When everyone was ready, Eddard led the group with firm and steady steps, silence settling among the knights and their sons, who followed closely behind.
Each rode their horse, keeping pace with their father, the lord. A heavy tension hung in the air. They rode in this silence, crossing the vast lands of Winterfell, as the mist thickened ahead and the wind carried the cold northern air.
The good old North!
Bran, still young and curious, tried to grasp the weight of the moment, though he felt anxious and uneasy. Beside him, Jon and Robb maintained a serious demeanor.
Jon, attentive to his younger brother's every move, cast glances of understanding and encouragement, while Robb kept his gaze fixed ahead, as if he already had a better grasp of the severity of this duty.
Finally, they reached the place where the deserter awaited, held by two soldiers, his eyes filled with tears and his expression one of pure terror. He trembled, not just from the cold, but from something that seemed to have shaken his mind irreparably.
As they approached, his murmurs became more audible, strange words dancing in the air like echoes of a nightmare. The green mountains around them, now cloaked in thick mist, seemed to watch them as silent witnesses to the act about to unfold.
Eddard dismounted, followed by his sons and his men. He walked toward the deserter, his face impassive, his eyes carefully scanning the surroundings.
When he finally came close, Eddard fixed his gaze on the deserter, his expression still as unmoving as stone. The man, facing his fate, hesitated, his dry mouth trembling as the words struggled to escape.
— I know I broke my oath. I know I am a deserter. — he said, his voice trembling at first but gaining strength. — I had a duty to return to the WALL and warn them, BUT… — He paused, the pain evident in his eyes, before steadying himself and continuing, truth ringing in every word. — But I know what I saw! I saw the WHITE WALKERS! Everyone must know! T-tell my family I am not a coward and that… And that I am sorry.
Eddard listened to his words with an unchanging expression, but inside, he felt the snowball form. White Walkers? The tales of the North! Was this the excuse of a young man who had abandoned his duty? That was enough for Ned, who, in that moment, was not just Eddard Stark or Ned—he was the Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell! And he had a duty.
One of the knights stepped forward with a long sword in its scabbard, standing between the two. Ned knew that responsibility was not just enforcing the law, but protecting all those under his arms and actions.
The knights led the deserter forward, the large rock serving as the stage for the execution, his neck stretching. The young deserter simply waited, without struggle or protest. It was something that created a mix of surprise and hesitation in Ned, but that was soon brushed away.
Eddard invoked his oath, like a prayer for what he, as lord, was about to do.
The sentence began, and everyone around felt the weight of the words Eddard murmured, especially Bran, who instinctively almost closed his eyes. But Jon, beside him, whispered low, without looking away:
— Keep watching, Bran. Father will know if you don't.
Bran nodded and, taking a deep breath, kept his eyes on the act unfolding before him.
— In the name of Eddard Stark, of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. — he finished, his voice firm and as sharp as the steel he wielded. — I sentence you to die!
Eddard raised the ancestral sword of his house, Ice, with fluidity, and with a single swift and precise strike, the deserter's head was severed, rolling to the ground.
Blood flowed from the neck onto the lower parts of the rock and stained the green grass. Silence fell heavily over the place, only the sound of the wind echoing in the distance, carrying with it the feeling of cold and solitude that lingered there.
Jon, before going to his horse, gave a small tap on Bran's shoulder, with a faint approving smile:
— You did well.
Robb approached and also nodded at Bran, guiding him back to where the horses waited. The young Stark followed in silence, reflecting on what he had just witnessed.
After a few moments, as Eddard arranged his belongings, he approached Bran, who stood beside his horse, a knight present, his eyes still somewhat lost.
— Do you understand why I did it? — Eddard asked, his voice deep and calm.
Bran lowered his gaze, thoughtful, and answered hesitantly:
— Jon said he was a deserter.
Eddard nodded but repeated the question, a little firmer, trying to draw something more from the noble boy:
— But do you understand why I was the one to kill him?
Bran pondered and answered, with a mix of doubt and conviction:
— Our way… is old…
Eddard observed him seriously, nodding slowly.
— He who pronounces the sentence must wield the sword.
And the silence that followed seemed long, as if reaffirming that ancient tradition of their house.
