The newly resurrected figure let out slow, heavy breaths, each exhale thick with the weight of ages. His body trembled slightly, not with fear or weakness, but as if it were remembering what it meant to be alive. Then, with what seemed like great effort, he straightened his posture and took his first step down from the towering ice throne. His boots, once lifeless and still, now carried him forward, crunching against the frost-covered stone.
The chamber was deathly silent. The Stark men stood frozen, their hands gripping their blades but unwilling to move. Even Eddard himself, who had faced horrors on the battlefield, felt an unnatural dread creep into his bones.
As the resurrected man descended, the last two bandits—shaken but desperate—gathered what little courage they had left. They exchanged a glance, their fear overridden by blind survival instinct, and lunged forward, their weapons raised.
It was a mistake.
The man did not flinch.
As one of the bandits swung his rusted sword, the corpse-turned-warrior merely tilted his upper body back—just a fraction, just enough to let the blade slice through nothing but air. The movement was effortless, almost casual, as though he had done this a thousand times before.
Then, before the bandit could react, the man lifted his hand.
A sudden whistle cut through the air.
From atop the throne, something moved—a small, cross-shaped object shot forward, as if called by an unseen force. It flew with deadly precision and landed perfectly in the man's open palm.
A single hiss followed—a sound like pressurized air escaping through clenched teeth.
Then, a blade ignited.
From the strange object in his grip, a concentrated beam of black and purple fire roared to life, forming a blade that seemed to hum with dark energy. The very air around it distorted, rippling as though reality itself struggled to contain its presence.
The bandit barely had time to scream.
With one fluid motion, the man slashed the blade through the air—or at least, that's what it seemed like at first.
A beat passed.
Then, the bandit's body split apart.
His upper half slid away from his lower half, as if cleanly separated by an impossibly sharp edge. Blood never even had a chance to spill—the wound had been cauterized instantly.
The bisected corpse collapsed to the ground, the sickly scent of burnt flesh mixing with the cold air of the chamber.
The final bandit, the last of his doomed group, stumbled backward, dropping his weapon. His breath came in frantic gasps as his body shook violently.
But the resurrected man didn't even acknowledge him.
He simply exhaled, rolling his shoulders as though loosening stiff muscles. His eerie, unreadable gaze swept across the room, lingering on Eddard Stark.
And then, in a voice low and filled with unearthly power, he finally spoke.
"You… are of my blood."
The last remaining bandit, his face pale and drenched in sweat, took a shaky step backward. His breath was ragged, his limbs trembling with sheer terror. His comrades had perished in an instant—one burned and severed by an unnatural blade, the others drained of life itself. He knew there was no chance of survival, but instinct clawed at him, urging him to run.
He turned on his heel, hoping to slip away unnoticed.
But before he could take another step—
He froze.
His body jerked violently as if an invisible force had taken hold of him. His feet left the ground, his boots scraping against the cold stone as he was lifted into the air by nothing.
The bandit's hands shot to his throat, clawing desperately as his breath was stolen away. His legs kicked uselessly beneath him, his eyes bulging in terror. A strangled choke gurgled from his lips as unseen fingers tightened around his windpipe.
The resurrected man stood motionless, his hand outstretched, fingers curled as if gripping something unseen. His expression remained unreadable, as though this act was no different than swatting an insect.
He let out a slow exhale, then spoke in a voice that was deep, old, and filled with disdain.
"Back in my time, bandits knew how to die with dignity. They either fought to survive… or fell in battle, knowing the price of their crimes."
He tilted his head slightly, his dark eyes narrowing.
"But it seems that time has only bred cowards."
With the slightest flick of his wrist, a sickening crack echoed through the chamber.
The bandit's head twisted unnaturally to the side—no, completely around. His body spasmed once, then went limp, hanging in the air like a broken doll.
The unseen force holding him vanished, and his lifeless form dropped to the ground in a heap.
A deep silence fell over the chamber, thick and suffocating.
The Stark men could only stare, their hands gripping their weapons tightly—but none dared to move.
