The silence that stretched after Robb Stark's words seemed to possess weight and substance of its own. The morning light filtering through the elongated windows of the Great Hall drew dancing patterns upon the polished oak table, tracing figures reminiscent of the ancient symbols carved in the hearttrees of the Godswood. The young man's eyes gleamed with particular intensity as he leaned over the table, his voice adopting a deeper timbre than in his previous commercial exchanges.
"My true purpose in Winterfell, Lord Stark," began Ethel, weighing each word with the precision of a swordmaster choosing his strike, "was to speak with your father about matters that transcend commerce. Matters concerning the very fate of the Seven Kingdoms... and of the entire world."
Catelyn Stark maintained her carefully neutral expression, though her fingers tensed visibly upon the table's edge. Robb, for his part, narrowed his eyes with the calculating gaze he had inherited from his father.
"My father is now in King's Landing, as Hand to King Robert," he responded with measured tone. "If your matter is as crucial as you suggest, why did you not continue your journey south?"
Melisandre, whose ruby pulsed softly against her throat like a supernatural heart, exchanged a glance with Ethel before intervening.
"The flames showed me that the path must begin here, in the North," she explained, her melodious voice resonating with innate authority. "Last night's events confirmed we were not mistaken. Young Brandon's awakening is no coincidence, but a portent."
Theon Greyjoy, seated slightly apart from the Starks as befitted his ambiguous position as ward-hostage, let out a contained chuckle that he attempted to disguise with a cough when Catelyn's stern gaze fell upon him. The ancient iron had little respect for prophecies and mystical visions.
Bran, however, observed the priestess with absolute fascination. His small hands rested motionless upon his lap, but his eyes seemed to contain a strange wisdom, inappropriate for his childish face.
"The eternal winter approaches," murmured the boy, his voice barely audible yet charged with disturbing certainty. "I saw them coming. Beyond the Wall."
A collective shiver ran through the table. Those words, spoken by any other child, would have been dismissed as fantasies born of feverish delirium or too many of Old Nan's stories. But the Bran who had awakened was different. All present could feel it.
Ethel nodded gravely, his gaze fixed upon Winterfell's heir.
"Some months ago," he continued, drawing everyone's attention anew, "in Volantis, I began experiencing recurring dreams. In them, I saw a colossal ice wall cracking under pressure from an unstoppable force. At first I attributed them to exhaustion or excess of strong Myrish wine." A humorless smile curved his lips for an instant. "But the dreams intensified. They became more... specific."
"What exactly did you see?" asked Robb, unable to hide his growing interest despite the skepticism he had attempted to maintain.
"An army advancing southward," responded Ethel, each word laden with grim certainty. "Not an army of men, but of what once were men. Commanded by beings of ice and death, whose mere touch extinguishes all life. The Others, they call them in your lands. White Walkers, in the common tongue."
Theon snorted openly this time, earning another reproving look from Lady Stark.
"Children's tales," dismissed the heir to the Iron Islands. "Stories to frighten little ones during the long winters."
"All legends have a core of truth, young Greyjoy," replied Melisandre with unshakeable calm. "And allow me to introduce myself formally, since the circumstances of our meeting have not permitted it until now." She straightened slightly, the morning light reflecting off the golden threads of her scarlet tunic. "I am Melisandre of Asshai, High Priestess of the Temple of R'hllor, the Lord of Light, in Volantis."
The title reverberated through the hall with almost tangible weight. Even Theon seemed momentarily impressed, though he strove to conceal it.
"Do not misunderstand me, my lady," intervened Catelyn with the courtesy her position demanded, but with unmistakable firmness. "We deeply appreciate your intervention in my son's awakening. But the North venerates the Old Gods, as the Starks have done for millennia."
Melisandre inclined her head respectfully.
"I do not come to convert, Lady Stark," she clarified. "I come to prepare. In the great war approaching, all gods, old and new, must unite their forces against the long night."
"I am not the only one who has had these visions," resumed Ethel, directing the conversation back to the main matter. "Priests in temples from Asshai to Braavos have contemplated fragments of the same future. The pattern is unmistakable: the Others have been gathering forces for centuries beyond the Wall, and now they prepare their advance. In a matter of years, perhaps less, they will march upon the Seven Kingdoms with power unseen since the Long Night."
Summer emitted a low whine, almost a whisper, and pressed closer to the side of Bran's chair. The boy instinctively placed a hand upon the massive direwolf's back, drawing comfort from his presence.
"If that were true," reasoned Robb, carefully choosing his words, "why come to the North? The Crown has much greater resources. King Robert..."
"King Robert is a formidable warrior against enemies of flesh and blood," interrupted Melisandre, "but the threat we face requires more than Valyrian steel and brave men. It requires ancient magic. Magic that runs particularly strong through Stark blood."
A heavy silence followed this declaration. Catelyn looked at her children with worried expression. Magic, in the practical Northern view, belonged to the era of the First Men and the Children of the Forest. It was history, not a resource for modern times.
"What kind of magic do you believe we possess?" asked Robb with a hint of incredulity, though the memory of the ritual that had awakened his brother was still fresh in his mind.
