Chapter 4: Winterfell Infiltration
Winterfell's great hall smelled of woodsmoke and melted snow, familiar scents that tugged at memories that weren't mine. The servant's body I inhabited had been here before, long enough to know which passages led where, which faces to trust, how to move invisibly through the controlled chaos of a great castle in wartime.
The Starks' ancient seat was a hive of activity. Ravens arrived hourly with news from the south, where Robb marched with his army. Servants scurried between kitchens and barracks, keeping the skeleton crew fed and organized. And in the center of it all sat Brandon Stark, ten years old and paralyzed, ruling Winterfell from a carved wooden chair with wheels.
I studied Bran as I joined the morning assembly in the great hall, where Maester Luwin was reading dispatches to the young lord. The boy looked older than his years, gray eyes serious as he listened to reports of grain stores and guard rotations. The fall from the Broken Tower had changed him, awakened abilities he didn't fully understand yet.
Time to help that process along.
"My lord," Maester Luwin was saying, his voice gentle but grave, "we've received word from the Umber strongholds. They report strange sounds beyond the Wall—howling that doesn't sound like wolves, lights where no lights should be."
Bran shifted in his chair, fingers gripping the armrests. "The wildlings?"
"Perhaps. But Greatjon Umber is not a man easily spooked. If he says something is wrong..."
"Then something is wrong," Bran finished. "Send ravens to Castle Black. Ask them what they know."
Good. The boy was thinking strategically, considering threats beyond the immediate war. But he needed to understand the deeper currents, the supernatural forces that were stirring.
"My lord," I said, stepping forward with the deference expected of a servant. "Begging your pardon, but the new servants have been sorted into quarters. Cook requests guidance about provisioning for winter stores."
It was a perfectly mundane question, the kind of administrative detail that kept great houses functioning. Bran nodded absently.
"See to it, Maester Luwin. And..." He paused, looking at me more carefully. "I don't know you. What's your name?"
"Gareth, my lord. Just returned from the south." The name had come to me naturally—close enough to my true name to remember, common enough to be forgettable. "I served in King's Landing before the troubles."
"You saw my father?" The question was carefully neutral, but I could hear the pain underneath it.
"Aye, my lord. Lord Stark was... he was everything the stories say. Honorable to the end."
Bran's jaw tightened, but he nodded. "Go help Cook, then. And Gareth... if you have stories of the south, I'd hear them sometime. It's good to know what's happening beyond our walls."
Perfect. An opening to plant the seeds I needed.
[Social Link Established: Bran Stark (Lord of Winterfell)]
[Relationship Status: Neutral (25/100)]
[Access Granted: Servant Quarters, Kitchen, General Areas]
[Mission Progress: Initial Contact Successful]
The servant quarters were exactly as I remembered from the show—cramped but warm rooms carved into Winterfell's walls, heated by the same hot springs that warmed the entire castle. I'd been assigned a small chamber with two other men, both of whom worked in the stables and would be gone most days.
Privacy. Essential for what I had planned.
I spent the rest of the morning learning the castle's rhythms, reacquainting myself with passages I knew from television but had never walked. The reality was more complex than any set could capture—corridors that branched and turned in unexpected ways, staircases that led to forgotten chambers, the constant background noise of a living castle.
Most importantly, I mapped the areas where Bran spent his time. The great hall for formal business, the maester's tower for lessons, the godswood for contemplation. Places where a careful servant might overhear conversations, leave subtle messages, plant the right stories at the right moments.
[Castle Knowledge: Winterfell Layout Acquired]
[Navigation Bonus: +25% movement speed in familiar areas]
[Stealth Bonus: +15% when moving through servant passages]
My first target was Bran's afternoon lesson with Maester Luwin. The boy was struggling with mathematics—calculating grain stores for winter—when I arrived to clean the chamber. I worked quietly, dusting shelves and organizing scrolls while listening to their conversation.
"The numbers don't add up," Bran was saying, frustration clear in his voice. "We have enough grain for the smallfolk, but if the war continues through winter..."
"Wars consume resources," Luwin agreed. "Food, men, hope. Your brother faces difficult choices in the south."
"I wish I could help him. Wish I could be more than just... this." Bran's hand hit the arm of his chair.
Luwin's voice softened. "You are the Stark in Winterfell. That means more than you know. Your people need to see strength, continuity. They need to believe the pack survives."
The pack survives. Perfect opening.
"Begging your pardon, my lord," I said, not looking up from my dusting. "But that reminds me of something my grandmother used to say. About flying wolves."
Both Bran and Luwin turned to look at me. I kept working, playing the role of a servant speaking out of turn.
"Flying wolves?" Bran asked, curiosity overcoming propriety.
"Old story from the far north. Before the conquest, before the Wall was finished. They say the First Men had shamans who could send their spirits into wolves, make them fly through dreams. Watch over their people from above." I glanced up briefly, meeting Bran's eyes. "Course, that's just servant's nonsense. Probably not even true."