Bran looked at his father, understanding a little more of the weight he carried and that, one day, he might carry himself.
…
As they rode back, Jon watched his family's backs, lost in thought. To him, this sight was a kind of silent security. His father, Eddard Stark, leading them with that resolute air, his brother Bran beside him, the very image of Stark unity. He was so absorbed that he barely noticed when Robb pulled on the reins, aligning his horse with his.
— Hey, if you keep that dreamy look, 'Jon Snow,' you're going to end up on the ground. Theon would love a new excuse to mock you! — Robb teased with an amused grin.
Jon lifted his head, snapping out of his trance at Robb's words, and saw the warmth in his half-brother's expression. Robb seemed to genuinely want to talk, not just poke fun. Jon shrugged, but a small smile appeared at the corner of his mouth.
— Looks like you've finally had enough of hearing about the countless maidens he's "charmed" in the brothels!? — Jon mimicked Theon's exaggerated, arrogant voice, drawing a muffled laugh from Robb.
The two rode side by side, savoring the rare moment.
With Theon ahead, busy with the other riders, Robb and Jon had the space and time to speak openly, without fear of Greyjoy's constant jabs.
Robb used to make Jon feel normal, less like the "bastard of Winterfell," but with each cold day that passed, Jon was realizing the differences between being a trueborn Stark son and being a bastard of one. He shook his head, clearing his thoughts before he could dwell on them too much—because it always left a dull ache in his chest.
— You know, Jon... — Robb began, drawing his attention, his tone more serious but still carrying a faint smile — One day, when all of this is just a memory, I'll still remember that dreamy look on your face, lost in the sight of our family's backs. What are you thinking about, huh? Brother?
Jon lowered his gaze to the reins, the seriousness returning to his face.
— I think about a lot of things. Things I might never understand… — he hesitated, remembering the dreams. Night after night. — Or things that might never make sense to someone like me. — His tone was slightly somber, with a hint of resignation he tried to hide, though his face always betrayed him.
Robb glanced at him sideways, unsure how to respond to his brother's melancholy. But, in typical Stark fashion, he smiled and gave Jon a light shove with his shoulder.
— Well, if it ever really matters, whatever it is, I'm here to understand, Jon. After all, someone has to pull you out of the mud when Theon is done laughing! Or maybe you should "charm" a maiden like him to forget your troubles for a while.
The two laughed once more, feeling the weight of doubts and uncertain fates fade into the wind—if only for a moment.
***
He hated hearing "no" when he wanted something. So, when Layla rejected his offer, he had to swallow hard and step back—at least for now. Damn, she really annoyed him! But that didn't mean he would give up.
He watched the alleys, memorized every second, learned the patterns. It was a matter of patience and time. And there he was again, waiting.
He arrived earlier than usual.
The alley was empty, except for the fountain where Layla fetched water daily. It was always her. She carried a jar far too large for her frame, and although other slaves passed by, none even considered helping her.
Why?
Was it a punishment imposed by someone? A consequence of the defiance he saw in her eyes? She didn't seem like the type to take orders without a fight.
If Layla had such a strong will, why did she refuse his offer?
Did she not want to escape this miserable life? Or was it him she didn't trust?
Maybe his aura scared her enough to make her believe the opposite of what he intended. Which only intrigued him more. She could see his magical aura perfectly. The first person he had ever met who could. His first encounter with someone like him in this world.
She didn't understand yet. But he believed he could make her understand.
When Layla finally appeared, she showed no surprise. It was as if she already knew he would be there.
Without hesitation, she shot him an impatient look and, with a sharp movement, placed the jar on the ground.
— What are you doing here? — she challenged. — I already told you I'm not going anywhere with you!
He sighed.
— And do you really want to keep living like this?
Layla crossed her arms.
— And what? Go with some weird boy on some crazy adventure? As if I'd trust you!? As if I even knew who you are!? — She huffed. — For all I know, you could be… I don't know, a child of the dark arts!?
He raised an eyebrow, offended. Dark arts? He was a mage, a real one.
But, thinking about it, it was natural for her to see him that way.
So, he took a deep breath and, with a slight smile, raised his hand.
— Want me to show you?
