the past through suitable conduits.
The other was a bloodline rune, capable of weaving runic power directly into human lineages—weakened and invisible, perhaps, but persistent enough to be passed down through countless generations.
Was the skinchanger's gift merely a diluted form of the mental rune's power?
Greenseers could observe the past through the heart trees with their carved faces. The flashback rune's effects were remarkably similar, possibly even more potent.
No wonder the Three-Eyed Raven sought Bran Stark. The last greenseer, Brynden Rivers, had chosen his successor well.
But could Bran's fate be altered? Was there truly no way to change his destiny?
Perhaps, Joffrey mused, there might yet be a "Warg" Brandon Stark among his Kingsguard someday.
It was certainly worth trying.
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