The Winter Wizard - Interlude 6 - The Prisoner and the North

Almost total darkness and pain. That was all Eddard Stark knew now.

The air was thick and damp with the stink of rot—old straw, old piss, old blood. There was no sun, no moonlight, and for the most part not even the faint glow of a torch flickering beyond the door. Just blackness. Wet stone and silence, except for the occasional drip of water from above, or the soft scuttling of rats. The walls seemed to press in closer each day, each hour, or perhaps he was only losing the memory of space.

He had no idea how long he had been in the black cell. Time didn’t seem to pass here—not in the way it did in the world above. There was only the cold, the pain, and the darkness.

And occasionally a visitor.

“Again,” a voice commanded, sharp and uncaring, though there was an edge to it. “Harder this time.”

He didn’t see the blow coming, but he felt it. A meaty fist slammed into his stomach, folding him like a cloth. He gasped, or tried to—air didn’t come fast enough, and the agony bloomed like fire through his ribs. His torturer didn’t speak. He never did. Just did as he was told. Brutal, efficient, and cold as the stones beneath Ned’s knees.

Another punch—this one low, into the side. Ned grunted and collapsed against the wall. His head smacked the damp stone and he felt a tooth come loose. Blood flooded his mouth, thick and hot.

The voice spoke again, calm, almost amused. “I don’t want to ask again. Where did the boy you arrived in King’s Landing with go?”

Ned coughed, blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth. He lifted his head, blinking through the pain and trying to see through the dim room. “I … don’t remember who you’re referring to.”

Another wave of the hand from the person hidden in the shadow. Another blow. This one crashed into his face so hard his head snapped back against the wall. Pain exploded behind his eyes, and for ten long seconds, the world was made of lights and noise. A ringing like bells filled his ears. When it finally began to clear, he was slumped against the stone, barely upright.

He spit blood onto the ground in front of him.

A pause.

Then: “Harry Potter. Where did he go? And tell me more about what he can do.”

Ned froze. For a moment, his breath caught in his throat.

Magic. His secret. Somehow, they knew. Or at least someone had seen enough to begin asking questions.

And now they wanted him. The boy. The power.

He swallowed blood and hatred and stared into the shadows where the voice had come from. “Fuck you.”

Another flick of the hand. The torturer moved fast—he always did. A fist like a warhammer cracked into Ned’s face, shattering his nose with a sickening crunch. The pain was sharp, red, and endless. His head snapped back again, striking the wall. He tasted iron, bile, and something worse.

He didn’t cry out.

He would not give them that.

The voice let the silence stretch for a moment before speaking again. “You’re a stubborn man, Lord Stark.”

They didn’t sound angry. Just … patient. Coiled like a snake.

“I wonder how much more of this you can take before you realize there is no reason to hold anything back.”

Ned panted, blood dripping from his nose, down his beard, soaking his tunic, but he didn’t respond.

The silence that followed was heavier than the darkness.

Then they laughed, just once. Cold. “You always were bad at playing the game.”

A subtle creak of wood and movement stirred the stale air.

The figure, still hidden in the shadows at the far end of the chamber, stood from their chair with practiced grace. Ned couldn’t see the person clearly—not from where he knelt, slumped against the rough, damp stone—but he could hear the faint swish of fabric, the soft clink of a wine chalice being set aside.

“Well,” said the voice. Smooth, cold. “If you don’t want to talk about him, let’s ask a different question.”

The silence between them seemed to grow deeper.

“Where did you send your children off to, Lord Stark?” the voice asked with feigned kindness. “The North, perhaps? I know they were involved in a fight at the dock. During their foolish, desperate escape. What did you tell them before they fled?”

Ned’s heart stopped—just for a moment.

A fight?

There had been a fight?

His head fell forward slightly, hair sticking to the blood on his face. Two … three … no, maybe seven days? He wasn’t sure. The hours bled together in this cell. How long had it been since he was dragged down here, beaten, and left to rot in the dark? He couldn’t trust his sense of time anymore. But if what they were saying was true—if there was a fight—it meant his daughters hadn’t simply been caught while they had been trying to flee.

They had escaped.

And his interrogator had just told him.

He lifted his head again, a slow grin spreading across his broken face, splitting his swollen lips. “That,” he said with a thick rasp, “was a mistake.”

The figure stepped forward slightly, but still remained in shadow, silent for a beat before chuckling. “How so?”

Ned looked directly into the dark, into the outline of where their eyes would be. “Because now I know my children got out.” He paused before smiling. “You thought you could break me. But now I know. And there's nothing you can say or do that will make me tell you what you want to hear.”

