A few minutes ago.....
The guards led Dean out of the study and into the quiet corridors of Winterfell.
The castle had grown silent at this hour. Everyone was deep in sleep well except for the guards and Ned.
They moved Dean through narrower corridors and after a while, they reached one of the inner towers.
One of the guards stepped forward and unlocked a heavy wooden door reinforced with iron bands. He pushed it open and motioned for Dean to enter.
Dean stepped inside.
The room was far better than the dungeon.
It was not large, but it was clean. A simple bed rested against one wall, covered with thick furs to keep out the northern cold. A small wooden table stood near the window, along with a sturdy chair. There was even a narrow fireplace built into the stone.
A single, narrow window overlooked the inner courtyard, though iron bars had been fixed across it.
It was the kind of place meant to keep someone comfortable enough to talk, but secure enough that they could not leave.
One of the guards stepped in behind him and untied the rope around his wrists.
"You will remain inside," the guard said firmly. "Do not attempt anything foolish. If you need to relieve yourself, knock on the door three times. You will be escorted, but only at the proper hour."
Dean gave a small nod, then paused.
"About that… I'd prefer to go now," he said.
The two guards exchanged a brief glance before escorting him out. They took him to relieve himself and then brought him back to the room without a word.
Once inside, they shut the door behind him and locked it.
Dean stood still for a moment in the center of the room, letting out a slow breath as his shoulders finally relaxed.
'Yeah… this is a hell of an upgrade,' he thought happily and then walked over to the bed and pressed a hand against the fur.
Warm, clean and no shitty bucket at the corner too.
That alone made it better than the dungeon.
Dean sat down slowly, leaning back slightly as he looked toward the ceiling.
For a while, he just stared at it in silence.
Then his thoughts began to drift.
He began to question whether the choices he had made since his transmigration were truly the right ones, aside from the obvious mistake with the ritual.
There was no clear answer. Every decision so far had come from the need to survive, his instincts, and the fragments of knowledge he could remember. That did not guarantee he was on the right path.
He could not tell if what he was doing, the way he was doing it, and the path he was choosing would lead him somewhere better or just dig him deeper into trouble.
Another thought slipped into his mind.
Maybe he should have taken Bran hostage.
It was a harsh option, but it would have worked. At least for a short while. It might have given him a cleaner escape. Maybe that would have been the better move.
Dean let out a slow breath.
It was easy to judge decisions when you were not the one making them. Watching from the outside, everything looked simple. You could always point out what should have been done. But when you were the one standing there, with your life on the line, things were never that clear.
Everything became uncertain.
Maybe this was normal. Maybe everyone felt like this when they were forced into situations where every choice carried risk.
Or maybe it was just him.
Maybe he was just overthinking because he was not as smart as he liked to believe.
A smile slowly appeared on his face.
His thoughts drifted somewhere lighter.
Sam, his best friend.
Both their fathers had been close friends, and both of them had been obsessed with the show Supernatural. So much so that they had made a pact long ago to name their sons Dean and Sam.
Dean had been born first. Just a month earlier. So he got the name.
The smile on his face grew slightly as he remembered that.
If Sam had been the one who transmigrated here instead of him, things would have been completely different. That guy would have been like a fish in water.
Sam had read the books. Not just once, but two or three times. He used to complain constantly about how the show skipped details or changed things from the books.
Dean, on the other hand, had never even touched them.
Sam had told him once that in the books, the man who escaped from the White Walkers was not Will. It was someone named Gared. An older and more experienced ranger.
Dean had barely listened at the time.
Sam had even tried to convince him to read the books, saying they were far better and more detailed.
Dean had promised he would.
And then, like always, he had forgotten about it the very next day.
Now, lying here in a completely different world, that small forgotten detail suddenly felt a lot more important than it ever had before.
Dean let out a quiet sigh and slowly lay back on the bed, closing his eyes.
His thoughts shifted once more, this time towards the Lord of Winterfell.
He wondered what the man planned to do next. He had already said more than enough. He had warned him about the White Walkers, about the king, and even about his own fate. At this point, whatever happened next was no longer in his hands.
It was up to Ned now.
And even if the chances were very, very low that Ned would agree and provide those animals, the outcome would be significant. His shadow space would be filled with far stronger and more useful creatures. That alone would make a huge difference and make his chances of survival far more secure.
Hunting those kinds of animals on his own would have taken time, effort, and a ridiculous amount of risk. And using the sacrificial ritual way, he could skip all of that.
With his eyes closed he started praying to the very same Old Gods whose name he had been using so wantonly.
He just hoped that, for once, they would play along and make Ned Stark agree.
───────────── ✦ ─────────────
Time passed more quickly than Dean had expected.
Days slipped into weeks, and before he truly noticed it, nearly four weeks had gone by.
From what he could gather, the King and Queen and their entire procession had already arrived in Winterfell.
He had not seen it himself, but the guards spoke among themselves often enough. Their voices carried through the door in fragments. It was enough for him to understand what was happening.
The castle had changed. There was more movement, more noise, and a constant sense of tension.
Dean, however, remained exactly where he was.
He was still confined to the so-called guest chamber, with guards stationed outside at all times. They watched the door constantly, making sure he was still inside.