Ethel looked meaningfully toward Summer, whose protective posture beside Bran was undeniably unusual for a beast as wild as a direwolf.
"Skinchangers," he responded simply. "Wargs, in the old tongue. Men and women capable of introducing their consciousness into animal minds, seeing through their eyes, sharing their senses. This ability was common among the First Men, but over millennia it has diluted or been lost completely... except in some particularly strong bloodlines."
Bran tensed visibly, his gaze meeting Ethel's with an understanding that was disturbing in someone so young.
"The dreams," he murmured. "I fly in my dreams. Like a three-eyed raven. And sometimes..." his voice became a whisper as his fingers tangled in Summer's grayish fur, "...sometimes I am him."
Catelyn stifled an exclamation, her hand instinctively seeking her youngest son's. Robb, however, observed the merchant with renewed interest.
"Supposing what you say is true," conceded the young Stark, measuring each word, "what exactly do you propose?"
Melisandre took the word, her presence momentarily dominating the room.
"The blood of the First Men runs strong in the Starks, more than in any other House of the Seven Kingdoms," she explained. "And the extraordinary circumstances that have brought your brother to the border between worlds have awakened gifts that would normally remain dormant for generations."
"Brandon is not the only one," added Ethel. "All your siblings possess the seed of this ability, though manifested in different degrees. The direwolves you found were not a coincidence, but a call of destiny."
Robb fell silent, thoughtful. He vividly remembered the strange dreams he had experienced since Grey Wind's arrival in his life. Dreams where he ran on four legs through the Wolfswood, where he could smell prey from miles away and feel the earth's heartbeat beneath his pads.
"You are suggesting we learn to use these... abilities," he stated, rather than asked.
"It is imperative," confirmed Melisandre. "The war approaching will not be won with swords and shields alone. The Others bring with them ancient and terrible magic. They can only be faced with equivalent powers."
Theon, who had remained unusually silent during this exchange, finally intervened with barely veiled skepticism.
"All this sounds very convenient," he observed, his eyes narrowed with distrust. "You arrive at Winterfell with your apocalyptic prophecies just when Lord Stark has departed south and the heir is an inexperienced youth. What do you truly seek?"
Ethel held the young Greyjoy's gaze without blinking, his countenance serene but firm.
"Survival, young lord," he responded simply. "The same that all living beings seek when winter approaches." He turned toward Robb and Catelyn. "I do not ask for blind faith. I offer tangible proof of my intentions. First, practical help for the immediate challenges you face."
He extracted from among his garments a scroll sealed with red wax, placing it upon the table.
"Here you have a commercial contract. My company commits to delivering regular shipments of grain and preserved provisions from lands beyond the Narrow Sea. In exchange, we request exclusive rights over the export of heartwood and Northern iron. An agreement that will greatly benefit Winterfell while your lord father serves as Hand of the King, especially if winter approaches as quickly as the omens suggest."
Catelyn examined the document with experienced eye, weighing the terms.
Robb studied the merchant with renewed attention. There was something about Ethel that seemed familiar, almost disturbingly so, though he could not precisely pinpoint what.
"You mentioned your plans to travel to King's Landing eventually," recalled the young Stark. "When will you depart south?"
"When I have fulfilled my purpose here," responded the Volantene enigmatically. "Which includes visiting the Wall and also attempting to help you with your abilities."
Ethel resumed the conversation, addressing Robb directly.
"Usual protocol would suggest we await your lord father's return to discuss these matters," he acknowledged. "But the times we face are not usual. The stars align in patterns that have not been observed in millennia. The white ravens of the Citadel will fly soon, announcing summer's end." His expression grew somber. "The winter approaching will not be like any other the Seven Kingdoms have experienced in generations."
Robb exchanged a glance with his mother, seeking counsel in her experienced eyes. Catelyn nodded slightly, a gesture almost imperceptible to the others present but clearly readable to her son.
"We will seriously consider your warnings and your commercial offer, Maester Ethel," declared the young Stark with authority that seemed to solidify with each spoken word. "For now, we accept your presence in Winterfell as our honored guests. We will speak more about these... gifts you mention when Bran has completely recovered his strength."
The tension in the room seemed to lighten slightly with this diplomatic declaration. Theon continued showing skepticism, but had learned over the years that the Starks rarely made precipitous decisions. If Robb was willing to listen to the merchant and the priestess, it was because he saw something valuable in their words.
"It seems a wise decision to me, Lord Stark," approved Ethel with a measured bow. "Patience is a virtue that Volantenes deeply appreciate."
The meeting continued for some time more, discussing practical aspects of the proposed commercial agreement and arrangements for the visitors' prolonged stay. Bran, though visibly fatigued by his first public appearance since awakening, remained attentive to every word, his eyes following the exchange with understanding that vastly exceeded his age.
Finally, when the morning light had given way to the full clarity of midday, Catelyn considered that her youngest son had endured enough for one day.
"If you will excuse us," she announced, rising, "I must accompany Brandon back to his chambers to rest. It has been an exhausting morning for someone in his condition."
Robb and Theon rose respectfully, followed by Ethel and Melisandre. The merchant, however, stepped forward as Catelyn began maneuvering the improvised chair where her son sat.
