Tyrion

The Dwarf of Casterly Rock turned to the next page. He was now in his chambers, analysing the gargantuan book. The Mysteries of the Worm covered many aspects of the arcane, from shapeshifting magic to warging. The former fell in the category of Hereditary Magic, where the practitioners descended from mythical creatures, such as the Children of the Forest. There were archives of bizarre creatures he had never seen before, from the more known Brindlemen to a race of scaly people from the Thousand Islands. Even demons made their appearance in these pages. The author claims that the people of Nefer were well-known monster hunters, and took care of most of the trouble.

From what he has seen until now, the purpose of the tome is one of preservation, and the author probably invested all his life writing it. The calligraphy was impeccable, everything from drawings to schematics was done by a gifted hand. Tyrion truly envied such a great mind.

Tyrion turned page once more, and was greeted by a warning. "Behold! These pages hold foul incantations. No ordinary man should lay eyes upon them, or evil shall consume thee."

He eyed the page with suspicion, "Considering what I've found till now, I should heed this. But still..."

"What's the worse that could happen? Words don't bite." He finally said, and turned the page.

He scanned the contents. Wicked healing rituals, curses, sacrifices to appeal to ancient gods... Tyrion couldn't believe what he was reading. There was an account of a warg that managed to take control of other men, he was one of a ruler in the North during the Age of Petty Kings. He managed to lead his entire army as if it was one single entity, but was struck down by a lightning bolt when he marched towards Winterfell. Truly, a divine intervention. The author claims that the king affronted the morals of wargs, and the Old Gods punished him for it.

Tyrion continued, flowing through the parchment. His eyes rested on one chapter, a ritual for... potency? Gods, the ladies would love that. Inside himself, a voice drove him away from these thoughts. No, he couldn't yield his morality for foul sorcery.

He turned the page. As he laid his eyes upon the parchment, confusion bubbled. What in the Seven Hells is written here?

The following chapters were written in a... strange language Tyrion could not decipher. He recognised some of the syllables, but it didn't make any sense. It was as if someone cooked a soup made of venison, potatoes, and lemon cakes. It was just a great broth, where every meaning is just... Lost.

A strange, unsettling feeling was creeping up his spine, "Shit... I just need... To finish this..." he murmured. Tyrion waltzed across the scribbled pages, reaching the last one. He truly wished he didn't.

There was a drawing of a... Demon, or something similar. He was sure that the thing came from the deepest pit of the Seven Hells; Tyrion couldn't describe its horrific form, yet... The drawing itself was the most elaborate work he had ever seen. It was impossible to draw it with only ink and parchment.

Tyrion could not bear looking at it any longer, panic started to roll over him as he felt someone watching him from the corner of his eye. He hastily closed the book and ran outside his chambers. He reached for the privy just in time. Tyrion emptied his guts.

"Ahhhh... Gods..." he mumbled as he threw up. Tyrion felt the need to vomit further, but no puke left his mouth. He raised himself, and left the privy.

"Gods, what was that..." Tyrion whispered, "It was as if the Stranger himself was before me..."

He slowly walked by the corridor until a frantic Kevan stopped before him, strained. "Uncle, what happened? You look like shit."

"You don't look any better." He answered, "Tyrion, your father is back. He's grievously injured."

Eddard

Eddard woke up. Not that he slept much, today is the great day.

He had an announcement to make.

"Love, It is time?" Catelyn asked, and Eddard nodded. "Then I will assemble the household, you take care of the rest."

They kissed, and Eddard went towards the steward's office. Vayon was already working, with countless ledgers scattered across the table.

"Vayon, good morning." He said.

"My Lord, good day to you!" Vayon organised some of the parchments, "I've been calculating the profit Winterfell made in the last month. My Lord, we have the highest income since the days of Cregan Stark!"

Ned smiled, "Wonderful news! This will surely aid the renovations across the North." He gestured for Vayon to approach, "But there's an elephant in the room that needs to be cleared. Summon the Bailiff of Wintertown and the Woodway, relay them the order of assembling the peasantry before the main gate. I have an announcement to make."

Vayon choppily nodded, "Yes, My Lord... I expect everything to be ready shortly before dinner."

Eddard clapped the steward's shoulder, "You've been of great help to house Stark, Vayon. Hard times are before us, we need to be ready."

Vayon reacted well, it seemed. He nodded firmly and left the keep. Eddard left the great keep and passed by the Godswood. His children were attending the lessons of Jorund, and he wanted to watch them.

They were seated in a circle under the Heart Tree, alongside their new direwolf pups. He smiled at his children's happiness when they held their pets for the first time; they were the first Starks in years to have such majestic creatures as companions.

Jorund saw him approaching and greeted him. "Eddard! It is good to have you here."

"Good morning, my God." Eddard reciprocated, "I see my progeny is quite focused in their work. What are they doing?"

Bran spoke before the God could answer, "Good morning, Father! We are learning how to warg!"

Eddard was very confused.

"Jorund... Do you think all of them are Wargs?"

Jorund just chuckled, "Aye, Eddard. Brandon shows more promise than the others, but all have good potential. The blood is strong in them."

Eddard thought that after all that had happened, he wouldn't be surprised anymore. How wrong had he been. His entire vision of reality has been... Utterly shattered these last weeks, but at least the young are adapting better than the old.

