There was No fanfare, no grand farewell—just father, five trusted gurd and me standing at the gates while the household gathered in quiet groups to watch us go.
Father had decided we'd travel by sea. It was a practical choice—Winterfell was too far from King's Landing for a quick ride, and he wanted to keep me and Ghost out of sight as long as possible.
A decree from the king was one thing, but Father knew the Faith and the Citadel had eyes and ears scattered throughout the Seven Kingdoms. The less attention we drew on the road, the better.
The ride to White Harbor took three days. Ghost loped alongside my horse, drawing stares from every village we passed through. He'd grown even more since I'd enhanced him.
Lord Wyman Manderly met us at the docks personally. He was as large as the stories said. But when he saw Ghost, his smile faltered for just a moment.
"Lord Stark," he greeted Father with a formal bow, then turned to me. "And the young... lord." He hesitated on the title, uncertain of my status. "The 'Sea Dragon' is ready to sail at your command."
The flagship of the Manderly fleet was impressive—a massive vessel with three masts and room for a hundred men. The sailors watched nervously as Ghost padded up the gangplank beside me, his massive frame making the ship seem smaller.
Lord Manderly pulled Father aside before we boarded. I couldn't hear their conversation, but I saw the grave look the old lord gave me, then Ghost. He asked no questions. He simply nodded, gave me one more long, measuring look, and walked away.
That silence—that trust—spoke volumes about House Manderly's loyalty to the Starks.
The voyage south was long and tense.
I spent most of my time on deck with Ghost, avoiding the cramped quarters below. The sailors whispering among themselves when they thought I couldn't hear. I caught fragments—"old gods," "ancient magic," "white demon wolf."
Ghost seemed to sense their fear and moved with deliberate stillness, never showing aggression but radiating an undeniable presence.
Father and I talked during those long days at sea. Real conversations, not the awkward exchanges we'd had at Winterfell when I was just the bastard son he didn't know what to do with.
He wanted to understand my power. Not to control it or fear it, but to truly comprehend what I could do.
So I showed him.
I found a withered flower on the deck—probably dropped by a sailor who'd bought it at White Harbor. I held it in my palm and reached out with my power, guiding the cells back to life, restoring color and structure.
Father watched in silence as the dead flower bloomed, fresh and vibrant.
"The weirwoods," I explained quietly. "They have a system inside them—like veins, but for magic instead of blood. Nodes and channels that carry energy throughout the tree. I can sense it, map it, even replicate it in other living things."
"Can create life?" Father said. It wasn't a question.
"Yes. Given enough biomass—wood, plants, organic material—I can shape it into living creatures. I made a raven from tree branches in the Godswood. It's not just reshaping existing life. It's building something new from raw material."
Father's grey eyes searched my face. "That's not the power of the First Men."
"No," I agreed.
"The Faith will want you dead," he said finally. "The Citadel will want to study you—which amounts to the same thing. And every ambitious lord in Westeros will either want to use you or eliminate you as a threat."
"I know."
"That's why you asked for legitimization instead of lands or titles. You're planning to leave?"
I nodded. "Essos. I'll be safer there, away from the politics of Westeros. And I can build something—gather resources, train, prepare."
"Prepare for what?"
I looked at him steadily. "Winter is coming, Father. You say those words, but I don't think anyone truly understands what they mean. Not yet. But they will."
We also talked about what I'd learned from Father, the letters—the ones he'd received before we left.
The High Septon had written, expressing "deep concern" about rumors of unnatural powers in the North. The Grand Maester had sent a polite inquiry about examining these "alleged abilities" for the betterment of the realm.
Both letters had the same underlying message: come to King's Landing, and bring the boy.
As we sailed past Dragonstone, I felt something change.
The air grew warmer, thicker. The clean smell of the northern sea gave way to salt and as we get near king's Landing, shit.
King's Landing was a sprawling, chaotic mass of buildings crowned by the Red Keep. The fortress of red stone loomed over everything like a predator watching its prey.
Ghost moved to the rail beside me, his red eyes fixed on the city. A low growl rumbled in his chest, and I felt his unease through our bond.
"I know, boy," I murmured, scratching behind his ear. "We're not in the North anymore."
Father joined us at the rail, his expression grim. "Stay close to me in the city. Don't trust anyone, not even those who seem friendly. Everyone here plays the game, whether they know it or not."
The 'Sea Dragon' glided into the harbor, and I took a deep breath.
Whatever came next, I was ready.
Or at least, I hoped I was.
The harbor was chaos.
Ghost pressed close to my side, and the crowd parted around us like water around a stone. People stared, some in fear, others in wonder. Whispers followed us.
"Is that a wolf?"
"Gods preserve us, look at the size of it..."
"White as snow, red eyes like blood..."
But all of that faded when I saw who was waiting for us on the dock.
King Robert Baratheon stood there—not on a throne, not surrounded by guards and courtiers, but right there on the wooden planks like a common man. He was massive. His face was unshaven, his eyes bloodshot and red-rimmed.
He looked less like a king and more like a grieving bear.
"Ned!" he roared when he saw Father, striding forward and grabbing him in an embrace that looked bone-crushing. "By the gods, you came! It feels like a lifetime since I last saw you!"
Then his eyes fell on me. And on Ghost.