At first, he had thought the confinement would get to him.
But strangely, it did not.
He barely even realized how those four weeks passed.
In his previous life, he had spent long periods confined to a bed. Compared to that, this was different. Here, he could at least move around the room, stretch, and keep himself occupied.
It was not freedom, but it was enough for now and he chose to bear with it.
What troubled him was something else entirely. In all this time, Ned Stark had neither come to see him nor summoned him for a single conversation after the ritual thingy.
Not once.
Dean leaned back against the wall, his mind restless and unwilling to settle. He could not tell whether Ned had already dismissed him as a problem no longer worth considering, or if the man was still thinking, still watching from a distance and weighing his options.
The uncertainty gnawed at him. A clear rejection, even a harsh one, would have been far easier to accept than this quiet, indefinite waiting.
His thoughts drifted back to the ritual, and he clicked his tongue softly in irritation. Perhaps that had been his mistake. Perhaps that single moment had pushed things too far and undone whatever fragile trust or ground he had managed to build. If that was true, then remaining here might already be a dangerous choice.
His gaze shifted toward the door as the idea of escape surfaced again. It was not impossible, but the timing could not have been worse. The King's arrival meant Winterfell was under the tightest security it would ever see. Guards were everywhere, patrols more frequent, and any unusual movement would draw immediate attention. Attempting to flee now would not be bold, it would be reckless.
Waiting seemed like the better option. If the King departed and Ned chose to ride south with him, the situation inside the castle would inevitably change. The tension would ease, the vigilance would drop, and opportunities would begin to appear. That would be the moment to act, not now.
Dean exhaled slowly, though the breath did little to calm him. There was always the possibility that events would not follow that path.
A darker thought crept inside his head.
What if Ned might choose to deal with him before any of that could happen, while the King was still present?
He frowned at the idea, turning it over carefully. It did not seem likely. Ned Stark was not a careless man, and he understood the weight of what Dean knew. Acting against him in the King's presence would introduce risks that Ned would not take lightly. Even so, likelihood was not certainty, and that gap left room for danger.
Dean ran a hand through his hair, irritation flickering briefly across his face before fading into something colder. He did not know what Ned Stark was thinking, nor what decision the man would ultimately make. That uncertainty, more than any visible threat, was what made the situation truly dangerous.
Despite that, he stayed.
He had already built a foundation by presenting himself as someone chosen by the Old Gods. Acting too quickly now could destroy that completely.
So he chose patience and over those four weeks, he focused on improving himself.
He spent most of his time training. During the day, he exercised his body within the limits of the room. At night, he focused on his ability.
Shadow Extraction.
Again and again, he practiced it.
At first, it had been rough and inconsistent. But with time, he grew more comfortable using it. His control improved. His speed increased. The connection between him and his shadows became sharper and more natural.
The more he trained, the more efficient he became.
By the twenty-ninth night of his captivity, the difference was clear. His body felt stronger than before, and his control over his ability had reached a level where he could use it without hesitation.
Dean had reached a point where he could use it without hesitation.
At the same time, he spent hours going over everything he could remember from the show. Every event, every detail, every character. He tried to reconstruct timelines in his mind and think ahead, forming rough plans for what might come next. It was not perfect, but it was something to hold on to in the uncertainty.
He needed to be ready.
Four more days passed in the same slow, uneventful rhythm.
By the fourth night, after finishing his meal, Dean stretched slightly and prepared to lie down.
He had just begun to stretch when a sharp sound broke through the silence.
The lock clicked open, and the door slowly creaked inward. Two guards stepped inside and fixed their gaze on him.
"Come," one of them said.
Dean rose from the bed without a word and once his hands were bound, they walked down the corridors.
Something had changed. Dean could feel it from the tension lingering in the air. Whatever awaited him now, it was not the same as before. He summoned his ants and quickly ordered them to position themselves for a quick escape.
After walking for a while, the guards and Dean stopped in front of Ned Stark's chambers.
One of the guards stepped forward and pushed the door open, then gestured for Dean to enter.
Dean walked in crossing his fingers hoping everything would go well.
While the guards remained outside and closed the door behind him with a soft thud.
Dean stepped further into the chamber and quickly realized he was not alone.
Catelyn Stark stood near the window with her back turned. She was looking out at the night sky as moonlight spread across the courtyard and into the room. The pale light gave the chamber a quiet and heavy feeling.
Ser Rodrik Cassel stood to one side, upright and still, with a stern expression. His hand rested near the hilt of his sword, ready if needed. Maester Luwin stood a short distance away, calm and watchful.
Near the door stood Robb along with Theon Grejoy alert and focused, carefully observing every movement of Dean.
The presence of all these people made the room feel tense. No one spoke for a few moments.
Then Catelyn slowly turned around.
Her face looked tired, and there was clear grief in her eyes. She looked directly at Dean before speaking.
"Men have prayed to the Old Gods since before memory," she said. "Thousands of them. Good men. Desperate men. None of them were ever answered." Her eyes fixed on his, unblinking. "So tell me why they would answer for a oath-breaker like you."
☩ ───── End of Chapter ───── ☩
For 5+ advance chapters visit my P1treon.
P1treon - Midnightblade07