Rodrik is still staring at him, mouth slightly open, as if expecting Aeryon to sprout flames or wings to justify what he just saw. "Opportunity?" he repeats. "Son, that weren't opportunity — that were the Queen lookin' at ye like she'd seen—"
"—a memory," Aeryon finishes quietly.
Rodrik blinks. "A what now?"
But he gets no answer.
Not because Aeryon refuses to give one —
but because someone else steps directly into their path.
Gold and crimson.
Polished steel.
A lion's smirk sharpened into something almost… curious.
Ser Jaime Lannister.
He stands close enough that Aeryon sees his breath ghost into the cold air, close enough that the torchlight glints off the edge of his armor. His posture is relaxed, casual even — but there's danger in the casualness. The sort that comes from a man who has never, not once, doubted his superiority.
"Aeryon Stone," Jaime says evenly, tasting the name like wine he's unsure he likes. "From the Vale, was it?"
Rodrik stiffens. "Ser Jaime—"
"Not talking to you," Jaime says without looking at him.
His golden eyes lock on Aeryon.
Aeryon meets the gaze without flinching.
Jaime's lips tug upward. Not quite a smile — something more like someone testing a blade to see if it will bend or break.
"Funny thing," Jaime says. "There are hundreds of bastards in the Vale. Thousands, maybe. None of them look like that."
Rodrik mutters something like, "Oh gods," under his breath.
Aeryon answers calmly, "I suppose I am blessed with good bone structure."
A passing guard snorts. Rodrik turns pale.
But Jaime?
Jaime laughs. A short, sharp burst.
"You have a tongue on you," he says. "That will get you killed up here. Or make you a few friends. Depends how good you are at knowing when to close your mouth."
Aeryon tilts his head. "Is this you advising me?"
"Advising?" Jaime echoes. "No. Testing."
He steps half a pace closer. Just enough that Aeryon can feel the weight of his presence — the lion's arrogance, the swordsman's confidence, the man who knows he's beautiful and deadly and has never been told no in his life.
"People who draw my sister's attention," Jaime murmurs, "tend to end up very lucky."
His gaze sharpens.
"Or very dead."
Rodrik lets out a strangled sound.
Aeryon doesn't blink. "If the Queen has questions, I will answer them respectfully."
Jaime studies him. For a long moment, neither speaks.
Then Jaime's eyes flick over Aeryon's silver hair, his violet eyes — really looking this time, not just noticing.
A shadow of recognition crosses his face.
Not full understanding — but familiarity.
Memory flickering behind his eyes.
"Seven hells," he mutters softly. "You really do look like him."
Aeryon doesn't ask who.
He doesn't need to.
Cersei's reaction told him everything.
Before Jaime can say more, a voice calls from across the courtyard:
"Jaime! The King wants you!"
Jaime straightens, sighs, and steps back.
But not before adding softly, "We're not done, Aeryon Stone."
He turns and walks away, cloak swaying behind him.
Rodrik finally exhales, sounding like a man who narrowly avoided a heart attack. "Boy," he whispers fiercely, "what are ye?"
Aeryon gives him a faint, unreadable smile. "A guest in Winterfell."
Rodrik glares. "Guest, my arse—"
But he stops mid-sentence.
Because something small and folded slips from the direction Cersei walked — caught perfectly by the wind as if guided — and skids across the snow until it stops at Aeryon's boot.
A scrap of parchment.
Rodrik looks around, wide-eyed, checking if anyone else noticed.
No one did.
The courtyard is full of noise again — Robert laughing, the Lannister guards moving, servants rushing — but no eyes turn toward Aeryon.
He kneels slowly and picks it up.
Unfolds it.
A single line, written in elegant, precise handwriting:
"Tonight. Do not be seen."
Rodrik reads over his shoulder, then claps a hand over his mouth. "Oh… gods preserve us."
Aeryon folds the note and tucks it inside his glove.
His voice is calm. Controlled.
And very, very certain.
"Tonight, then."
