He had been ordered to watch here.
For now, he was naught but a nameless freerider who had followed the King's party north—one of many such men who rode in the wake of lords and kings, pledging no loyalty, serving only for coin and whatever food might be tossed their way.
Such an identity had its advantages and its burdens alike.
He was not bound to attend any particular noble, which granted him freedom of movement and a certain blessed anonymity. Yet this same lack of standing denied him the trust of Winterfell and its household. Many doors remained closed to him—particularly those that would have granted him access to his target.
All he could do was attempt to draw closer each day to Maester Luwin of Winterfell.
Word had reached Lord Tywin's ears that someone sought to sow discord between House Lannister and House Stark through whispered lies. His task was simple enough to understand, if not to execute: prevent any such villain from passing their slander to Maester Luwin, and above all, ensure Lord Stark never heard such poisonous rumors.
Simple orders, yet far from easy to fulfill.
The tower where the maester kept his chambers stood not far from the outer wall, near the bustling Hunter's Gate where men passed in and out at all hours. The bell tower, kitchens, kennels, and stables all stood within shouting distance.
During daylight hours, he could move about without drawing undue attention, as Winterfell swarmed with folk going about their business. But what good was that? No villain worthy of the name would strike in broad daylight. The true battlefield would be found only under cover of darkness.
And what reason could a common freerider have for lingering near the maester's tower after sunset? None that would withstand scrutiny.
He could only conceal himself and wait with a patience born of rigorous training. Fortunately, he knew how to move as silently as a shadow, leaving no trace of his passing to alert man or beast.
The only creatures he could not confidently hide from were those accursed direwolves.
Each time he ventured near the beasts, their eyes found him in the darkness—ancient eyes that seemed to peer straight through flesh and bone to the truth beneath. He had no doubt that had he dared take even one step closer, the wolf pups would have been upon him in an instant, their jaws closing around his throat.
By the grace of the gods, the wolves remained with their Stark masters, even sleeping in the distant Great Keep.
The Seven be praised.
Tonight's watch had begun easily enough.
He had spotted only three guards before scaling the wall to his current perch—a narrow stone ledge outside the window of the two-story building. He knew this lapse in vigilance was due to the Crown Prince's adventure with the Stark children. Lady Catelyn had dispatched a sizable contingent of men to search the crypts for the wayward children, and they were likely still returning to their posts.
He offered silent thanks to Prince Joffrey for this fortuitous distraction.
As the thought crossed his mind, a gust of cold air knifed through his cloak, and he nearly betrayed his position with a cough.
Winterfell's nights were bitter indeed. Born on the summer shores of the Sunset Sea, he had never experienced such merciless cold. The North was as foreign to him as Essos, and decidedly less hospitable.
He stretched his cramped limbs carefully and pressed his back against the stone wall. To his surprise, tendrils of heat seeped through the masonry, a blessed respite from the chill.
Remarkable, he thought.
His mind drifted to the glass gardens he had glimpsed during his first days at Winterfell—an impossibility made real, where fruits and vegetables grew in abundance, and flowers bloomed as though it were the height of summer in the Reach. It was said to be as warm within those glass walls as a Dornish spring.
The North held more wonders than southrons knew.
His target rose suddenly from his desk, and the man flattened himself against the wall, becoming one with the shadows. Maester Luwin selected a tome from his shelves, returned to his seat, and within moments, his head had drooped forward onto his chest.
This did not surprise the watcher. The old maester often worked by candlelight until the small hours, pausing occasionally for brief moments of rest.
Yet frustration gnawed at him nonetheless.
After days of vigilant observation, there had been no sign of the suspected informant. He was beginning to wonder if Lord Tyrion had placed him on a fool's errand while assigning more critical tasks to his companions.
Still, Maester Luwin was undoubtedly one of the few men Lord Stark trusted implicitly. Though the Great Keep was heavily guarded, the likelihood of someone approaching the maester with a message seemed high. And yet, the hours of his watch had yielded nothing.
Gods be good, he thought wearily.
Across the castle grounds, Prince Joffrey was equally helpless.
The prince could not determine whether his expectations were simply too high or if House Lannister's intelligence network was truly inadequate for the task at hand.
