Scalding hot water ran through Winterfell's thick stone walls like blood in veins, day and night pushing back the North's endless cold wind.
They said the castle was ten thousand years old.
Brandon the Builder had raised it with magic and massive stones right over the hot springs, carving out the North's first real home.
Not Lord Eddard's brother Brandon—the one the Mad King hanged. Not his uncle or great-uncle who died young, either.
The original one. The First Man from the Age of Heroes.
Funny thing was, the guy had a loose connection to Joffrey too.
Storm's End had been built by the first Storm King, Durran, on the cliffs north of Shipbreaker Bay. Durran married the sea god's daughter, so the gods answered with storm after storm and smashed his castle six times straight. On the seventh try a little boy showed him how to fix the design. That boy was Brandon. The place has stood ever since.
These days Storm's End belongs to House Baratheon. Robert gave it to Joffrey's uncle Renly.
Joffrey sometimes wondered if Brandon had tested his building skills down south first, gotten the kinks out, then headed north to build the real thing.
Legends aside, the Winterfell in front of him looked like a weathered giant. Its huge body could swallow a thousand people without blinking.
Towers stood tall against the sky. Moss on the stone walls kept count of every summer and winter that had passed.
It was also a perfect snapshot of how far the North had slipped.
Early that morning Joffrey stood at the tower's stone window, looking down at the courtyard traffic.
Stark guards were changing shift.
Gray-black leather over light chainmail for easy movement. Gray cloaks edged in white satin.
Every face was wind-reddened, but the men moved with crisp discipline and quiet energy. They looked like real soldiers.
Only two hundred of them.
That was the full standing garrison Lord Eddard—Warden of the North—kept at his own seat.
Joffrey recognized more than a few faces from the walls at Moat Cailin.
Brandon built that one too.
Proof that Eddard wasn't as straight-laced as everyone thought. The man had quietly moved troops north ahead of time just to look stronger.
A familiar raspy voice came from behind him.
"Up early, Your Grace."
Joffrey didn't turn. "Uncle."
Tyrion strolled over wrapped in a thick fur cloak embroidered with a roaring golden lion. The little shit looked like a miniature bear from Casterly Rock.
He had to stand on tiptoe and grab the windowsill to see out.
"What are you staring at?" the Imp asked, tilting his head. "The North's charming poverty?"
"Defenses," Joffrey answered honestly. "Thick walls, solid towers, but not enough bodies. If someone hit before the bannermen could rally, these guards couldn't even line the whole perimeter."
Tyrion snorted. "Who the hell would attack this frozen shithole? Wildlings? They'd have to climb the Wall first."
Joffrey stayed quiet.
Smoke curled up from the winter town in the distance. Most of the king's entourage had spilled into the town since the castle couldn't hold everyone. White Harbor merchants had already set up temporary stalls outside the walls.
"Robert's idea of royal splendor," Tyrion said with his usual mocking drawl. "Wherever he goes, he turns the place into a market."
Joffrey shook his head, a little worried. "Too many people, too many eyes. All that noise means chaos. Father dragged along way too many unknowns on this trip. Something's going to go wrong."
Tyrion eyed him sideways. "What's eating you today? Hiding up here brooding about something?"
Before Joffrey could answer, the Imp jumped down and waved it off.
"Never mind, don't tell me. I'm hunting a warm fire and a warmer girl. Today's for enjoying."
His short shadow stretched long across the floor as he headed for the door. Joffrey spotted Sandor Clegane standing guard there.
"Dog, why didn't you tell me my uncle was coming up?"
The Hound pretended to scan the empty hallway. "Imp's here? Didn't see him."
Then he glanced down. "Oh, there's little Lord Tyrion. My mistake."
Watching the two of them trade barbs eased the knot in Joffrey's chest a little.
Yeah. What the hell was he even worrying about?
He still didn't know exactly what he was supposed to worry about.
The new role was tricky as fuck.
The night the feast ended, he had tested his new skill [Stargaze] right away. He focused on Catelyn and caught a clear view of what was happening around her.
The castle maester had brought her a wooden box with a Myrish lens inside. Under the false bottom lay a hidden letter—Lysa's accusation, written at Littlefinger's order.
The two sisters used some private cipher. Joffrey stared at it for a long time and still couldn't crack the meaning.
Before he could copy it down, Catelyn shoved the whole thing into the hearth and burned it.
He saw a few other private details he definitely wasn't going to mention out loud.
After a while of cold wind on his face, Joffrey took the spiral stairs down to the courtyard and ran straight into Robb, who was headed out.
"Joffrey! Been looking for you." Robb's eyes lit up. He waved the wooden practice sword in his hand. "Come on, training yard. I stayed up all night figuring out how to beat that move of yours."
Joffrey almost flinched.
Robb had challenged him every single day since they arrived. Every single day he lost. Joffrey had started throwing him a few easy openings just to keep the red-haired kid's pride from dying completely.
But training every damn morning was exhausting.
Luckily he had a perfect excuse today.
"Can't," Joffrey said, shaking his head with just the right amount of regret. "Your sister asked me to tour the castle with her."
Robb's face fell. "Sansa?"
"She'll just show you flowers and embroidery. What's the fun in that?"
"Ignore her. I'll give you the real tour later."
Joffrey only smiled and looked past Robb's shoulder down the hallway.
Robb immediately started trash-talking his sister.
"All her stories come from Old Nan or those stupid songs. None of it's real…"
His voice trailed off.
Suddenly the red-haired boy stepped closer and whispered, "She's right behind me, isn't she?"
Joffrey nodded, grinning.
"Shit—I just remembered Theon wanted to shoot some arrows. Gotta go!"
Robb bolted without looking back.
From the far end of the hallway came the soft sound of light footsteps.
The girl kept her head down, hiding her expression, pretending she hadn't heard a word of the earlier exchange.
"Your Grace, we can go whenever you're ready." Sansa dropped a perfect curtsy.
She wore a long blue velvet gown today, sleeves trimmed with silver-thread snowflakes. Her auburn hair was braided neatly and fell over one shoulder.
Joffrey gave a small bow and offered his arm through the sleeve.
"My pleasure."