Bran was staring at me intently now. I could see the wheels turning in his mind, connecting my words to experiences he'd had but didn't understand.
"I... I have dreams sometimes," he said slowly. "Dreams where I'm running through the forest. But I'm not... I'm not me."
Maester Luwin leaned forward, concern in his voice. "Dreams can seem very real when we're grieving, my lord. The mind seeks escape..."
"No," Bran said firmly. "It's not grief. It's something else. Something more."
I finished my dusting and headed for the door, but paused as if remembering something.
"Oh, and my lord? Found this in the corridors this morning. Thought you might want to see it."
I pulled out a piece of parchment I'd prepared, covered with rough drawings of three-eyed ravens and wolves running beneath stars. The kind of thing a servant might have found, sketched by some romantic fool who believed in the old stories.
Bran took the parchment with hands that trembled slightly. "Where exactly did you find this?"
"Near the heart tree, my lord. Probably just some kitchen girl's fancy, but..." I shrugged, already moving toward the door. "The old gods work in strange ways, my grandmother always said."
[Skill Unlocked: Dream Influence]
[Ability to plant suggestions through stories and symbols]
[Bran Stark: Interest in supernatural awakening]
[Accelerated Character Development: Greenseer Abilities]
I left them to process what I'd shared, knowing the seeds were planted. Bran was already having prophetic dreams and warg experiences—I'd just given him a framework to understand them, a reason to embrace rather than fear his awakening abilities.
The next phase required broader networking.
Over the following days, I made contact with key servants throughout Winterfell. Cook, a massive woman named Bertha who'd served the Starks for thirty years. Mikken the blacksmith, whose forge was the heart of castle gossip. Old Nan, who knew more stories than anyone alive. The stable boys who cared for the ravens and horses.
I didn't reveal myself as anything special—just another servant with a gift for listening and remembering useful information. But I established the beginnings of a network, people who would notice things, remember conversations, pass along messages without knowing they were part of a larger intelligence operation.
[Social Network Established]
[Contact: Bertha (Cook) - Knows all kitchen gossip]
[Contact: Mikken (Blacksmith) - Military information and weapons]
[Contact: Old Nan (Storyteller) - Historical knowledge and rumors]
[Contact: Walder (Stable Master) - Travel and communication intel]
[Information Flow: +50% for castle-related intelligence]
The real test came on my fourth day, when ravens arrived with news that sent ripples of excitement through the castle.
Theon Greyjoy was coming home.
I watched from the shadows as Maester Luwin delivered the message to Bran in the great hall. Theon had been sent by Robb to secure Ironborn naval support, and he was returning to Winterfell before departing for the Iron Islands.
"It will be good to see Theon again," Bran said, though something in his voice suggested uncertainty. "He's been gone so long with Robb."
Luwin nodded, but I caught the worried look that crossed his face. The maester was politically astute enough to have doubts about sending Theon to treat with his own family. The Greyjoys were proud, independent, with their own grievances against the mainland.
Time for my most ambitious prank yet.
I made my way to the rookery, where ravens perched in cages and messenger birds waited to carry communications across the realm. Walder, the head keeper, was an old man with gnarled hands and sharp eyes.
"Need help with the birds, Gareth?" he asked, looking up from feeding a particularly large raven.
"Actually, I've got something unusual. A merchant in Wintertown is selling trained mockingbirds. Says they're smarter than ravens, can carry longer messages." I leaned in conspiratorially. "Thought Lord Bran might be interested. You know how he likes unusual things since... the accident."
It was a complete lie, but delivered with the confidence of someone sharing castle gossip. Walder's eyes lit up with interest.
"Mockingbirds? Haven't seen those since I was a boy. Clever birds, if they're properly trained."
"Want me to bring one up? For evaluation?"
Within an hour, I'd "acquired" three mockingbirds from "the merchant in Wintertown," using the system's inventory to materialize birds I'd prepared during my off-screen time. They were beautiful creatures, with sleek black feathers and bright, intelligent eyes.
More importantly, they were trained to mimic specific phrases.
[Skill Unlocked: Animal Training]
[Mockingbird Management: Perfect vocal mimicry]
[Surveillance Capability: Audio recording and playback]
[Reputation Warfare: Mockingbirds repeat embarrassing secrets]
I spent hours with the birds, teaching them phrases I'd need them to know. Most were generic—things any bird might pick up from overhearing conversations. But a few were very specific, designed to be revealed at exactly the right moment.
Phrases like: "Easy Northern girls, that's what Theon always said."
And: "My father will make me a prince of salt and iron."
And: "The Starks are fools to trust Ironborn promises."
The birds learned quickly, their mimicry perfect. By the time I presented them to Walder and suggested they might be useful additions to the rookery, they were ready to perform their role.
