Torrhen remained in the ancient grove for one final night.
The weirwood's pale trunk gleamed under starlight, its carved face worn smooth by centuries. Frost had claimed every leaf and branch around him, turning the clearing into a silent cathedral of ice. He sat motionless against the ancient tree, palms pressed to the frozen earth, silver eyes closed. The green sight called to him again, deeper this time, demanding he witness what the world had done while he waited.
He let it take him.
Harrenhal.
The ruined fortress loomed like a blackened crown against the southern sky. In the high chambers that Tywin Lannister had claimed for himself, the air was thick with the smell of smoke and old stone.
Tywin stood over a table strewn with maps and letters, his golden armor glinting faintly in the torchlight. A small vial of wolfsbane sat before him — the poison that had nearly ended his life. He turned it slowly in his fingers, expression cold and calculating.
"Wolfsbane," he murmured. "A rare substance. This is no common assassin."
Ser Gregor Clegane — the Mountain — stood like a statue in the corner, his massive frame casting a long shadow. "We hanged twenty men last night."
Tywin's voice was flat. "I don't care if you hanged a hundred. A man tried to kill me. I want his name and I want his head."
The Mountain grunted. "We think it was an infiltrator from the Brotherhood Without Banners."
Tywin set the vial down with deliberate care. "Pretentious name for a band of outlaws. We can't allow rebels behind our lines to harass us with impunity. We look like fools and they look like heroes. That's how kings fall. I want them dead. Every one."
"Burn the villages," Tywin ordered. "Burn the farms. Let them know what it means to choose the wrong side."
The Mountain turned and left without another word.
Arya Stark moved silently through the chamber as Tywin's cupbearer, pouring water and clearing plates. She kept her head down, but her ears were sharp. She listened to every word, every command.
Tywin turned to her suddenly. "You're small for your age. I suppose you've been underfed your whole life."
Arya kept her voice meek. "I eat a lot. I just don't grow."
Tywin looked out the window toward the ruined towers of Harrenhal. "This will be my last war. Win or lose."
Arya dared a question. "Have you ever lost before?"
Tywin's eyes flicked to her. "Do you think I'd be in my position if I had lost a war?"
He walked to the fireplace, warming his hands. "Harren the Black thought this castle would be his legacy. The greatest fortress ever built. The tallest towers, the strongest walls. The Great Hall had thirty-five hearths. Thirty-five. Can you imagine? Look at it now. A blasted ruin. Do you know what happened?"
"Dragons?" Arya asked quietly.
"Yes. Dragons happened."
Tywin poured himself wine. "Harrenhal was built to withstand an attack from the land. A million men could have marched on these walls, and a million men would have been repelled. But an attack from the air with dragon fire… Harren and all his sons roasted alive within these walls. Aegon Targaryen changed the rules. That's why every child alive still knows his name."
"Aegon and his sisters," Arya added without thinking.
Tywin raised an eyebrow. "Correct. A student of history, are you?"
Arya caught herself. "Rhaenys rode Meraxes. Visenya rode Vhagar."
Tywin studied her closely. "You remind me of my daughter. Where did you learn all this about Visenya and her Valyrian steel sword?"
"From my father."
"He was a well-read stonemason. Can't say I've ever met a literate stonemason."
Later, when Tywin left the room briefly, Arya seized the chance. She snatched a scroll from the table — one mentioning King Robb Stark and troop movements. She began reading it frantically in a corner.
Tywin returned sooner than expected.
"Who taught you to read?" he asked, voice dangerously calm.
Arya froze. "My father, my lord."
Tywin's eyes narrowed. "Lowborn girls say m'lord, not my lord. If you're going to pose as a commoner, you should do it properly."
Arya's heart hammered. Tywin suspected. But he let her go with a faint, knowing smile.
Torrhen watched it all through the roots, silver eyes gleaming in the darkness of the grove. Arya was sharp. But she was walking a razor's edge.
King's Landing.
The riot's aftermath still lingered in the air like smoke. Sansa Stark moved through the Red Keep corridors, her steps hesitant. She found the Hound standing guard near the royal apartments.
She stopped before him, bowing her head slightly. "I beg pardon, ser. I should have come to you after… to thank you for saving me. You were so brave."