Rodrik grabs Aeryon's arm the moment he straightens, tugging him toward the nearest empty patch of wall like he expects the stones themselves to start gossiping.
"Boy," Rodrik hisses, "are ye mad? That's the queen. The queen. A married woman. A dangerous woman. The kind that smiles while plannin' how to ruin yer life."
Aeryon lets him talk.
Rodrik waves wildly toward the note. "Tonight? 'Do not be seen'? That's not an invitation, that's how every tragic story starts."
Aeryon's voice is calm. "I'll be careful."
"Careful?" Rodrik squeaks. "Careful would've been avoidin' her eyes in the first place!"
Aeryon corrects him gently. "She chose to look."
Rodrik opens his mouth, closes it, and finally mutters, "Oh gods, oh gods, first the Queen looks at ye like a ghost, then Ser Jaime looks at ye like a riddle—why in the seven hells did I not retire two years ago…"
Aeryon's attention has already shifted.
The royal party is moving deeper into Winterfell.
Guards usher nobles toward chambers.
Servants rush to carry chests, furs, wines, carpets—southern luxuries dragged into northern stone.
And Cersei…
Her golden head turns once.
Just once.
A tiny motion barely noticeable among the bustle.
But Aeryon sees it.
A glance backward.
Not at the courtyard.
Not at the guards.
At him.
A moment so brief most would miss it.
Rodrik sees it too. His soul visibly leaves his body. "Oh no. No no no. She's lookin' again. Aeryon—stop standin' there like a pretty candle! Melt into the crowd!"
Aeryon doesn't move.
Not until she disappears into the keep.
Only then does he step back and finally speak. "Where are the guest chambers?"
Rodrik groans. "I'm not helpin' ye sneak to yer death."
"You won't be," Aeryon says. "You're helping me avoid it."
Rodrik blinks. Blinks again. "That… actually makes sense and I hate that it does."
Aeryon begins walking.
Not quickly.
Not suspiciously.
Just a man moving through Winterfell among the noise, the bustle, the chaos of welcoming a royal entourage.
Rodrik keeps close, muttering prayers and curses in equal measure.
They pass:
— servants carrying furs
— Lannister guards inspecting corners
— Stark men rolling barrels of winter ale
— Arya darting under a horse like a squirrel (Rodrik nearly has a heart attack)
Aeryon moves like he belongs.
Because he does.
Because Creative Mode lets him generate confidence the same way it generates armor: effortlessly.
He memorizes every hallway, every turn, every guard pattern.
Not with magic — with absolute focus.
Rodrik notices. "Ye pay attention too much. That scares me."
"It's a useful habit," Aeryon says.
They reach the main stairs leading up into the stone corridors of the keep.
Rodrik sighs, defeated. "Fine. Fine. Queen's chambers'll be up near the royal wing. But don't ye go knockin' on her door like a fool—"
Aeryon turns his head slightly. "I won't be knocking."
Rodrik freezes. "What does that mean?"
Aeryon smiles faintly. "It means I'll be unseen."
Rodrik looks up at the ceiling as if begging for divine help. "He's goin' to die and I'm goin' to be blamed for it."
Aeryon steps onto the first stair.
The stone is cold beneath his boots.
The torches flicker low.
The winter wind moans through the arrow slits.
Somewhere down the corridor, a Lannister guard calls out orders.
Somewhere upstairs…
…a queen waits.
Aeryon rests his gloved hand against the wall, fingers brushing the hidden note.
He doesn't whisper it.
He doesn't smile.
He simply breathes once and continues upward.
Toward her.
The stairwell narrows as Aeryon climbs, torchlight flickering against the ancient stones. Each step echoes softly, swallowed by the draft threading through the keep.
Rodrik does not follow.
Somewhere after the second flight, he mumbled something about "not dyin' for a boy with pretty hair" and scurried off toward the courtyard, leaving Aeryon alone.
Aeryon doesn't mind.
Silence is easier.
The stairway opens into the upper corridor—a long hall lined with heavy tapestries and narrow arrow slits that bleed cold air. Servants hurry past carrying blankets and wine, doing their best to avoid brushing too close to the arriving nobles.