[Prank Setup Complete: Mockingbird Embarrassment Protocol]
[Timing: Activated during first major meeting with Theon]
[Effect: Undermines credibility and trust]
[Bonus: Creates permanent relationship damage]
Theon arrived the next morning, riding through Winterfell's gates with the swagger I remembered from the show. He looked older, more confident, wearing fine clothes that spoke of his position as Robb's trusted companion. But there was something else in his eyes—an ambition that hadn't been there before, a hunger that suggested the seeds of betrayal were already planted.
He dismounted in the courtyard and strode toward the great hall, clearly expecting a hero's welcome. Servants scattered before him, but I made sure to position myself where I could observe the reunion.
Bran was waiting in his chair, flanked by Maester Luwin and several house guards. His face lit up when he saw Theon, genuine affection in his smile.
"Theon! It's good to see you."
"Lord Bran," Theon replied, his voice carefully formal. "You look well. The chair suits you—very lordly."
There was something condescending in the comment, a subtle reminder that Bran was confined while Theon could still walk and ride and fight. Bran's smile faltered slightly.
"Tell me about Robb. Is he well? How goes the war?"
"Your brother is a true king," Theon said, his chest swelling with pride. "I've fought at his side, bled for his cause. The Lannisters fear the very mention of the Young Wolf."
And that's when one of my mockingbirds decided to chime in.
"Easy Northern girls!" the bird squawked from its perch near the ceiling. "That's what Theon always said!"
The hall fell silent. Every eye turned upward to the black bird, which preened innocently as if it had done nothing unusual.
Theon's face went red. "What... where did that come from?"
"The new birds," Walder explained helpfully from his position near the rookery entrance. "Mockingbirds. They repeat things they hear. Sometimes at the oddest moments."
"My father will make me a prince of salt and iron!" added a second bird, its voice perfectly mimicking Theon's own tones.
Now Bran was looking confused, and Maester Luwin was frowning deeply. These weren't random phrases—they suggested very specific conversations, private thoughts that Theon might have shared with companions during long nights around campaign fires.
"I never... that is, I may have mentioned..." Theon stammered, his carefully prepared reunion speech forgotten.
The third bird delivered the killing blow: "The Starks are fools to trust Ironborn promises!"
The silence that followed was deafening. Bran's face had gone pale, his hands gripping the arms of his chair. Maester Luwin stepped forward, his voice carefully controlled.
"Perhaps we should discuss your mission to the Iron Islands in private, Theon. Away from... curious birds."
[Mockingbird Prank: Devastating Success]
[Theon Greyjoy: Credibility Destroyed]
[Bran Stark: Trust in Theon -75%]
[Maester Luwin: Suspicion of Ironborn Alliance +100%]
[Winterfell Staff: Awareness of Potential Betrayal +50%]
I melted back into the crowd of servants, fighting to keep the satisfied grin off my face. The birds had performed perfectly, revealing Theon's true feelings at exactly the right moment. It wouldn't prevent him from going to the Iron Islands—Robb's orders were still Robb's orders—but it would ensure that when he returned with Ironborn raiders, Winterfell would be ready.
The rest of the day passed in tension. Theon tried to recover from the mockingbird incident, but the damage was done. His private meeting with Bran and Luwin was shorter than expected, and when he emerged, his swagger had been replaced by barely controlled frustration.
I made sure to position myself in the corridors as he prepared for departure, listening to his muttered complaints to his traveling companions.
"Fucking birds. How was I supposed to know they'd repeat every damn thing they heard?"
"Maybe you shouldn't have said those things in the first place," suggested one of his men, a practical soldier who'd served with Robb's army.
"It was just soldier's talk. Everyone complains about their commanders sometimes."
But it wasn't just soldier's talk, and everyone knew it. The mockingbirds had revealed the truth—that Theon Greyjoy, for all his surface loyalty to Robb Stark, still thought like an Ironborn prince. Still believed his birth family's claims were more important than his adopted family's trust.
[Mission Progress: Theon Credibility Destroyed]
[Winterfell Defense Preparations: Unconsciously Initiated]
[Staff Loyalty to Starks: Reinforced]
[Network Establishment: 75% Complete]
That evening, as Theon prepared to depart for the Iron Islands, I made my final preparations. I rigged his chambers with harmless but embarrassing surprises—soap that would turn water purple, clothes that would smell like fish no matter how often they were washed, a chamber pot that would make musical sounds when used.
Nothing dangerous. Nothing that would kill or seriously injure. But enough to ensure that his last night in Winterfell would be memorable for all the wrong reasons, and that any lingering affection the staff might have for him would be replaced by quiet laughter.
[Prank Setup Complete: Theon's Farewell Surprise Package]
[Effect: Permanent reputation damage with Winterfell staff]
[Bonus: Reduced likelihood of inside help during future betrayal]
I slipped back to my quarters as the castle settled into evening routines, satisfied with the day's work. Theon would leave tomorrow, his mission to the Iron Islands unchanged but his standing in Winterfell permanently damaged. When he returned—and I knew he would return, leading raiders to capture his childhood home—he'd find a castle that distrusted him, staff that mocked him, and defenses that had been unconsciously strengthened by his own revealed ambitions.
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