Even Eddard, a man who had fought wars and seen countless deaths, felt an uneasy chill creep down his spine. This was not normal. This was not something of the living world.
And yet… the man before them was alive.
Slowly, the resurrected figure lowered his arm, his fingers relaxing. His gaze finally settled on Eddard, his piercing eyes filled with something unreadable—something ancient.
Then, in a voice that carried the weight of forgotten centuries, he finally spoke.
"Tell me, Stark… who now sits upon my throne?"
Eddard Stark took a steadying breath, forcing himself to regain his composure. He was no stranger to danger, nor to men who held power over life and death. But this was different. This man—this thing—had been dead only moments ago, and now he stood before them as if waking from a long slumber.
Despite the unease twisting in his gut, Ned took a step forward, his voice firm but respectful.
"The Starks have not been kings in nearly three hundred years," he said. "Not since Aegon the Conqueror and his sister-wives, Rhaenys and Visenya, came upon Westeros. Torrhen Stark bent the knee to Aegon, swearing fealty to the Iron Throne."
At the mention of those names, the resurrected man visibly reacted. His fingers twitched, and a flicker of something dark and unreadable passed through his gaze at the name Visenya. But at Torrhen Stark, his expression shifted into something… almost contemplative.
"Hmmm," the man mused, rubbing his chin. "So my journal was never found. If it had been, then Torrhen would have never surrendered the Northern Kingdom so easily. A shame… He was a promising boy in the ways of the Force."
The words meant nothing to Eddard. The Force? What did that mean?
Before he could ask, the man turned his gaze toward Arya, who now stood behind a wall of Stark guards, their hands still tight on their swords, their stance tense but unmoving.
The man raised a gloved hand, not in aggression, but in observation. His piercing eyes moved from Arya to Eddard, then back again.
Then, with an eerie certainty, he pointed directly at them.
"You two…" he murmured, his voice carrying something almost akin to curiosity. "Yes… I see it now. The blood runs strong in both of you."****"
Eddard felt a chill creep down his spine at the way he said blood.
The man took a step forward, his presence commanding yet oddly weightless.
"One is wild," he continued, his eyes locked on Arya. "Untamed. Like a wolf with no master, her instincts raw and unshaped. She has the spark of our ancestors—of those who would never bow."
Then his gaze slid back to Eddard.
"And the other… is shackled," he mused, tilting his head slightly. "Caged behind honor. Yet beneath that… I see wildfire. A storm of emotion, locked away behind duty. You restrain yourself well, Stark, but I wonder…"
His voice dropped, and for a moment, it seemed as if he was speaking more to himself than to them.
"What would it take to unlock that storm?"
By now, Eddard had noticed something deeply unsettling.
The way this man spoke—his certainty, his claim over them—he did not speak as an outsider or a stranger. He spoke as if he was one of them.
If what he said was true, if he had met Torrhen Stark in his youth… Then that meant this man was over three hundred years old.
And more than that—
He had the power to raise himself from the dead.
Eddard's grip on Ice tightened. He had faced war. He had seen horrors. But this? This was something else entirely.
This was something he could not fight with a blade alone.
Arya swallowed, her throat dry, but forced herself to speak. "W-Who are you?" she asked, her voice wavering. Fear was evident, but so was curiosity—an undeniable spark of defiance in her tone.
The resurrected man hummed, as if the question required deep thought. "My name… hmm, what was it again?" He closed his eyes, as though sifting through the dust of forgotten memories. "It has been… quite some time. Ah, yes. I remember now."
His eyes opened, glowing faintly in the dim chamber.
"I am Jinx Stark of Winterfell, King of Winter during the Doom of Valyria… and your ancestor."
Silence fell over the chamber like freshly fallen snow. The Stark men stiffened, their faces betraying shock, confusion—even fear.
They had already deduced that this man had once met Torrhen Stark, but this? To hear that he had ruled as a King of Winter during the Doom itself—that he had lived to witness the fall of the greatest civilization the world had ever known—was unfathomable.
But no one was more shocked than Eddard Stark.
He knew that name.