A silence heavier than stone settled between them.

The figure didn’t respond immediately. Then, in a burst of motion, a glass chalice flew from the shadows and shattered against the wall near Ned’s head, spraying wine and fragments of glass.

The eyes that had stared at him from the shadows glared at him for several seconds. And then they stepped forward finally, out of the gloom—and revealed themself.

Cersei Lannister.

Clad in red and gold, though the colors seemed muted in the faint torchlight, her face was a mask of fury, but beneath it—there was something else. Panic, maybe. Or the realization that she’d overplayed her hand.

“You think it matters what you think you know?” she screamed. “You’re rotting in here. You’ll die rotting in here, and no one will even know where you were! I don’t care what you know, you’ll tell me what I want to know.”

Ned looked up at her. “I know the truth about your children, and eventually the entire realm will as well,” he said softly.

That did it.

She lunged forward as if to strike him herself but caught herself just in time. Her face twisted in anger, her hands clenched at her sides. “There is nothing you can do from here. No one is coming for you. The world above won’t even remember your name.”

He didn’t look away. “Robert might not be the most observant individual but even he will notice I’m missing eventually. And when he does … what will you do then? Someone will have seen something. Heard something. What’s your plan when your lies fall apart?”

She smiled then—slow, wicked, triumphant. The rage faded into something colder.

“Oh, Robert noticed,” she said lightly, almost mockingly. “The day after you disappeared, in fact. Obviously he was going to as your disappearance meant that there was work for him to do. But he was easily distracted, all I had to do was suggest you’d gone off to settle some matter for the realm.”

She paused, tilting her head like a cat admiring a caged bird.

“But after one day of the work he got bored and do you know what he did then? He went hunting.” She pauses smiling. “And of course with you being down here I suppose you wouldn’t have heard what befell my great husband.”

She spit the word like it was foul.

Ned felt something cold press against the back of his neck.

“He was gored by the very boar he was hunting … and he’s not expected to survive the week,” she said sweetly.

Then she laughed.

It wasn’t a forced laugh or a mocking one. It was joyful. Real.

And that was the moment Ned Stark felt the first ripple of true fear. Not for himself, not for Robert. For the realm.

She turned away then, red skirt swaying around her legs. The torturer followed, wordless as ever, his fists still slick with Ned’s blood.

At the doorway, she looked back once more. “I’ll return in a few days,” she said idly. “Perhaps by then you’ll feel more like talking. And perhaps … if you’re very cooperative … I’ll make sure you are fed.”

Ned said nothing.

She shrugged, and then she and the brute vanished into the darkness, the iron door groaning shut behind them with a final clang.

Once again, silence.

The darkness returned.

Ned sat slumped, his face aching, his breathing labored. He told himself not to believe her. That Robert was strong, that no drunken hunt could bring him down. But he remembered the look in her eyes. That fierce joy. Not the sort of look you fake.

He closed his eyes, willing his thoughts to stop spiraling. He needed clarity. Strength.

He had to believe his children had escaped. That they were safe. That Robert lived. That someone—someone—would realize what had happened.

Time passed—he couldn’t say how long.

Then came the sound.

Footsteps. Slow, shuffling.

He tensed.

At first, he thought it might be them returning. Her. The brute. But the sound was wrong. It was coming from deeper in the cells, not from the doorway where they had exited. From the direction of blacker pits.

He turned, slowly, stiffly, every muscle protesting.

A faint light bobbed ahead. Not bright. Not a lantern. A single candle, maybe.

He squinted, shielding his eyes.

The figure came into view like a ghost—soft silk, pale skin, powder and perfume. The glint of a bald scalp under flickering flame.

“Lord Stark,” came the soft voice. Calm. Measured. “You look terrible.”

“Varys,” Ned croaked, blinking through the haze of pain and hunger. “Come to finish what others have started?”

“I very much prefer not to get my hands dirty.” The eunuch smiled sadly. “But no, my lord. Quite the opposite.”

He sat cross-legged on the cold floor without a word, placing a small wrapped bundle before Ned. Inside was a heel of bread, a small wedge of cheese, and a clay jug filled with weak beer. The smell alone nearly made Ned weep.

“You need your strength,” Varys said gently. “We need to talk.”

Ned stared at him, unsure whether this was a dream or madness.

Varys’ eyes gleamed like candlelight on water. “You were right to tell her nothing. But time is running out for you.”