Layla hesitated.
— Show me what?
— That I'm telling the truth. — He tilted his head, amused. — But only if you don't run away first.
She narrowed her eyes, suspicious, but nodded, unsure of what to expect.
He closed his eyes and channeled his mana. He felt the energy flow to his palm. When he opened his eyes, Layla was watching him closely. Unlike the others, she could see everything.
The fireball appeared, floating above his hand, crackling softly. Layla's eyes widened, and she covered her mouth, unsure how to react.
— A-ah… — She tried to speak, but only a whisper of shock came out.
He knew this reaction well. Xhalor, for example, would be impressed by the fireball itself. But Layla… Layla saw beyond.
And that made her interesting.
— I'm a mage! — His voice came out firm. — And this… is magic.
Layla paled. For a moment, he thought she was going to faint.
— Do you still think I'm just some weird kid from the 'dark arts'?
She took a step back.
— This… this is a trick!
He rolled his eyes.
— A trick? Seriously? Does this look like some street illusion?
She remained silent. But her gaze, fixed on the ball of flames, said more than words.
He decided to take it further.
The fireball flickered and began to change shape. It gained form. Contours. Then, it rose into the air like a flaming bird, flapping its wings slowly.
Layla stepped back again, stumbling over the ground. She was completely mesmerized by the fiery bird and, in an automatic gesture, reached out toward the magical creature.
Her fingers trembled, her eyes filled with disbelief and tension. Her mind struggled to find a logical explanation for what she was seeing, failing over and over again.
With a little more effort, she leaned forward, trying to reach the bird—wanting to touch it, yet giving up the very next second. Even from a distance, she could feel the warmth emanating from the creature.
Then, the firebird dissolved into a whirlwind of red and yellow sparks. Just as quickly as he had conjured it, the firebird vanished.
— See? This isn't an illusion. — Eigan said, his voice breathless, though he tried to hide just how drained he felt at that moment.
Small beads of sweat formed on his face and, hidden beneath his robes, on his body as well.
Layla swallowed hard. When she lifted her gaze to him, something new had taken hold there: beyond the trembling, the doubt, and the overwhelming curiosity.
She took a deep breath.
— Why do you want so badly to take me away from here? I'm just a slave. There are many like me. What could possibly make me special?
Eigan almost slapped his forehead. How was he supposed to explain something like this in simple terms?
— There aren't many like you! — He crossed his arms as he reaffirmed. — You see beyond. You're the first person I've met who can see this way. Most would only see the final result, but you see the process. The first step.
She widened her eyes.
— I... I really see? — Her voice came out low, as if it were a grand secret even to herself. Not for a moment had she thought about it.
She raised a hand near her eyes, passing it around, trying to convince herself that it made sense. She could have thought it was a disease, a curse, or anything else. But this? This had never crossed her mind.
He nodded.
— Yes. And that's good. Very good, actually!
She remained silent. The world seemed to open up before her. After a while, she whispered again:
— And if I accept... and believe you? Would I be crazy?
He gave a slight smirk, a mix of new confidence.
— Crazier for following a "weird boy" or for staying a prisoner for the rest of your life?
Layla lowered her eyes to the pitcher lying on the floor.
In a decisive gesture, she pushed it aside, as if she were abandoning everything it represented.
Then, she rose from the ground and, as if finally casting her vote of acceptance and trust, took a step forward.
Eigan felt an urge to smile even more.
— Well, it looks like you've made a choice?!
Layla took a deep breath.
— But know one thing… — She met his gaze firmly. — I won't be your slave. I won't be forced into anything. And most of all… — She blushed. — I will never, at any moment, warm your bed.
He blinked, surprised.
What the hell was she talking about?
Layla lifted her chin, defiant. He couldn't help but laugh. Was her young age not enough for her to know he wasn't interested in that—for now?
"She knows how to use that sharp tongue when she wants to."
— Fair enough. — He nodded, amused.
Layla hesitated for a second, then took the final step forward. Now standing face to face with the strange boy.
Now, to her, the strange magical boy.
— But before anything… I want you to do something for me.