"Lady Stark," his voice had adopted a different tone, almost intimate, "if you would permit me, I would like to exchange a few words privately with you before you retire."
Catelyn hesitated visibly, her maternal protective instinct in clear conflict with the curiosity awakened by the enigmatic merchant.
"Robb," she finally decided, "could you escort your brother to his chambers? I will join you shortly."
The young Stark nodded, taking control of Bran's chair while Theon opened the heavy hall doors to facilitate their exit. Summer faithfully followed his master, his massive gray form gliding silently behind the chair.
When the doors closed again, leaving Catelyn alone with the visitors, Melisandre exchanged a meaningful glance with Ethel before bowing respectfully.
"With your leave, I will wait outside," she offered, withdrawing with a whisper of scarlet silk before Lady Stark could respond.
The silence that followed was almost palpable. Catelyn observed the merchant with the cautious reserve that had characterized her since their arrival.
"What do you wish to discuss?" she finally asked, maintaining a courteous but distant tone.
The young man approached a few steps, his dark eyes studying the Northern lady's face with intensity that would be uncomfortable in any other circumstance.
"About the weight you have carried for these fifteen years, my lady," he responded with disarming softness. "A weight I observe in your eyes each time conversation approaches certain topics. A pain you have borne with the dignity proper to your House."
Catelyn's carefully composed expression faltered for an instant.
"I do not know what you refer to," she responded with defensive coldness.
"To the bastard's presence in your house," clarified Ethel without ambiguity. "To the constant reminder of a supposed infidelity that has slowly poisoned your trust in a man whose honor is, paradoxically, his most defining characteristic."
Catelyn recoiled as if she had received a physical blow, her blue eyes opening with surprise before narrowing with suspicion.
"How dare you...?" she began, her voice barely controlled.
"I do not seek to offend you, my lady," interrupted Ethel with gentleness. "On the contrary. I believe you deserve to know a truth that has remained hidden too long, a truth that could heal ancient wounds."
He approached another step, lowering his voice though they were completely alone in the vast hall.
"The boy, Jon Snow, does indeed carry Stark blood in his veins," he confirmed. "But he is not Eddard Stark's son."
The words fell between them like stones in a still pond, sending waves of shock through Lady Stark's habitually controlled countenance.
"What are you insinuating?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.
"I do not insinuate, my lady. I affirm." Ethel's eyes reflected absolute certainty. "The boy is the son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen. Lord Eddard claimed him as his own to protect him from King Robert's wrath, who would have ordered the child's death without hesitation had he known his true ancestry."
Color completely abandoned Catelyn's face. She instinctively leaned against the table's edge to maintain balance while the implications of that revelation unfolded in her mind like a complex and terrifying tapestry.
"That is not possible," she murmured, though something in her expression suggested the pieces fit in a puzzle she had never been able to completely solve. "Lyanna was kidnapped, raped..."
"History is written by the victors, Lady Stark," responded Ethel with soft but firm tone. "Rhaegar did not kidnap Lyanna. They loved each other. They married in secret. And when Lord Eddard finally found his sister in the Tower of Joy, she lay dying in a bed of blood after giving birth to the child you now know as Jon Snow."
Catelyn brought a trembling hand to her lips.
"How could you know this?" she questioned, her voice a strangled whisper. "Who are you really?"
For a moment, something ancient and almost inhuman seemed to peer from behind the supposed merchant's eyes.
"Let us simply say I have access to knowledge that others have forgotten or never possessed," he responded enigmatically. "My identity is not relevant at this moment. What matters is that you understand your husband never betrayed his marriage vows. His only disloyalty was toward his friend Robert, and only to protect an innocent child... to fulfill the promise made to his dying sister."
Tears shone in Catelyn's eyes, though her Tully pride prevented her from shedding them openly.
"Fifteen years," she murmured more to herself than to Ethel. "Fifteen years hating an innocent child. Resenting my own husband for a betrayal he never committed."
"The past cannot be changed, Lady Stark," observed Ethel with surprising gentleness. "But the future always remains malleable. What you do with this information depends entirely upon you."
Catelyn looked at him directly then, new resolution forming behind the initial shock.
"Why do you tell me this now?" she asked, recovering part of her characteristic composure. "What do you gain from this revelation?"
Ethel smiled slightly, though the gesture did not completely reach his eyes.
"The war approaching will require all ancient wounds to heal," he responded. "The Starks must be united, strong. And the boy... has a role to play in coming events. A more significant role than anyone could imagine."
Without adding more, he performed a formal bow and headed toward the door where Melisandre waited. Before leaving, however, he paused briefly.
"I would suggest absolute discretion about this matter, my lady," he advised without turning. "Knowledge is power, but it can also be deadly in the wrong circumstances. Especially with what approaches from the south."
With these final cryptic words, the merchant left the Great Hall, leaving Catelyn Stark alone with revelations that shook the very foundations of her existence for nearly two decades.
Outside, in the torch-lit stone corridor, Melisandre waited with the immutable patience of one who has contemplated time's flow from perspectives inaccessible to common mortals.