Ned tore into the bread with shaking hands. “Tell me the truth,” he said between bites. “Is Robert …?”

Varys nodded slowly. “He was gored by a boar four days ago. He lingers, but he’s dying. Cersei moves quickly—her son already sits the throne in all but name.”

Ned swallowed hard. “Joffrey …?”

“Cersei’s child,” Varys said, his voice suddenly cold. “But you were right he is not Robert’s.”

Ned looked at him sharply. Varys met his eyes and gave a slight, knowing nod.

“I warned you, Lord Stark. The game is played in shadows and whispers. But now it’s being played with steel.”

Ned’s blood turned to ice.

“My daughters?” he asked, barely able to say the words. “Arya? Sansa?”

“They both managed to escape. There was certainly quite the scene on the docks and as of now no one knows where they’ve gone.” A pause. “But I have a feeling within a few days word will start trickling in from sightings of them in the North.”

Ned looked down at the floor, guilt like lead in his chest.

Varys leaned forward. “There is still time, my lord. But very little. You must be strong—and clever. Cersei thinks she’s won. But overconfidence makes people careless.”

Ned wiped his mouth, sat up straighter. The food had helped, but more than that, the truth had.

He wasn’t alone in the dark anymore.

“Then tell me what I must do,” he said quietly.

The clang of blunted steel echoed through the courtyard of Winterfell as Robb Stark and Theon Greyjoy traded blows under the watchful eyes of a few guards and idle onlookers. The air was crisp, and both young men were slick with sweat despite the cold. Robb’s sword struck Theon’s shield with force, driving him a step back, but Theon came back with a jab that Robb had to twist away from.

“You’re fighting like a man possessed,” Theon huffed as they stepped back from each other, lowering their weapons to catch their breath.

Robb shook his head, wiping the sweat from his brow. “I don’t know. I just … I can’t shake the feeling I need to be better. Stronger. Faster.”

Theon chuckled, resting his practice sword on his shoulder. “While maybe not as bad as Jon, you’ve always had that Stark focus, but lately you’ve turned it into something useful. I’ll give you that.”

Before Robb could reply, a shout rang out across the yard. A guard, red-faced and panting, sprinted toward them. “Lord Robb! A party’s been spotted approaching Winterfell!”

Theon raised an eyebrow and snorted. “What, you think Lord Stark’s son needs to run out and kiss every traveler’s boots now? Let someone else handle it.”

The guard hesitated, nodding to Theon. “Apologies, my lord. But the sergent thought you’d want to hear the news, despite still being a little ways off it appears as if they’re traveling with two direwolves.”

Robb’s breath caught in his throat. He turned sharply to Theon, his expression a mix of disbelief and hope.

“Direwolves? Sansa and Arya …” he whispered.

Theon’s smirk vanished. “Seven hells …”

But Robb was already gone. He dropped his blunted practice sword, sprinting across the courtyard without another word. Grey Wind, who had been lounging in the shade nearby, sprang to his feet and followed, tail high and eyes alert.

As he entered the castle’s stable, Robb didn’t stop to explain to the stablehands. He didn’t bother with a saddle. He simply flung himself onto the back of the nearest horse and spurred it forward, galloping through the gate at breakneck speed, Grey Wind keeping pace beside him. His heart pounded louder than the horse’s hooves.

Two direwolves. Not three.

Where was the other? Had something happened while they were leaving King’s Landing? Was Jon with them? Was Father?

He forced the questions down. He would know soon enough.

The road opened before him, the towering trees of the wolfswood getting larger as he rode. He leaned low over the horse’s neck, urging it faster, faster—until finally, through the gaps in the trees, he saw them.

A small party, maybe ten riders. And flanking them, unmistakable against the path, were two direwolves.

He didn’t slow down.

The riders in front shouted in alarm and drew their swords, thinking they were about to be attacked. But a voice called out from behind them, half-laughing, as Robb came to a stop in front of them.

“Do you truly not recognize Lord Stark’s son? I’d have thought the direwolf would have given it away,” came the familiar voice of Jory Cassel, riding near the middle of the group.

“He means us no harm—he’s just here to see—”

“Robb!”

A small figure threw back her hood and after jumping off her horse,darted past the guards before Jory could finish.

Arya.

She hurled herself at him, her boots kicking up dirt, her face alight with joy and relief.

Robb slid off the horse just in time to catch her in his arms, staggering slightly under her momentum. She smelled of pine and mud, her wild curls tangled, her cloak half-unfastened. But her grip around him was fierce, and Robb held her just as tightly, closing his eyes for a moment.

