The death of Maester Luwin cast a long shadow over Winterfell.
This gray-haired, frail old man had served House Stark with unwavering diligence for decades. It was his hands that had brought each of Lady Catelyn's children into the world. Over the years, he had become as much a part of Winterfell as its ancient stones.
Now the castle had forever lost a respected maester, lost the familiar sight of the old man reading by candlelight in the rookery, lost the patient teacher who shared tales with wide-eyed children and urged them to their studies with gentle persistence.
"He was a good man," came the solemn words.
"He was the most dedicated maester, upholding his oath and performing his duty throughout the long years of his life."
"Winterfell shall remember his contributions. The people will miss his kindness, his wisdom, and his steadfast character."
The septons recited prayers over the old man lying in his simple wooden coffin.
"May he rest in peace in the Seven Heavens..."
As the words faded, Maester Luwin was gradually lowered into the cold, dark earth of the North.
Lord Eddard and his lady wife stood at the forefront of the mourners, while the Stark bannermen bowed their heads in respectful silence. Bran and Arya wept openly, their young faces streaked with tears.
Sansa, her eyes rimmed with red, sought comfort in the prince's arms.
"May the gods have mercy and bless Maester Luwin's soul in the heavens," she whispered.
Joffrey held her close. "They will," he assured her.
Maester Luwin didn't have to die, Joffrey thought grimly. It was a cruel twist of fate that he woke at precisely the wrong moment.
Fortunately, the aftermath had been handled with reasonable discretion. The Starks knew only that someone had murdered the old maester, and the investigation over the past several days had yielded nothing of consequence.
A bloody storm, poised to be unleashed by a single secret letter, had been nipped in the bud. But only temporarily.
Joffrey couldn't help the throbbing in his temples at the thought.
Lysa Tully, what madness possessed you to trust Littlefinger?
Lysa's position was dangerously influential—both the sister of Lady Catelyn and the widow of the Hand of the King, Jon Arryn. The mere suggestion from her lips that the Lannisters had murdered the Lord Hand would be enough to plant seeds of suspicion in Stark hearts.
For Joffrey, the challenge was delicate. He could not allow the lion and the wolf to grow too close, yet neither could he permit them to tear at each other's throats.
One small comfort remained. Lysa still harbored caution in her heart. As long as she understood that the power of the Iron Throne was sufficient to destroy both her and her sickly son, she would hold her tongue.
The burial ceremony in the small sept concluded.
With thoughtful consideration, Joffrey escorted Sansa to the godswood to soothe her troubled spirit.
The godswood within Winterfell's walls stood apart from the world of men.
Ancient, gnarled oaks often blocked the narrow paths. Blue-gray sentinel trees bristled with hard needles, while ironwood trees lived up to their name, their bark black as night and their wood unyielding as iron itself.
This godswood embodied the very essence of the North.
Cold. Unyielding. Enduring.
They walked together to the black pool at the heart of the forest. The branches and leaves of an ancient weirwood tree intertwined overhead, spreading across the water like a living dome of crimson and white.
Joffrey moved closer to the heart tree.
For thousands of years, the fallen leaves and branches of the weirwood had created a carpet of soil so soft that each step felt as though the ground reluctantly yielded to the weight of the living.
The primeval forest possessed an unspeakable presence, as if the old gods watched with thousands of invisible eyes.
Joffrey stared at the solemn face carved into the pale trunk of the weirwood.
The bone-white bark made its deep-set eyes appear even more scarlet. Though it was merely dried sap that formed those weeping eyes, the resemblance to fresh blood was undeniable.
Is the Three-Eyed Raven watching this place even now?
Joffrey knew the creature's abilities all too well. The weirwood trees were the raven's most powerful eyes, repositories of countless memories that the being used to observe the world across vast stretches of time.
He stretched out his palm and pressed it against the carved face. Immediately, the flashback rune presented him with countless visions from ages past.
He saw the same memories that the raven had witnessed through the centuries.
Sansa's mood had lightened somewhat. "Father says we'll depart for the south the day after tomorrow," she said, her voice soft against the silence of the godswood.
Joffrey turned and embraced her gently.
"Yes, and I'm grateful to Lord Eddard for not separating us."
Sansa pushed him away with a blush of indignation. "What do you mean, not separating us? You're not traveling with us at all. We might not see each other for months!"
"Don't be cross," he said. "I have matters of grave importance to attend to."
He lifted her chin with one finger. "I have a surprise for you on the day of your departure. Can you guess what it might be?"