The entire dock went silent. Ghost stood taller than a warhorse, his white fur gleaming, his red eyes fixed on the king. Robert stared, his mouth slightly open.
"And this is the boy," he said, his voice hushed with awe. "The one with the gift." He looked at Ghost, shaking his head. "The raven spoke of the wolf, but I thought it was exaggeration. By the gods, boy, what have you done to it?"
Before I could answer, Robert grabbed my arm—not roughly, but with urgent desperation. "Come. Both of you. We have no time for pleasantries."
He led us through the city at a pace that left the royal guards scrambling to keep up. He didn't take us to the Red Keep. Instead, he led us straight to the Great Sept of Baelor.
The massive seven-sided temple dominated the skyline, its crystal domes catching the afternoon sun. Inside, the silence was profound—a stark contrast to the chaos of the streets.
Jon Arryn lay on a marble dais in the center of the sept, surrounded by seven white candles. He looked peaceful in death, but also wrong—his skin was a waxy yellow, his body too thin, too still.
"His wife Lysa tried to take his body back to the Vale," Robert said, his voice rough with anger. "Claimed he was her husband, as if that gave her the right. I told her he was the Hand of the King, and he would stay until I willed it otherwise. She's been screaming at me for days, but I will not let her have him."
He turned to me, and I saw naked desperation in his eyes—a king reduced to a man begging for a miracle.
"I saw a Red Priest once," Robert continued. "A man of the Lord of Light. He brought a man back from death. It was a terrible thing—the man was hollow, empty, not truly alive. But it showed me that death is not always the end."
His gaze bore into mine.
"They say you can mend what is broken. Can you... can you mend him?"
I looked at the body on the dais. Six days dead. The decay had already begun—I could sense it even from here. The cells breaking down, the structure collapsing. This would be harder than Arya. Much harder.
But not impossible.
"I need wood, Your Grace," I said, keeping my voice steady. "Green wood. Living wood. A lot of it. The body has lost too much—I'll need raw material to rebuild it."
Robert stared at me for a moment, processing. Then understanding dawned, and he spun to face the horrified septons and guards.
"Bring me all the green wood you can find!" he bellowed. "From the royal gardens! From the Godswood of the Red Keep! Strip every tree if you have to! Bring it NOW!"
The septons looked scandalized, but they scrambled to obey. No one refused a direct command from the king, no matter how strange.
Within minutes, servants began arriving with armfuls of freshly cut branches, green leaves still attached. They piled it beside the dais—enough wood to build a small house.
I knelt beside Jon Arryn's body and placed one hand on his chest. The other, I rested on the pile of green wood.
Father stood behind me, silent but present. Ghost sat at my side.
I closed my eyes and reached out with my power.
The wood came first. I felt the life still lingering in the cut branches—sap flowing, cells alive but dying. I drew that life out, extracting water, nutrients, proteins, sugars. I broke down the plant matter at the cellular level and guided it toward Jon Arryn's body.
The biomass flowed like liquid through my hands, pouring into the corpse. I directed it carefully, rebuilding what death had taken. Muscles filled out, growing dense and strong. Organs that had begun to decay were reconstructed, cell by cell. Skin regained its color and elasticity.
It took hours. Sweat poured down my face. My hands trembled with the effort. But I kept working, meticulously rebuilding a body that could sustain life.
When the physical vessel was ready—when Jon Arryn looked like a sleeping man instead of a corpse—I moved to the final step.
I placed both hands over his heart and reached deep within myself.
This was the dangerous part. The part that had nearly killed me when I brought Arya back.
I poured my life force into the emptiness where Jon Arryn's should be. A torrent of pure energy, flowing from my core through my hands and into his still chest. I felt the familiar, terrible drain—like something vital being pulled out of me.
His heart stuttered. Stopped. Beat once. Twice.
His lungs expanded, drawing breath.
I pulled my hands away and collapsed backward, caught by Father before I hit the floor. My vision swam, and my whole body felt hollow, scraped clean.
But on the dais, Jon Arryn's chest rose and fell with steady breath.
His eyes fluttered open.
The Sept erupted in gasps and shouts. Septons fell to their knees, some praying, others making signs against evil. The guards backed away, eyes wide with terror and awe.
King Robert stood frozen, tears streaming down his face.
Jon Arryn sat up slowly, blinking in the candlelight. He looked at his hands, touched his chest, confusion written across his face.
"Robert?" he croaked, his voice rough from disuse. "Ned? What... what happened?"
'It worked.' I thought, as I saw Jon arryn don't rembering what happened.
"You were dead, Jon," Robert said, his voice thick with emotion. "Dead for six days. And this boy—" he gestured at me, still supported by Father "—brought you back."
Jon Arryn's gaze found mine.
I'd been careful when I rebuilt his mind. Precise. I'd erased the last six months—the investigation, the discoveries, the dangerous knowledge that had led to his death. Those memories weren't gone forever. They were dormant, locked away, waiting to resurface.
But not yet. Not until Father was safely back in the North.
"I don't know you, boy," Jon Arryn said, frowning. "But it seems I owe you my life."
The king helped Jon Arryn to his feet, and the old man stood shakily, testing his limbs like a newborn learning to walk.
He was alive. Whole. Restored.
And the game had just become infinitely more complicated.
...