"I see..." Eddard said, "So, only Bran succeeded for now?"

Robb answered, "Yes, Father. I only manage to warg while dreaming, and so do the others." He then looked towards his sisters, "Arya and Sansa... Had some difficulties instead."

Arya especially looked bummed, "That doesn't mean I'll give up! I will be the greatest Warg of all time!"

Sansa shot her an annoyed look, "Arya, you can't become a better warg with only willpower. Some are natural learners, differently than you. Stop being so squeamish."

Arya was about to answer, but Eddard interrupted her, "Calm down, you two, don't make a scene in front of Jorund."

Arya and Sansa were truly water and fire. 'Tis usual that they disagree, especially at their age, but he would ensure that their relationship doesn't devolve into hatred. Catelyn would never forgive him for that.

Arya was about to retort, but Jon whispered something in her ear which apparently calmed her. Eddard smiled thinly, it was beautiful to see love between half-siblings.

He then felt a doubt arise spontaneously, "Jorund, if my children are wargs, then am I one too?"

The God appeared to be in deep thought, "If I must guess, then aye. This would not be the first time an entire generation of wargs has graced your dynasty. Try to remember your dreams, normally it all starts from there."

Eddard sighed, "They are all muffled as of late, especially since we found the Direwolves. Perhaps you are right." He straightened his posture, "Leaving aside the warging question, today is the day, my God."

Jorund nodded, "Aye, I remember. Don't be harsh, Eddard, the people must feel safe. All of this will be worthless if the North is in panic."

Eddard nodded and turned his gaze towards his progeny, "You all must prepare, my children. Robb, I wish you say something too tonight. You must be ready as heir to Winterfell."

His firstborn nodded, "Aye, Father. I will make you proud."

Eddard smiled, "Alright. Some things need to be prepared. Continue your lessons, Jorund."

The God nodded, and Eddard left the Godswood. He went towards the Maester's Tower, and as he expected, Luwin was there.

"My Lord, it is good to see you," The elderly Maester said, "I presume the ravens must be readied."

"Aye, Luwin. All of the Seven Kingdoms must know what is marching towards the Wall, we can't afford to be unprepared. Winterfell needs aid."

The Maester nodded, "The ravens will be ready to fly tomorrow morning, I expect everyone will receive them in three weeks."

Eddard felt restless. He was sure the Northern lords would believe his words, but the Southerners? Who would heed the warnings of a legend if they're too busy backstabbing each other?

"Let us hope it all goes well, My Lord. One last thing, the Far Eastern host has reached Castle Cerwyn. They are led by... a Mussovian Prince."

Eddard frowned, "From Mussovy? What he's doing so far from home?"

Mussovy. A land so distant from Westeros that no one truly knows its exact geographical location. The Maesters believe their homeland is located north of the Grey Waste and East of Nefer, and no Westerosi has ever seen a living Mussovian. They surely had a difficult existence, considering the Grey Clans are their direct neighbours.

"I do not truly know, Eddard. Lord Medger only knows that his final destination is Winterfell. Considering they will rest for a day before resuming their travels, the host should arrive before two days." Luwin explained.

"Then we must prepare. A feast is in order for such party, especially after a long journey. Thank you, Luwin. I will inform Catelyn."

The Maester bowed, and Eddard left the room. The rest of the day went forward oddly, the silence of the luncheon truly emanated the tension his family was experiencing. The hour of the Bat arrived, and a crowd formed before Winterfell's south gate. Eddard was in the battlements alongside his family. Even Theon was there: the lad has been quite absent of late, and Robb was starting to worry about his well-being.

Eddard went before the crowd, raising a hand to incite silence.

"People of the North!" He bellowed, "I am glad that many answered my summons, as I, Lord of Winterfell, have to announce a grave threat."

There were some murmurs among the attendants, some about Wildlings, others of The Fall. Eddard waited for the voices to die down, before resuming his speech.

"The Night's Watch, defenders of the North, call for our aid. You may think that the Wildlings are causing trouble... But alas, the true danger is much worse. Death marches on the Wall. The Others have returned, a second Long Night is upon us."

The Crowd erupted. Shouts and wails engulfed the air, and Winterfell's guards struggled to maintain order. But before the situation could devolve even further, Eddard intervened.

"SILENCE!" He cried, and the crowd redirected their stares. "Do not let fear take hold of your souls! The near future may be grim, but we will fight back. The might of the South shall aid us, and with the help of the Gods, we shall prevail! For I, Lord Eddard Stark, brandish the Hammer of Brandon the Builder, and therefore, his legacy!"

Eddard lifted the hammer, and everyone stared at it in astonishment.

Robb then stepped forward, "The enemy we face may be overwhelming, but we're of the North! We've endured for 8000 years, the First Men will not falter now!"

"Have no fear! Go to your homes, and save your food. Winter is coming!"

"WINTER IS COMING!" The crowd shouted and dispersed, everyone going to prepare for winter.

Eddard clapped his son's shoulder, "I am proud of you, son. You've brought House Stark pride."

Robb smiled, "Thank you, Father. It's the least that the heir of Winterfell can do."

Eddard turned his gaze north, and felt shivers down his spine.