“I knew it,” he whispered into her hair. “I knew you would be ok.”

“Of course I am,” Arya muttered, breathless. “You think I’d let them catch me?”

Robb laughed—a shaky, stunned sound—before he looked up and saw his other sister.

She stood just past Jory, her hands clasped at her chest, her eyes wide and misting. She didn’t shout or run at first—she simply breathed his name.

“Robb …”

It was barely a whisper, but he heard it clearly.

And then whatever decorum or formality she had been clinging to melted away. With a choked sob, she ran to him as well, wrapping her arms around both him and Arya. Robb held them both, one arm around each sister, crushing them to his chest.

“You’re home,” he said softly. “Both of you.”

Behind him, the thunder of hooves announced the arrival of the Winterfell guards, weapons drawn in alarm. Robb waved them down without looking, eyes still fixed on his sisters.

But as his heart swelled with relief, another question gnawed at him. He turned slightly, glancing past the small procession, looking from face to face. Besides recognizing Jory there were no others that were familiar.

No Father. No Jon.

Robb’s brow furrowed. “Where’s Father?” he asked quietly. “Where’s Jon?”

Arya looked at him, a flicker of something unreadable passed across her face, as she hesitated before finally opening her mouth.

Before she could speak, Sansa reached over and squeezed her arm—hard enough to make Arya yelp in pain.

Robb frowned at the exchange.

Sansa’s face had gone still. She met his eyes, and though her voice was calm, it carried a weight behind it.

“They’re not here,” she said. “We should speak inside. There’s much to tell.”

Robb’s blood turned to ice.

But he nodded, because whatever had happened, whatever they were carrying, his sisters were alive. They were here.

That was enough for now.

He turned to the others. “Bring them in. We’ll speak in my father’s solar. Get them warm. Have food and drink sent up. And have someone prepare their rooms so they can rest afterwards.”

The nearest guard inclined his head. “As you command, Lord Robb.”

The party began moving again, slower now, with Arya leading Nymeria and Sansa riding beside her. Grey Wind rode directly behind them, having fallen in step with Lady.

Robb rode between his sisters, one hand on each of their shoulders. He didn’t let go the entire ride back to Winterfell.

“…and then the boat pulled away,” Sansa finished, her voice quiet but steady as she sat upright in the chair near the hearth of Lord Stark’s solar, looking from her brothers to her mother. “The last we saw was Harry, Jon, and Ghost heading off towards another ship. Then they vanished into the fog.”

The room was silent for a breath. Robb let out a long exhale, shoulders relaxing as if the weight of the whole north had been lifted from them for a moment.

“Thank the Seven,” Lady Catelyn murmured from beside the hearth. Her hands were clasped tight in her lap, knuckles white, but her voice carried unexpected warmth. “Thank the gods for Jon doing that.”

Robb turned to her with surprise.

She hesitated, her jaw working for a moment before she said, “I have no desire to develop a relationship with him … but, well … I can acknowledge what he did. He stayed behind to let my girls escape. For that, he has my thanks.” Her voice trembled at the edges, but she didn’t look away.

Robb studied her, unsure of how to respond. Then he looked back to Sansa. “But why didn’t Father come? After receiving the letter he must have known he’d be in danger, especially now that—” He stopped himself, glancing toward Bran.

Sansa’s expression faltered, her eyes dipping down. “He wouldn’t leave,” she said softly. “He said … he couldn’t abandon Robert. Not yet.”

Catelyn sprang up, pacing in front of the hearth with fire in her eyes. “That bloody stubborn fool!” she hissed. “He’s too loyal for his own good. He’ll follow Robert right into the grave if he thinks it’s his duty!”

Robb tried to suppress the smirk that tugged at his lips. But the smirk quickly disappeared as beneath the momentary mirth, a current of worry ran deep through him. Father was still in King’s Landing. With the Lannisters. With whoever else had made the capital a nest of serpents. The feeling of relief that had surged when he saw his sisters was already fading, replaced with the tight, gnawing unease of uncertainty.

He straightened and turned to Jory Cassel, standing near Ser Rodrik with the air of a man finally home. “What about the rest of the trip?” Robb asked. “How was the journey?”

Jory gave a small smile. “As well as can be hoped. We made it to White Harbor without issue, then managed to hire some men-at-arms while keeping a low profile before heading west. Stayed in abandoned farms mostly. A few caves here and there.” He glanced at Arya, who grinned. “Some enjoyed the journey more than others.”