His jaw tightened. "You're the Coward King," he said, voice edged with disdain. "The King of Winter who vanished ten years before the Doom, abandoning his people—leaving his son, William, to rule in his place."
A flicker of something crossed Jinx's face at the accusation. Amusement? Disappointment? Then he let out a slow, breathy chuckle. "The Coward King… hmmm, so that is what they call me now?"
He nodded as if something clicked into place. "That explains the hostility I sensed when I met Torrhen all those years ago. I had thought I erased all records of my name, but it seems something slipped through my fingers." His gaze darkened. "But no matter. Now that I have returned, I may as well clear up a few… misconceptions."
Jinx took a step forward, the ancient furs draped over his form shifting with the movement.
"Yes, I fled the North… but it was not because of the wildlings. They merely provided a convenient excuse. I knew that if I vanished, the world would assume I perished in some nameless skirmish. But the truth… is far more complex."
His gaze swept over the assembled men, lingering on Eddard.
"Before the Doom, the North was suffering through one of the worst winters in centuries. The burden of survival fell upon House Stark, stretching us thin. And in that time of hardship, I was on the verge of mastering something far greater than steel or strategy.
"Magic. Or as I came to know it… the Force."
The word was unfamiliar to them, yet it carried weight.
"An energy older than time itself," Jinx continued. "It flows through all things—through the land, the sea, the very air we breathe. But only a rare few are able to wield it. And House Stark… we have always had an affinity for it."
A murmur ran through the guards.
"The blood of the First Men granted us many gifts," he mused. "Greensight. Skinchanging. But we never truly understood what we possessed. The world came to believe magic was mere parlor tricks, or the sorcery of Valyrian ritualists."
He exhaled, tilting his head slightly. "Then, twelve years before the Doom—and five before my disappearance—I traveled to Valyria. For what reason, I cannot recall. But that is where I met the Targaryens."
At the mention of that name, the temperature in the room seemed to drop.
The Stark men shifted uncomfortably, but Eddard's face hardened. The mere thought of the Targaryens made his hands tremble with rage, memories of his sister—of Rhaegar—flashing through his mind.
Jinx, however, paid it no mind.
"I found the Targaryens… intriguing," he admitted. "They were strong in the Force—yet they lacked the knowledge to harness it fully. They had power, but not understanding. Most of the Valyrian dragonlords possessed minor abilities—glimpses into the past or future, the ability to bond with beasts. But the Targaryens… they had something unique. Dragon Dreams."
Eddard narrowed his eyes. "Visions of the future."
Jinx nodded. "Yes. Similar to greensight, but less clear… yet more frequent. They saw pieces of what was to come, but not the whole picture."
He smirked. "I grew fond of them. They were the weakest of the great dragonlord houses, but their potential fascinated me. As a parting gift, they presented me with two swords: one that would come to be known as Ice… and another called Bloodfyre."
Eddard's breath hitched. Bloodfyre? No such blade had ever been recorded.
"In return, I strengthened their bloodline," Jinx continued. "I enhanced their connection to the Force—to their dragons. And two years later… Daenys Targaryen had a vision unlike any before."
The chamber felt suffocating now.
"She saw the Doom. Not in fleeting images, but as if she were there, watching it unfold."
His voice lowered. "Because of this, she convinced her father to flee. And because of that… House Targaryen survived."
The weight of his words settled upon them like a mountain of snow.
It was because of him that the Targaryens endured. Because of him that they escaped Valyria's destruction.
And that meant—
The Conquest of Westeros. The rise of the Iron Throne. The deaths of thousands…
All of it, in some way, could be traced back to him.
Eddard clenched his fists. He had always believed history was shaped by kings, by warriors, by war itself.
But now, standing before the resurrected Jinx Stark, he realized the terrifying truth.
Sometimes, history was shaped by whispers in the dark.
Jinx let the weight of his words settle before he continued, his voice steady, unshaken by the stunned expressions around him.
"A year after the Targaryens arrived at Dragonstone, they sought me out in gratitude. They knew my interference had saved their bloodline from extinction, and they wished to repay me. Their gift… was a basilisk egg."