The Hound looked down at her, his burned face twisting into something almost like amusement. "Brave? A dog doesn't need courage to chase off rats." He paused, then added gruffly, "Well… it was that other fellow that fought like a mad man that really helped. I was just there making sure the riffraff didn't get too close."
Sansa blinked, confused. She had no memory of another man in the alley — only the Hound carving through her attackers. But she nodded anyway. "Still… you saved me. Thank you."
The Hound grunted. "You'll be glad of the hateful things I do someday when you're queen and I'm all that stands between you and your beloved king."
Sansa turned and walked away quickly, unsettled.
Later, in her chambers, Sansa woke from a nightmare of grasping hands and cruel laughter. She pulled back the covers and saw the blood. Her first moon's blood.
She panicked, trying desperately to hide the stain with a knife, cutting at the sheets.
Shae entered and rushed to help. "It's all right. Give me that."
"If the Queen sees, I can have Joffrey's children now," Sansa whispered, terrified.
Cersei was summoned. She sat with Sansa in her own chambers, the air heavy with candle smoke.
"You've flowered, my dear," Cersei said, voice cool. "No more pretending."
Sansa looked down. "I thought it would be different."
Cersei's smile was thin and bitter. "In what way?"
Sansa hesitated. "I thought it would be less messy."
Cersei laughed softly. "Wait until you birth a child."
She leaned in, eyes distant. "You're a woman now. Do you have any idea what that means?"
"I'm fit to bear children for the king?"
Cersei's voice grew colder. "A prospect that once delighted you. Bringing little princes and princesses into the world. The greatest honor for a queen." She paused. "Joffrey has always been difficult. Even his birth… I labored a day and a half. You cannot imagine the pain. I screamed so loudly I was sure Robert would hear me in the Kingswood."
Sansa listened, wide-eyed.
Cersei continued, her words like winter frost. "The more people you love, the weaker you are. You'll do things for them that you know you shouldn't do. You'll act the fool to make them happy, to keep them safe. Love no one but your children. On that front, a mother has no choice."
"But shouldn't I love Joffrey, Your Grace?" Sansa asked quietly.
Cersei's smile was pitying. "You can try, little dove."
Torrhen's eyes snapped open in the frozen grove.
Blood trickled from his nose. The visions had shown him enough. Arya was in danger of being discovered. Sansa was being shaped by Cersei's cynicism. The Hound had seen him in the man he possessed fighting to save sansa and remembered.
Torrhen's eyes snapped open in the frozen grove.
Blood ran from his nose and mouth in thin rivulets. The visions had shown him too much — Arya dancing on the edge of discovery, Sansa bleeding into womanhood under Cersei's cold tutelage, and now this.
A new wrongness clawed at the edges of his mind. The green sight flickered again, unbidden. He saw chains rattling. A cell. Jaime Lannister's golden eyes gleaming with desperate cunning. Blood on stone. A guard falling. The North fracturing as Karstark rage boiled over into open rebellion.
Torrhen rose. The frost on his cloak shattered like glass as he moved. No time for slow riding. He melted into the shadows between the trees, using the old ways — the cold veil of the Winter Kings that let him move like mist across the land. The camp was only a short distance away, but he covered it faster than any mortal horse could manage, a ghost in the night that no sentry saw or heard.
He arrived at the prisoner pens just as the vision unfolded in truth.
Riverlands – Robb's Camp
The night air was thick with tension. Torches flickered around the makeshift stockades where high-value prisoners were kept. Alton Lannister had been brought in earlier that evening — a minor cousin, nervous but trying to maintain Lannister dignity. He was placed in the same cell as Jaime for the night.
Torrhen watched from the deepest shadows, silver eyes glowing faintly as he remained unseen.
Inside the cell, Jaime was speaking softly to Alton, reminiscing about old tournaments and squiring days. The golden lion's voice was smooth, disarming. Then, without warning, Jaime struck.
A brutal headbutt. Chains whipped around Alton's throat. Jaime beat the smaller man to death with ruthless efficiency, the sound of bone and flesh muffled by the night.
As Alton's body slumped, Jaime turned to the lone guard outside the cell — Torrhen Karstark, one of Rickard's sons, standing watch. Jaime lunged for the keys, ready to crush the guard's windpipe and escape into the chaos.
Torrhen Stark moved.