More than a month ago, Tyrion had provided him with a dozen names—men deployed by Lord Tywin to prevent anyone from inflaming tensions between the lion and the direwolf. In plain terms, Joffrey still had to contend with the chaos that would surely follow Lady Lysa Tully's secret missive to Winterfell.
He had finally begun to earn the trust of the young wolves, and House Stark was well on its way to becoming a steadfast ally. How could he allow a single letter to unravel all his careful work?
That wretched Littlefinger is the source of all this trouble, he thought bitterly.
Though he knew House Lannister had taken precautions, Joffrey could not set his mind at ease.
Each night, he employed his mental and reconnaissance runes to monitor both Maester Luwin and Lord and Lady Stark, fearing that a moment's inattention might allow the secret message to slip through, undermining all his plans.
His newfound ability to restore his spirit without lengthy periods of sleep was the only thing keeping him from collapse. Even so, the nights stretched interminably.
His sole comfort was observing the targets himself.
Lord and Lady Stark remained as vigilant as ever.
The Lannister agent—whose true name remained unknown even to Joffrey—could maintain his uncomfortable position for hours without movement. A man of rare talent, certainly.
Maester Luwin was the very archetype of his order. The gray-haired, gray-eyed scholar seemed without personal desires or amusements, his days consumed with reading and writing letters, poring over ancient tomes, tending to his ravens, and carrying out the countless tasks required by the lord of Winterfell.
After witnessing Maester Luwin's daily routines, Joffrey could not help but pity the second sons of Westeros's noble houses.
To prevent disputes over inheritance, these spare heirs were typically dispatched to the Citadel to forge their maester's chains, or to septs to take holy vows, or to the Wall to join the Night's Watch. Each path required them to relinquish any claim to marriage, children, lands, or titles.
Even the Kingsguard—which young Bran Stark dreamed of joining, the most revered order of knights in the realm—forbade its members from taking wives or siring children.
Such measures revealed how fiercely the lords of Westeros guarded the undivided inheritance of their family holdings.
Perhaps I should champion the rights of second sons when I take the throne, Joffrey mused. The more divided and weakened the power of the nobility, the more secure the crown.
A figure suddenly entered Joffrey's field of perception.
He snapped to attention, his weariness falling away like a discarded cloak.
At last.
The figure in his "vision" advanced cautiously, glancing about with every few steps taken—clearly no ordinary passerby making their way through the night.
The intruder carried a finely crafted wooden box containing a lens, with a letter concealed in a hidden compartment.
Joffrey watched as the figure approached the maester's tower with deliberate steps.
Has the agent not noticed? he wondered, turning his attention back to the Lannister man.
To his dismay, the agent had succumbed to exhaustion, his head lolling against the stonework.
Seven hells! Joffrey thought. What cursed luck is this?
Above the tower, the ravens in the rookery suddenly took flight, circling silently in the night air.
Something was amiss. Joffrey sensed a presence he had not anticipated.
The Three-Eyed Raven?
With swift concentration, he wove a dream using his information runes, directing it toward the sleeping agent.
The man jolted awake, eyes wide with confusion. I fell asleep? And dreamed such strange dreams?
He knew his training should have prevented such a lapse, but there was no time to dwell on the matter.
A figure had appeared before his target.
The intruder set down a wooden box with practiced silence, then turned to depart.
Maester Luwin's eyes fluttered open.
Seeing this, the figure fled in panic.
The agent waited with the patience of a hunting shadowcat, allowing the courier to pass directly beneath his position.
His dagger gleamed dully in the moonlight as he leapt.
One swift cut across the throat—a perfect strike. Yet somehow, it failed to find its mark.
The agent glanced toward the tower. Maester Luwin had already retrieved the wooden box.
No choice now but to end this cleanly, he thought grimly as he pursued his quarry.
Above, the ravens grew increasingly agitated, their harsh cries cutting through the night air.
Joffrey sensed an unseen adversary.
He turned his mental gaze toward Bran's bedchamber. The boy slept peacefully, yet Joffrey detected a strange force lingering about him like morning mist.
The Three-Eyed Raven!
Joffrey added this eldritch creature to his list of enemies.
First you seek to manipulate young Brandon Stark, he thought with cold fury, then you dare interfere with my agents and threaten to drive a wedge between the lion and the wolf.
You have made a grave mistake.
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