A murmur rippled through the Stark guards, though none dared to interrupt. Eddard remained still, his mind processing every revelation.
"But this was no ordinary egg," Jinx said, his gaze darkening. "I could feel it. It pulsed with a presence… something ancient, something steeped in what I have come to call the Dark Side of the Force. It was alive in a way that disturbed even me."
He let the statement hang in the air before exhaling slowly.
"By then, I had reached an impasse in my studies. I had learned much, but ruling as King of Winter was an obstacle. Too many responsibilities. Too many distractions. I realized then that if I truly wished to unlock the full power of the Force, I could not do so while bound by a crown."
He looked at Eddard. "And so, I left."
Eddard's expression did not soften. "You abandoned your people."
Jinx tilted his head slightly, considering the words. "Yes, I did." He did not attempt to defend himself. "But what I left behind was an heir, a stable realm, and a name that was meant to fade into obscurity. The North did not need me. It needed a leader who was not shackled by greater ambitions."
His eyes flickered toward Arya then, a strange curiosity in his gaze.
"Before I departed, I had reached the limit of what I could accomplish alone. There was a ritual—one that would allow me to return once a member of my bloodline made contact with my throne. But such a ritual demanded a staggering amount of magic, more than any single being could produce."
He smirked. "And then, Daenys Targaryen had her vision."
The room tensed.
"When the Doom came, it did not simply annihilate Valyria—it shattered the very fabric of magic itself. The force of its destruction sent shockwaves across the world, a tide of raw, unrestrained power. I took that power, and I shaped it. I crafted my throne from it, binding myself to it with the last of my strength."
His smirk faded. "And then, I died."
Silence.
The men around them stood frozen, absorbing his words, struggling to grasp the sheer magnitude of what they had just learned.
Jinx glanced at Arya once more, his expression unreadable. "But I was awakened when the girl touched my throne. And now, here I stand once more."
Eddard exhaled sharply. "You played with forces beyond your understanding. You tampered with the lives of thousands, with the fate of entire kingdoms." His voice was steel. "You claim you only wished to master this… Force, but what was the cost? How many lives were lost because of your meddling?"
Jinx raised a brow. "All things come at a cost, Lord Stark. You should know that better than most."
Eddard's jaw tightened, but Jinx simply turned, stepping forward toward Arya, who—despite herself—stood her ground.
His lips curled in amusement. "You are the wild one, are you not?" He studied her, his sharp gaze piercing. "You remind me of the Starks of old. Fire in your blood, instincts untamed. Yes… I see it in you. And in your father as well, though he shackles himself in duty and honor, burying what lies beneath."
Eddard moved protectively between them, but Jinx only chuckled. "No need for that, Lord Stark. I mean the girl no harm."
He glanced toward the guards, then back to Eddard. "And now, I must decide what to do with this second life I have been granted."
His smirk widened. "And what to do with you."
The air in the chamber grew colder.
Jinx let the weight of his words settle before he continued, his voice steady, unshaken by the stunned expressions around him.
"A year after the Targaryens arrived at Dragonstone, they sought me out in gratitude. They knew my interference had saved their bloodline from extinction, and they wished to repay me. Their gift… was a basilisk egg."
A murmur rippled through the Stark guards, though none dared to interrupt. Eddard remained still, his mind processing every revelation.
"But this was no ordinary egg," Jinx said, his gaze darkening. "I could feel it. It pulsed with a presence… something ancient, something steeped in what I have come to call the Dark Side of the Force. It was alive in a way that disturbed even me."
He let the statement hang in the air before exhaling slowly.
"By then, I had reached an impasse in my studies. I had learned much, but ruling as King of Winter was an obstacle. Too many responsibilities. Too many distractions. I realized then that if I truly wished to unlock the full power of the Force, I could not do so while bound by a crown."
He looked at Eddard. "And so, I left."
Eddard's expression did not soften. "You abandoned your people."
Jinx tilted his head slightly, considering the words. "Yes, I did." He did not attempt to defend himself. "But what I left behind was an heir, a stable realm, and a name that was meant to fade into obscurity. The North did not need me. It needed a leader who was not shackled by greater ambitions."
