Chapter 492: The Crypt
As the sun set, snow began to fall once more, blanketing the sky in a white haze.
"I once heard someone say that when the Old Gods of the North are angry, the North will see heavy snow," Arya Stark said, holding a lantern as she walked alongside her sister Sansa and the King through the snow-covered grounds.
"Judging by the weather, it seems the Old Gods are quite upset today."
At the end of the evening feast, Samwell had expressed a desire to visit Winterfell's crypts and pay homage to the past rulers of the North.
Though the Starks found the request unusual, they saw no reason to refuse.
Sansa eagerly volunteered to guide him, and Arya, ever curious, decided to tag along.
The three of them trudged through the snow, surrounded by a world of white.
Nearby, some mischievous children played in the courtyard, throwing snowballs and building snowmen. They adorned the snow figures with iron buckets for helmets, wooden spears, and shields, transforming them into snow knights.
Arya watched the children longingly, clearly itching to join their games. If she hadn't been accompanying the King, she likely would have run off to join the fun.
The entrance to the crypts was located in the oldest part of the castle, now buried under a thick blanket of snow.
Samwell waved a hand, and suddenly, flames erupted from the snowbank, glowing with a ghostly blue hue as they danced in the wind. The sight was strangely beautiful.
The two sisters stood frozen in awe.
"Incredible! Is this sorcery?" Arya exclaimed in amazement. She began pestering the King to teach her such magic.
Samwell humored her with noncommittal responses while pushing open the crypt door and stepping inside first.
A wave of cold air rushed out from the depths of the crypt, so chilling that even Samwell, surrounded by his protective fire element, felt its icy sting.
Compared to the crypt's frigid air, the howling winds outside felt like a gentle spring breeze.
"It's freezing!" Arya shivered, momentarily forgetting her questions about magic.
"But… how could the crypt… become this cold?" Sansa stammered, her teeth chattering.
Winterfell, built atop natural hot springs, usually maintained warmth even in the harshest winters. The crypt, in particular, had always been a haven of residual heat from the springs.
Yet now, the air felt as though it had been frozen solid.
"Stay close to me," Samwell instructed, emanating a faint red glow that enveloped the sisters.
The warmth from the glow pushed back some of the biting cold, allowing them to follow him deeper into the crypt.
The passageway was dark and seemingly endless. The flickering light from the lantern illuminated the stone slabs beneath their feet and the granite columns lining the corridor.
Pushing open another heavy stone door, they entered a long arched tunnel.
Sansa instinctively hugged her arms close. She had always found the crypt unsettling, despite knowing it was the resting place of her ancestors—her own family.
Yet she couldn't shake the feeling that the stone statues seemed alive, their eyes glowing faintly as they watched her every move.
Arya, on the other hand, felt right at home. She had spent countless hours playing hide-and-seek here as a child. The darkness and cold didn't faze her in the slightest.
"Your Majesty, let me introduce you to our ancestors," Arya said, pointing to the tombs as they passed. "These are the Kings in the North. That one there is Torrhen Stark, also known as the King Who Knelt."
Samwell nodded in recognition. Torrhen was the last King in the North.
Protected by the Neck, the North had long been isolated from southern invaders, allowing it to maintain independence.
While the Andals had crossed the Narrow Sea to conquer the First Men and take over the southern kingdoms, they had failed to breach the Neck.
As a result, the people of the North remained descendants of the First Men, steadfast in their worship of the Old Gods rather than the Faith of the Seven.
But the Neck could not stop dragons.
When Torrhen Stark saw the might of Aegon the Conqueror's dragons, he bent the knee and swore fealty, transforming the King in the North into a mere lordly title: Warden of the North.
"And this is King Edderion the Snowbeard," Arya continued, pointing to another tomb. "He ruled the North for over a century..."
They walked among the Stark dead, their footsteps echoing in the vast crypt.
Each stone coffin bore a carved likeness of its occupant, the stone eyes seemingly watching the living. At the feet of each tomb lay a crouching stone direwolf, their silent presence lending the crypt an eerie air.
"This is Brandon the Shipwright," Arya said, stopping at another tomb. "He loved the sea and sailed across the Sunset Sea. But he never returned from one of his voyages. His tomb is empty.
"After his death, his son burned all the ships in the North and earned the nickname 'Brandon the Burner.' Since then, the North has had no navy.
"And over here is Beron Stark. He allied with Casterly Rock to fight the ironborn of Pyke. It's said he had a feud with Bloodraven, the Targaryen bastard who ruled as Hand of the King."
Arya turned to Samwell with bright eyes.
"Your Majesty, I've heard Bloodraven was a sorcerer too!"
Samwell chuckled but didn't elaborate. Instead, he pointed at a tomb and asked:
"Why does this King's tomb lack the iron sword on his knees?"
According to tradition, every Lord of Winterfell's statue had an iron sword laid across its knees to prevent vengeful spirits from rising and haunting the living.
"Ah, it's true—there's no sword!" Arya noticed, stepping closer. The sword was gone, leaving only rust stains where it once lay.
Had the swords corroded over time? Or had someone deliberately removed them?
Whatever the reason, the lack of swords stirred an unsettling thought: without them, could the ancient spirits now wander freely?
The idea made Sansa's body go rigid.
"I'll have Maester Luwin arrange for new swords to be placed," she said quickly.
Arya grinned mischievously, leaning toward her sister:
"What's the point? Maybe the ghosts have already escaped!"
"Don't be ridiculous!" Sansa snapped. "Our ancestors are resting in peace!"
"We'll be buried here someday too," Arya teased. "If they don't put a sword on my tomb, I'd definitely sneak out!"
"Then I'll make sure they cover your tomb with a dozen swords!" Sansa retorted.
Samwell ignored their squabbling and walked farther down the crypt. He suddenly stopped and turned.
"Why does the path end here?"
"That can't be right," Arya said, hurrying to catch up. "The tunnel should go much farther..."
Her voice trailed off as the lantern's light revealed the passage ahead blocked by dirt and stone.
"What happened?" Sansa gasped. "Did the tunnel collapse?"
Samwell pressed his hand against the cold stones, closing his eyes in concentration. After a moment, he smiled faintly.
"Someone doesn't want me to go any farther."
"W-who?" Sansa stammered, her face pale. "Your Majesty, who doesn't want you to proceed?"
Even Arya looked serious now, her playful demeanor gone.
"Your Majesty... could it be the spirits of the Stark ancestors?"
Samwell shook his head and said nothing. Instead, he turned back the way they had come.
"Let's go. It's time to leave."
The sisters exchanged uneasy glances but didn't dare ask further questions. They quickly followed the King out of the crypt.
(End of Chapter)