Chapter Twelve
Lords Do Not Trust Easy Magic
Word of Elara's miracle in the godswood traveled faster than any snowflake drifting through Winterfell's courtyards. By midday, the lords, knights, and men-at-arms of Winterfell had gathered, their heavy boots echoing through the stone halls as they came to see the green shoot she had coaxed from frozen earth.
They did not whisper admiration.
Suspicion ran through the hall like a bitter wind. Eyes narrowed. Fingers twitched toward hilts. Words, sharp and edged with distrust, filled the air.
"Who is she?" demanded one lord, voice cutting like steel. "A witch? A sorceress?"
"She heals and grows what should not grow," another muttered, lips pressed tight. "Why has she not been questioned by the maester?"
Elara stood quietly, hands folded before her, posture steady, expression calm. Her inventory pulsed faintly at the edge of her awareness — shimmering like a secret she could hide but could never forget. Each item was proof of her power, of the impossible she carried with her, and she felt its weight settle across her shoulders like a mantle.
Jon stepped forward, placing a firm hand on her shoulder. "She helps the people of Winterfell," he said, his voice measured, carrying calm authority without arrogance. "That is enough."
The lords did not accept it immediately. Some glared, fists tightening. Others murmured, suspicion and doubt threading their words. Yet Jon's quiet presence held the room in check, a steady anchor against the storm of fear and politics.
Elara noticed the way he defended her — quietly, without boasting, without possessiveness. He did not claim her. He acknowledged her. It unsettled her more than any hostile glare or whispered accusation.
Later, as the hall emptied and snow drifted against shuttered windows, she leaned toward Jon and whispered, voice soft but steady. "I've made them uneasy, haven't I?"
"Yes," he replied. Gray eyes steady, gaze unwavering. "And they will watch you. Every move. Every word."
She smiled faintly, warmth creeping into her expression. "That's fine," she said. "I don't plan to stop."
The wind rattled the walls outside, a reminder that power, however quietly wielded, always drew eyes. And Elara, for the first time fully aware of its cost, understood that in Winterfell, miracles could be both a blessing and a threat — and that neither could be ignored.