Game of Thrones:Dawn of Ice and Fire.

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Chapter Ten: Whispers Beneath the Roots

The godswood was quiet, the only sound the faint rustle of leaves and the distant hum of Winterfell's life. The heart tree stood tall and solemn, its white bark streaked with crimson, the face carved into it serene and knowing. Jon Snow sat cross-legged on the cool ground, his weirwood bow resting beside him.

The air smelled of damp earth and fresh greenery, carrying with it the essence of ancient magic. Sunlight filtered through the red leaves, casting shifting patterns across the clearing.

A few weeks had passed since they found the hidden vault beneath the crypts. The discovery had changed Winterfell.

The new glass gardens were under construction, their foundations already gleaming with the translucent panels salvaged from the vault. The people of Winterfell were in high spirits, their excitement palpable. Fresh food would grow year-round, even in the bitterest winter, thanks to the glass gardens.

But there were rumors—endless whispers about where Lord Stark had found such a treasure. Ned Stark, ever cautious, had kept the truth hidden, revealing nothing even to his bannermen. The vault remained a closely guarded secret.

Jon didn't mind the rumors. He liked the quiet satisfaction of knowing the truth, even if no one else did.

A familiar figure emerged from the trees, boots crunching softly over the fallen leaves. Lord Eddard Stark—Ned to his brothers and closest friends—approached with his usual quiet dignity.

To the world, and even to some extent himself, this man was Jon's father. Jon had never questioned it aloud, though something deep inside him always felt... different.

"Jon," Ned greeted as he drew near.

"Father," Jon said, standing respectfully.

Ned gestured for him to sit, and they both settled on the grass beneath the heart tree. The peace of the godswood wrapped around them, ancient and enduring.

"What brings you here alone?" Ned asked.

Jon shrugged. "I like the quiet. The godswood feels... alive."

Ned's gaze was thoughtful. "What else do the old gods whisper to you?"

Jon hesitated. He knew his words often unsettled his father, but he spoke the truth as he understood it. "Not much," he admitted. "But I can feel their presence. It flows through Winterfell."

Ned's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

Jon's voice was quiet but certain. "Winterfell isn't just stone and wood. It's alive. The heart tree's roots spread beneath the castle, connecting everything. They pump the hot water from the springs under the ground through the pipes in the walls. That's why Winterfell stays warm, even in the harshest winters."

Ned listened intently, his expression unreadable.

"The roots' magic keeps the heat inside the walls," Jon continued, "and stops the soil from freezing over. That's why the plants here thrive when they shouldn't. The roots connect to every plant and tree in the castle, like veins in a body. Winterfell is... one living, breathing being."

Ned's lips pressed into a thoughtful line. "And how do you know this?"

Jon shrugged again. "I just do. The old gods let me feel it. Sometimes it's like I can hear Winterfell breathing."

Silence stretched between them, broken only by the rustle of leaves.

Jon hesitated, then added, "The Starks of old used to execute their enemies and traitors in front of the heart tree."

Ned's gaze sharpened. "I know that."

"They let their blood feed the roots," Jon said solemnly. "To thank the old gods for all the blessings they had bestowed upon House Stark."

Ned's grip tightened around the hilt of his sword, Ice, which rested beside him. "That is an ancient and brutal tradition."

Jon looked up at the heart tree, its carved face impassive. "Maybe. But the old gods are part of who we are."

Ned pondered his son's words, the weight of them settling over him like a heavy cloak. Jon spoke with a wisdom far beyond his years, and it both impressed and unsettled him.

"You see much, Jon," Ned finally said. "Perhaps more than any of us."

Jon glanced at him. "The old gods whisper to all of us. Most just don't listen."

Ned's gaze lingered on his son. There was something remarkable about the boy—something that went beyond wolfblood or Stark heritage. Jon was different, and the old gods had clearly taken notice.

They sat together in companionable silence, the peace and majesty of the godswood wrapping around them like a protective veil. The heart tree stood as it always had, ancient and enduring, watching over the generations of Starks who had come and gone.

Ned looked at his son, his heart filled with both pride and worry. What do the old gods want with you, Jon Snow?

He didn't know the answer, but he vowed to protect the boy from whatever fate awaited him.

For now, they sat beneath the ancient branches, father and son, bound by blood and secrets beneath the watchful eyes of the old gods.