His eyes flickered toward Arya then, a strange curiosity in his gaze.
"Before I departed, I had reached the limit of what I could accomplish alone. There was a ritual—one that would allow me to return once a member of my bloodline made contact with my throne. But such a ritual demanded a staggering amount of magic, more than any single being could produce."
He smirked. "And then, Daenys Targaryen had her vision."
The room tensed.
"When the Doom came, it did not simply annihilate Valyria—it shattered the very fabric of magic itself. The force of its destruction sent shockwaves across the world, a tide of raw, unrestrained power. I took that power, and I shaped it. I crafted my throne from it, binding myself to it with the last of my strength."
His smirk faded. "And then, I died."
Silence.
The men around them stood frozen, absorbing his words, struggling to grasp the sheer magnitude of what they had just learned.
Jinx glanced at Arya once more, his expression unreadable. "But I was awakened when the girl touched my throne. And now, here I stand once more."
Eddard exhaled sharply. "You played with forces beyond your understanding. You tampered with the lives of thousands, with the fate of entire kingdoms." His voice was steel. "You claim you only wished to master this… Force, but what was the cost? How many lives were lost because of your meddling?"
Jinx raised a brow. "All things come at a cost, Lord Stark. You should know that better than most."
Eddard's jaw tightened, but Jinx simply turned, stepping forward toward Arya, who—despite herself—stood her ground.
His lips curled in amusement. "You are the wild one, are you not?" He studied her, his sharp gaze piercing. "You remind me of the Starks of old. Fire in your blood, instincts untamed. Yes… I see it in you. And in your father as well, though he shackles himself in duty and honor, burying what lies beneath."
Eddard moved protectively between them, but Jinx only chuckled. "No need for that, Lord Stark. I mean the girl no harm."
He glanced toward the guards, then back to Eddard. "And now, I must decide what to do with this second life I have been granted."
His smirk widened. "And what to do with you."
The air in the chamber grew colder.
Then Jinx let out a laugh—low and drawn-out, carrying an edge that sent a chill down the spines of Eddard and his men. It was the kind of laugh that, to them, sounded almost... evil. Then, just as abruptly as it started, it stopped.
"Oh, I'm joking," Jinx said with a smirk. "You're my descendants, after all. And besides, I need you."
Eddard's confusion was evident, and Jinx caught it immediately.
"Well, I don't exactly have a place to stay, do I?" he said, shrugging. "And considering a group of bandits managed to break out of Winterfell, capture your daughter, and even put up a fight, I'd say the Starks have gotten... lax since my time. So, in exchange for housing, I'll make our house great again. Along with the North, which, frankly, looks like it's been in decline. All because William never found my journal."
Jinx let out a heavy sigh, shaking his head in disappointment.
"That kid was so useless. Now, don't get me wrong—I love all my children. But damn, he had no ambition. Always did the bare minimum. Meanwhile, Alyssa and Lagatha were three times as ambitious as him by the time they were five."
Eddard, who had been listening carefully, stiffened slightly at the mention of those names. Jinx had spoken them so casually, but something about them felt... off.
"Anyway," Jinx continued, "the most important thing I'll be doing while staying in Winterfell is passing my knowledge of the Force to anyone who can actually use it. And judging by the amount of Force energy I can sense from you, your children—assuming you have more—should have it as well."
The weight of Jinx's words sent Eddard's thoughts into disarray. He barely registered the last part, too focused on what Jinx had said earlier. Alyssa and Lagatha.
That shouldn't be right. The records from the maesters of Jinx's time only mentioned three sons. No daughters.
And yet, the name Alyssa stood out to him—because the only Alyssa of significance that he knew of had been Alyssa Velaryon, the mother of King Viserys and Prince Daemon Targaryen. A distinctly Valyrian name. But Lagatha... That name sounded Northern, through and through.
Eddard was no fool. Though people often assumed he was a poor player in the game of thrones, they weren't entirely correct. It wasn't that he didn't understand the game—it was that ruling the North left him little time or resources to play it properly.