He stepped out of the darkness like a ghost made flesh — no sound, no warning. One moment the shadows were empty. The next, a pale hand clamped around Jaime Lannister's throat from behind in an iron chokehold. The Kingslayer's eyes widened in shock as he was yanked backward against the bars.
Jaime struggled, chains rattling, but Torrhen's grip was supernatural — cold as the crypts of Winterfell, strong as the roots of the weirwood. Jaime's face turned purple. His attempts to break free were futile.
"You will not escape tonight, Kingslayer," Torrhen whispered, voice like cracking ice. "Not while I still breathe."
Jaime's struggles weakened. He was alive — barely conscious — but alive.
Torrhen's other hand moved subtly. Winter power flowed. He touched the fallen guard, Torrhen Karstark, and wove an illusion of death — a crushed throat, still chest, cooling skin. The man appeared dead to all who would look upon him. But the spark of life remained, hidden deep beneath Torrhen's winter magic. He would wake later. For now, the scene had to look right.
Torrhen dragged the unconscious Jaime back into the cell and chained him properly, then melted back into the shadows just as shouts began to rise.
The camp erupted moments later.
Guards found Alton dead and Torrhen Karstark seemingly slain. Rickard Karstark arrived like a storm, face twisted with grief and fury.
"My son!" he roared, dropping to his knees beside the "body." "The Kingslayer has murdered my boy!"
Jaime, now conscious again and chained, watched with calculating eyes. He saw the dead guard. He saw the rage building. He understood the game being played around him.
Rickard rose, sword half-drawn. "I want his head! The Lannister whore killed my son!"
Catelyn Stark and Brienne arrived quickly, pushing through the growing crowd of angry northern lords. Catelyn's face was pale but resolute.
"Lord Karstark," she said firmly, "this man is our prisoner. He will answer for his crimes, but not here. Not like this."
Rickard whirled on her. "He murdered my son! And where was your precious Torrhen Stark? They share a name — why did he not save my boy?"
Torrhen stepped forward from the shadows then, his presence sudden and commanding. Frost seemed to follow in his wake.
"I was too slow," he said quietly, voice carrying across the gathering crowd. "I could not stop the first death. But I stopped Jaime before he could escape or kill more. The Kingslayer lives… for now."
Rickard glared at him, grief making his voice raw. "You share his name and you let this happen?"
Torrhen met the older man's eyes without flinching. "This will be the last time you question your King."
He let the full weight of the Winter Kings' aura wash outward.
The air grew bitterly cold. Frost formed on weapons and armor. The lords and soldiers nearest to him felt it in their bones — an ancient, crushing power that spoke of long winters, crypts filled with dead kings, and the unyielding will of the North. Rickard Karstark took an involuntary step back. Even Catelyn shivered. The lords who had been murmuring about rebellion or splitting from Robb suddenly thought better of it. Houses on the brink of something stupid froze in place, eyes wide with new fear and respect.
Torrhen held the aura for a long moment, then released it. He touched the "dead" Torrhen Karstark with a subtle pulse of power.
The young man gasped suddenly, eyes flying open. He coughed, clutching his throat, very much alive.
Rickard stared in disbelief. "My son…?"
"He lives," Torrhen said simply. "As does the Kingslayer. For now. Lady Catelyn is right — he will face justice under the King's law."
Catelyn nodded gratefully and ordered Jaime placed in the stocks under heavy guard, chained and gagged. The crowd slowly dispersed, shaken by what they had felt.
Robb arrived shortly after, drawn by the commotion. He took in the scene — the revived Karstark, the subdued Jaime, and Torrhen standing like a statue of winter made flesh.
Later, as the camp settled, Robb walked with Talisa near the edges of the tents. His eyes lingered on her as they spoke of the wounded and supplies.
"I ride to the Crag soon," he told her quietly. "To accept a surrender… and perhaps find the medicines your patients need. Will you come with me?"
Talisa smiled faintly, a spark of something warm passing between them. "If it will help the men… yes."
Catelyn and Brienne watched from a distance, noting the growing affection between her son and the Volantene healer. Catelyn's expression was troubled — the weight of promises and politics heavy on her shoulders — but she said nothing.
Torrhen stood apart, silver eyes on the southern horizon.
The North had been reminded of what he was.
And soon, he would remind the rest of the realm.