A pair of Lannister guards stand watch farther down.
Aeryon slows.
Not enough to draw suspicion—just enough to observe.
Both guards face outward.
Both are bored.
Neither is alert.
Good.
He walks casually until he's ten paces away—close enough that the guards register him but not close enough to challenge.
One guard eyes him. "Servant?"
"Escort," Aeryon answers smoothly. "Sent up to ensure the queen's wing is properly prepared."
The guard considers this for half a second—
long enough for Aeryon to see the exact moment laziness wins.
"Make it quick," the guard grunts, turning his gaze back down the hall.
Aeryon continues past them without a sound.
The corridor beyond grows quieter, almost unnaturally so. The feast preparations echo distantly from below, muffled by thick walls. Faint light spills from a set of chambers deeper in — the royal suite.
But the queen's note said:
"Tonight. Do not be seen."
It didn't name a room.
It didn't give an hour.
It didn't need to.
Something shifts on the edge of his vision.
A shadow at the corner where two hallways meet.
Not a person—an object.
A thread.
A single, fine strand of golden fiber caught on the stone.
It glints faintly in the torchlight.
Hair.
Her hair.
Aeryon steps toward it, kneeling briefly to brush his fingers across the strand. Smooth. Scented faintly of southern oils.
A sign.
He follows the direction it leads—
not toward the queen's main chamber, but down a smaller side hallway, one rarely used except by servants.
The stones here are older. Rougher.
The air colder.
A serving maid rounds a corner carrying linens; she nearly collides with Aeryon, gasps, then drops immediately into a bow.
"S–ser! Forgive me! I didn't see—"
Aeryon gently steadies her elbow, voice calm. "No harm done."
The girl looks up briefly, and her cheeks color red as if she's embarrassed simply for being noticed by him.
"S–sorry, m'lord. The queen's orders have us all runnin' half mad."
Aeryon tilts his head. "The queen's orders?"
"Oh—yes!" The maid nods too fast. "She said these rooms needed preparing hours ago, but then she asked everyone t' clear out. All staff from this wing."
Aeryon's eyes narrow slightly. "Clear out?"
"Aye. Said she wanted privacy. Even sent the guards further down the hall."
The maid leans in conspiratorially, lowering her voice. "Some queens like bein' alone before feasts, y'know? I heard southern ladies have rituals—perfumes, masks, secrets—"
Aeryon already knows.
The queen cleared a path.
He steps back. "Thank you."
The maid gives a shy little nod and scurries off, almost tripping over her own skirts.
Aeryon walks deeper into the empty hallway.
The torches thin out.
The air stills.
Silence settles like dust.
Another faint clue waits ahead:
A door, barely cracked open, a thin sliver of warm candlelight spilling into the corridor.
Not the grand royal chamber.
A side room.
A private room.
Chill air presses against Aeryon's back as he stops before the door. He lays a hand lightly on the wood.
No guards.
No witnesses.
Only faint movement inside.
A breath.
Soft. Measured.
Waiting.
Aeryon pushes the door open.
The hinges whisper.
Inside, the chamber is lit by no more than two candles. Their flame dances in tiny golden arcs, reflecting off glass and polished metal. A basin of water sits steaming on a table. A silver goblet rests beside it.
The room smells faintly of wine and crushed apples.
And standing a few feet from the window, back partially turned, golden hair catching the candlelight—
—is Queen Cersei.
She does not turn immediately.
But she speaks.
Calm.
Measured.
Low.
"I was beginning to wonder," she says, "if you'd lost your nerve."
Aeryon closes the door behind him, the latch clicking softly into place.
"Nerve?" he replies. "No. Just making sure no one followed."
Cersei slowly turns her head, only enough that one emerald eye becomes visible through a curtain of gold.
"And did anyone?"
Aeryon steps fully into the candlelight.
"No."
Cersei's gaze drops to the note in his glove, then lifts back to his face.
"Good."
She faces him completely now.
And the door stands closed behind them.