Robb raised a brow, glancing at Arya. “I should suppose I’m not surprised.”

After a second he looked back to Jory and bowed his head slightly. “House Stark will always be in your debt for managing to bring my sisters home. But I imagine in the meantime your father would like spending some time with you. And I certainly believe you have earned some rest.” He paused looking between Sansa and Arya before looking back to Jory. “Afterall I can’t imagine travelling with my sisters was the easiest trip.”

Arya rolled her eyes and threw a crumpled piece of parchment at him, which he batted away with a grin.

Jory bowed his head to hide a smile before saying there was no trouble at all on the journey.

“I don’t believe it,” Robb said, chuckling. “You’ve earned your rest, Jory. And your place in Winterfell’s hall for as long as you want it. My father will want to reward you himself once he returns, but if you could excuse us.”

He gave the room a short bow. “My lords. My lady. With your leave.”

Robb nodded. “Good night, Jory. You’ve done House Stark proud.”

Once Jory was gone and the fire had resumed its soft crackle, Robb’s eyes turned back to his sisters. “Alright,” he said, expression sharpening. “I get the feeling that you two didn’t mention everything.”

Sansa and Arya exchanged a glance. Arya looked like she was barely holding it in. Sansa gave her a slight shake of the head, but Arya only squared her shoulders and blurted out, “Harry can do magic.”

The words fell like a stone in the room. The fire snapped. Bran leaned forward in his chair, eyes wide. Rickon gasped audibly.

Catelyn scoffed. “Arya, don’t be ridiculous—”

“He can,” Sansa interrupted. Her voice was firm. “We saw him use it when he helped us escape. Harry didn’t use a sword—he didn’t have to. He used magic.”

Arya nodded. “He didn’t even touch the guards on the dock, they couldn’t get close. He just flicked his wand and bam, they were thrown off the dock or knocked unconscious.”

Catelyn looked between them, mouth parted in disbelief.

“And it’s not the first time he’s used magic to help us,” Sansa continued. She turned to Robb. “He used it on the way to King’s Landing too. To … help prevent a situation from getting out of hand. And before that …”

Her eyes fell on Bran.

“He used it to save your life.”

Bran blinked. “What?”

Sansa nodded slowly. “He told father. When you fell, he saw it happen. He used his magic to slow your fall. It wasn’t enough to stop the injury, but … he said it could’ve been worse. Much worse.”

Silence again.

Even Arya was quiet, staring into the fire as if seeing it all again.

Robb broke the stillness. “Is it true?”

Sansa met his eyes. “Father believed him.”

She reached into her sleeve and produced a folded piece of parchment, the Stark seal still intact on its wax. She held it out. “He gave this to me before we left. Said it would explain things.”

Robb took it gently, his thumb brushing over the familiar mark. He fished out his knife and slid it under the seal, just as a knock came at the door.

Everyone turned.

Robb frowned. “I said we weren’t to be disturbed.”

The door opened just enough for a guard to poke his head through. “Apologies, my lord—but Maester Luwin is here. He says it’s urgent.”

Catelyn gave a tight nod. “Let him in. We may need his counsel soon.”

The guard stepped aside and Maester Luwin entered, his gray robes swaying and a letter held tightly in one hand.

Robb opened his mouth, but Luwin was already speaking.

“A raven just arrived. From King’s Landing. It’s urgent.”

The room felt suddenly smaller.

Robb stepped forward and took the letter. It was unmarked on the outside, the seal already broken. His fingers trembled slightly as he opened it and read.

His lips moved, eyes scanning quickly, then slowing.

Everyone watched him, waiting.

“What is it?” Catelyn asked sharply. “Is it from your father?”

Robb didn’t answer at first.

Finally, he looked up, face pale but composed. “It’s not from Father.”

Kind Regards,

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Story Note 1 – Looks like Ned did end up in the Black cells although certainly the events preceding it were different and the events to come will almost certainly be different. If war was to occur I’d imagine there is no way they could kill Ned as they girls are gone!

Story Note 2 – Speaking of the girls being gone ... they made it home safely! Whew that’s a huge relief! And looks like Robb will have two notes to read one from his father and one from someone else …

A large thanks to those of you out there who enjoy my stories, I promise to keep updating the stories as long as you all are enjoying them, and a special thanks to those of you who have taken the time to leave feedback or have reached out to me directly.

Disclaimer – It has come to my attention recently that I unfortunately do not own any part of the Game of Thrones nor Harry Potter universes That includes but is not limited to the characters, locations, … Who knew.