***
I was there, satisfied like a cat that had just caught a fish. Convincing her had been a worthy challenge, but now, finally, I could properly prepare for Valyria. I would have the time and freedom to test the gift she possessed—the fascinating ability to see mana, my mana.
She told me that ever since she had lived in Westeros, in the North, she had been able to see it, but never as pure as the one flowing within me. That was one of the reasons she had been so surprised and confused.
And, well, that was understandable. The mana around me was always clean, bright, pure. I was the first she had seen with such clarity. I imagine it must be like comparing a candle to a bonfire.
As for the North of Westeros... Could traces of magic still exist there? Who knows? Perhaps the Old Gods still play in those lands.
As I pondered my next step, the memory of her request returned to my mind like a small piece of wood. It was a splinter, and I had to remove it soon.
After accepting that I was a mage (which, let's be honest, wasn't easy), she stared at me with that furious look—the look of someone who had known the pain of being deprived of her full freedom. And my magic truly fascinated her because she expected me to do something like that easily.
'Kill them- ...Kill Jorvihan for me'
Jorvihan. The so-called "owner" of the alley, as she had told me. The filthy tyrant who thought himself king of everything and everyone there. Layla, with her almost stubborn courage, resisted his desires and paid dearly for it. Hunger, exhaustion, endless labor, and many whippings. Her soul still bore the marks of the beatings that bastard had given her. And now, Layla was asking me to close his eyes forever.
Not just his. "Them..." It wasn't just Jorvihan she wanted dead.
I hesitated slightly...
Qohor was not a place to kill random people without reason. However, with Layla now by my side, perhaps it was a small price to pay for loyalty.
Yes, it would be worth killing a few to gain trust in return. After all, who hasn't traded something for a bit of loyalty, right?
Killing Jorvihan wouldn't be difficult. On the contrary, it would be easy. But what about those who had brought Layla here? The ones who had taken her from her home? Her true home...
I even considered that perhaps it wasn't Jorvihan that Layla truly hated, but rather those who stole her from her family.
Before I could delve even deeper into these thoughts (which, I admit, were starting to become somewhat interesting), Xhalor's irritating voice sounded behind me. "Friend" was a generous term for the merchant; "pain in the ass" was more accurate.
— So? Are you going to tell me or not? What's with that face? Did things finally work out with that "woman"? — he asked, somewhere between teasing and mild curiosity, as he helped me with the crates.
I nodded, running a hand over my face, realizing I had been smiling without noticing.
— Let's just say I found a useful person for the journey — I replied, trying to sound casual.
Xhalor stopped, watching me with a suspicious look that would make an inquisitor blush with pride.
— Hmmm… S-so that's it…? Wait…! You mean all that time wasted in the alleyways was because of this?? Who is this "useful person," huh? — he asked, raising an eyebrow as if he were about to unravel some great mystery.
Unfortunately, I couldn't tell him much about Layla.
— A slave… A friend — I admitted, picking up another crate.
Xhalor choked, almost dropping his own load before setting the crate down.
— What? A slave? Have you lost your mind? Slaves aren't trustworthy! They're slaves! — he shook his head, incredulous.
It was as if I had just announced I was planning to marry a dragon.
I smiled, winking at him as I passed by with another crate.
— No one is trustworthy until you make them so, Mister Xhalor.
He huffed, crossing his arms, but his expression was filled with doubt.
— You think you can trust a slave? Slaves only obey out of obligation. Look at the Unsullied! They're only loyal because they were broken and reforged. Unless you plan to break her like a wild horse! — he said, making a gesture with both hands as if snapping an invisible branch.
I wondered since when he had become more relaxed around me. Did he really expect me to do something that extreme? What had I done to make him think that of me? And why was he even trying to give me advice?
— Maybe you're right, but she… She's special in her own way. — I said, patting his shoulder before going to grab another crate.
Before leaving, I turned my face back to him, my gaze firm:
— And look, I'm not a torturer… Not yet.
Xhalor laughed, but it was a nervous laugh, as if he wasn't sure whether I was joking or not.
— "Not yet"… Great, that makes me feel so much better! — he replied sarcastically.
I smiled, knowing that, deep down, he was somehow worried. Already knowing what I am and what I can do, honestly, I wasn't expecting that from him.