"What surprise?" Her curiosity momentarily overcame her vexation.
Joffrey smiled mysteriously. "You'll discover it when the time comes."
Sansa kicked at him in mild frustration, but her eyes had regained some of their usual sparkle.
Winterfell bustled with activity in the days that followed.
Lord Stark, who would soon journey south to assume his role as Hand of the King, prepared to take nearly half his household with him.
His second son Bran, his eldest daughter Sansa, and his younger daughter Arya would all accompany their father to live in the Red Keep of King's Landing.
Winterfell's steward Vayon Poole, Sansa's dear friend Jeyne Poole, the captain of the guard Jory Cassel, the master of horse Hullen, and Septa Mordane were among the retainers who would travel with them.
The eastern sky had just begun to pale with dawn when the day of departure arrived.
The east gate of Winterfell teemed with people saying their farewells.
Bran rode excitedly upon a tall steed, weaving his way from the castle proper to the gate.
He spotted the crown prince standing by the roadside.
"Your Highness," Bran said, bending down from his saddle. The dream of that night had not been the end. The crown prince had bestowed upon him a mysterious power to resist the monster's attack.
Bran felt nothing but profound gratitude.
Joffrey waved a hand in casual dismissal. "Farewell until King's Landing. Be watchful on the road."
Bran nodded with all the solemnity he could muster, then spurred his mount toward the Kingsroad beyond the gate. The feeling of freedom was exhilarating!
Arya rushed over at that moment, her target the bastard brother who stood at Joffrey's side.
"Jon, I'll miss you terribly," she said, her usual fierce demeanor softened by imminent separation.
Jon tousled his little sister's unruly hair. "And I you. Don't fret—we'll see each other again before long."
Joffrey produced a small piece of polished steel and offered it to Arya.
"A gift for you," he said. "This is no ordinary trinket, but a treasure. With it, you and Jon may speak to one another across the breadth of the North."
Arya hesitated before accepting the gift.
Jon smiled and pulled a chain from beneath his tunic. Hanging from it was an identical piece of steel.
He spoke directly to the metal. "Arya, this is real."
Arya heard Jon's voice both from his lips and from the steel piece simultaneously.
"Seven hells!" she exclaimed, eyes widening.
She glanced at Joffrey, and the instinctive resistance she had harbored toward him diminished considerably. "Thank you," she said with rare sincerity.
Joffrey returned her thanks with a genuine smile. "Farewell, Arya Stark."
"Good nephew! Look who approaches," called Tyrion, making his way forward on legs too short for his liking.
Cersei enfolded Joffrey in a reluctant embrace.
"My sweet Joff, what madness possesses you? The Wall is a place of bitter cold and hardship. Was it Tyrion who put this foolish notion in your head?"
"There, you see? Once again, I am to blame!" Tyrion remarked softly to Jaime, who stood nearby.
Joffrey patted his mother's back reassuringly. "Uncle had nothing to do with my decision. I wished to behold the Wall with my own eyes and convey the royal family's regard to the Night's Watch."
"Mother, I pray you, be at ease. No harm will befall me."
He winked at Tommen and Myrcella, who stood behind Cersei.
After the days they had spent together in Winterfell, his younger siblings' impression of him had improved markedly. At last, he received two genuine smiles in return.
Cersei climbed into the wheelhouse with obvious concern etched upon her face.
Finally, the moment had come.
Sansa approached with graceful steps, clad in a silver-white leather gown.
"Where is this surprise you promised?" she asked, her voice alive with anticipation.
Joffrey produced a wooden tray covered with a bright red cloth, which concealed his farewell gift.
"Uncover it and see," he invited.
Sansa pinched a corner of the scarlet fabric and slowly lifted it away.
"Oh! It's magnificent," she gasped.
Every eye turned to behold the gift.
Crystal clear as freshly fallen snow, ice-blue as the depths of the sea—clusters of roses gathered together to form an exquisite queen's crown.
Joffrey placed the rose crown gently upon Sansa's auburn hair.
"These are winter roses, grown in the glass gardens of Winterfell. They were born to belong to you and you alone."
"That fateful spring, Rhaegar disregarded all consequence and bestowed this same blue crown upon Lyanna, the queen of love and beauty in his heart. Yet my love for you burns ten thousand times more ardently than his ever did."
"That was a spring of mistakes and sorrow."
Joffrey clasped the young girl's hand firmly in his own. "But we shall write a different tale, with the most perfect ending."
Sansa's cheeks flushed crimson as the roses in her crown.
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