And the North was still recovering from Robert's Rebellion, a process that was moving far too slowly. The crown's gold, as he had learned from Jon Arryn's ravens, was being squandered by Robert on whores and tourneys. Meanwhile, the maesters, who prided themselves on being the brightest minds in the realm, had seemingly invented nothing of value in over a thousand years.
And if Eddard was right about his suspicions, they were deliberately sending only the bare minimum of their order to serve in the North. Maester Luwin was an exception—he was a man of the North, and that made sense.
But now, standing before Jinx, hearing him speak of forgotten daughters, lost knowledge, and a power that defied all understanding, Eddard found himself facing something he had never prepared for.
A ghost of the past had returned.
And it seemed he had plans for the future.
(Timeskip)
The group of men reached the gates of Winterfell. Standing there was an old man in maester's robes, a pacing woman with auburn hair, and two children—a boy with brown hair and another with striking red. A few meters away stood a black-haired boy, roughly the same age as the first.
Jinx's gaze swept over them, but when his eyes landed on the older woman and the red-haired girl, something in him shifted.
The air turned deathly cold.
A deep, unnatural chill spread across the courtyard. Frost bloomed over the stone walls of Winterfell, creeping along the ground like the fingers of an unseen specter. The guards stiffened as their breath became visible, their bodies instinctively recoiling from the unnatural cold.
Then they noticed where it was coming from.
With startled cries, the Stark guards drew their swords, their instincts screaming danger. Only Eddard remained still, his greatsword, Ice, sheathed at his back. But before anyone could act, Jinx flicked his wrist.
The steel flew from the hands of the guards, ripped effortlessly from their grips by an unseen force. The swords turned mid-air, their tips now aimed at the very men who had wielded them moments ago.
Then Eddard felt it.
A pressure—crushing, like the weight of three Gregor Cleganes bearing down on him at once. His knees nearly buckled, his breath came in sharp gasps, but he gritted his teeth and stood.
Jinx's voice was low, but it carried through the silence like a dagger through flesh.
"Now, I thought Arya and you had recently visited the South, for the foul stench of it lingers on you..." His dark eyes gleamed with barely contained fury. "But it seems a trout has somehow survived in the den of wolves."
Eddard felt his stomach twist.
"So tell me, Eddard," Jinx continued, voice laced with venom, "why is a minor house married to the oldest house in Westeros?"
The pressure increased. The frost thickened.
The guards at the gate, unaware of what was happening, rushed toward the courtyard with weapons drawn. But before they could get far, Jinx clenched his hand into a fist.
The men choked.
One by one, they clutched their throats as the air was wrenched from their lungs. Their faces turned red, then blue, as they struggled for breath, their bodies lifted slightly off the ground by an unseen force.
Only then did Jinx take notice of the old man standing nearby—the one draped in the chainlinks of a maester.
The maester, though pale with fear, found his voice. "U-umm, my lord, if you would be so kind as to let these honorable men—"
"HONORABLE!?"
Jinx's voice cracked like a thunderclap, and the very ground beneath him split. A jagged fissure tore through the stone, and the maester was yanked into the air by an invisible grip. He gasped as he was pulled forward, until he was mere inches from Jinx's face.
Jinx's eyes were ablaze with fury.
"Tell me," he hissed, his voice a deadly whisper, "how are these men honorable when they allowed southern trash to taint the pure blood of House Stark!?"
The maester flinched.
"That alone is worthy of death!" Jinx spat. "Southern cunts have no place in the North—especially Winterfell! Now tell me, maester..." His fingers curled slightly, and the old man wheezed as the unseen force around his throat tightened. "Why shouldn't I kill every fool who allowed this foul, unmagical blood into my house? The same blood that once tried to invade the North? The same people who cut down the sacred heart trees—symbols of our faith? The faith that grants us power?"
Eddard's mind reeled. He had prepared himself for Jinx's return, but this level of raw hatred—this rage—was beyond what he had imagined.
Then, a memory stirred.
A passage from the old maester's journal.
Jinx despised every southern kingdom—except for Dorne, for some unknown reason. But his hatred for the Riverlands? That ran deeper than most. It had been the Riverlands that took his mother from him.
Eddard's jaw clenched.
Another note from the journal came to mind: Jinx had a weakness—a particular soft spot. He had an undying love for mothers. Especially devoted, caring mothers.
But the same journal had also warned:
"He cannot be fooled by the false love of a mother."'
Eddard took a deep breath, steadying himself before he began his tale. Jinx's grip on him loosened slightly, though the air around them remained thick with tension.
"It all began with fire and blood," Eddard started, his voice heavy with the weight of memory. "The Mad King, Aerys II Targaryen, burned my father alive in his own armor. My brother, Brandon, was strangled to death trying to save him. They were both killed in the Red Keep, under the orders of a king who had lost his mind. And all of it was because Rhaegar Targaryen stole my sister."
At the mention of Rhaegar, Jinx's expression barely changed, but a flicker of something old and unreadable passed through his eyes. He stayed silent, listening.
"Rhaegar took Lyanna. She was betrothed to Robert Baratheon, my closest friend. Robert loved her fiercely, but she was taken away, and that was the spark that set everything ablaze. The entire realm divided. Robert and I sought vengeance, but we couldn't fight alone. That was when Jon Arryn, the man who raised me, called his banners. He refused to hand us over to Aerys when the king demanded our heads. Instead, he raised the Vale in rebellion."
At the mention of Jon Arryn, Jinx's eyes darkened, and the air grew even colder for the briefest of moments. His lips pressed into a thin line, and his fingers twitched as if restraining some reaction. But he remained silent.
Eddard noticed the shift, but he continued, unsure of what it meant.
"We rallied the North and the Vale, then we marched south. The Riverlands joined us, with Hoster Tully pledging his forces. We needed to cross the Twins to reach the fight, but Walder Frey, that old weasel, demanded an outrageous toll. He saw an opportunity to gain power, to bind us to him. But it wasn't just him—Hoster Tully was just as cunning. He used the delay as an excuse to force an alliance."
Jinx's expression sharpened. He already knew where this was going.
"For the sake of time, for the sake of the war, Jon Arryn and I were made to marry Hoster's daughters. Jon took Lysa. I took Catelyn."
There was no emotion in his voice as he said it. No anger, no sorrow—just a statement of fact.
Jinx narrowed his eyes. The pressure in the air wavered. Then, out of nowhere, he spoke.
"Who was your true love?"
Eddard froze.
The question hit like a hammer, cracking through the composed, dutiful mask he had worn for years. Everyone around them stiffened, their curiosity piqued. Even the guards, who had once held their swords at Jinx's command, found themselves hanging onto the silence that followed.
Eddard didn't answer right away. His lips parted slightly, but no words came.
It wasn't that he didn't know the answer. He had always known.
It was just that saying her name aloud felt like reopening an old wound. A wound that had never truly healed.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he spoke.
"Ashara Dayne."
The name left his lips like a whisper, like something sacred and fragile.
Jinx inhaled sharply. His expression shifted, his usual smirk gone.
"Ah... now that is interesting," Jinx murmured. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, as if listening to something only he could hear. Then, when he reopened them, there was something different in them—something ancient.
"When you spoke of the war, I felt it. Threads of history shifting, memories buried beneath time. But the moment you said her name..." He trailed off, his dark purple eyes burning with an unnatural glow.
He placed a hand over his chest as if feeling something stirring deep within him. His voice, usually so confident and playful, dropped into something more solemn.
"The name Ashara Dayne is wrapped in something... more. A love like a burning forest fire. Once raging, all-consuming. But now... embers. Not dead. But alive."
Eddard's throat tightened.
Jinx took a step back, his gaze lingering on Eddard as if searching for something beneath the man's carefully guarded expression.
"There is more to that story, Stark. And perhaps, in time, you will find that some embers refuse to go out."
Eddard didn't respond, but the weight of Jinx's words settled deep in his chest, heavy and unshakable.