The room's warm candlelight softens the harsh lines of stone, turning cold Winterfell into something almost intimate. Shadows dance across the walls in slow, restless waves.
Cersei's gaze holds Aeryon's as if she's dissecting every inch of his face.
Not admiring.
Not judging.
Searching.
"Come closer," she says.
It isn't a request.
Aeryon steps forward until he stands only a few feet from her. She lifts a hand—slow, deliberate—and brushes a loose lock of hair behind her ear.
Her fingers tremble.
Just barely.
"Good," she murmurs. "Now I can see you properly."
The silence coils around them.
She studies him again, this time with no attempt to hide the intensity. Her eyes trace his jaw, his cheekbones, the exact shade of his violet irises.
"You know," she says quietly, "I expected… some resemblance. Memory plays tricks. Time blurs faces. But this—"
Her voice falters for half a breath.
"This is uncanny."
Aeryon keeps his expression neutral. "Resemblance to whom, Your Grace?"
Her lips twitch—not quite a smile. "You know the answer."
"I'd rather hear it from you."
Her eyes narrow, but not with anger. With something sharper.
"Rhaegar," she says, nearly whispering the name.
The air shifts.
Aeryon doesn't look away.
"And that unsettles you," he says.
Cersei steps closer, closing the gap between them until their breaths mingle faintly in the warm air. She tilts her chin up, searching his face with raw, restrained intensity.
"It does," she admits softly. "It frightens me."
That surprises even her.
She swallows, then adds, "And that… does not happen often."
Aeryon's voice is calm. "Why fear a resemblance?"
Cersei lets out a quiet, humorless breath. "Because the last man who looked at me with eyes like yours promised me a future… and then abandoned it."
Her expression tightens—not with grief, but resentment sharpened into something colder.
"I was sixteen," she says. "Young. Foolish. I believed in songs. I believed in kings who noticed lonely girls. Rhaegar looked at me as if I mattered."
She pauses.
"As if I were the only one in the room."
Her gaze flicks up to Aeryon's again.
"And then he chose someone else."
The flame from the nearest candle reflects in her eyes, turning them molten, almost vulnerable.
Aeryon speaks quietly. "You are not sixteen anymore."
"No." A faint smile slips across her lips, dangerous and tired at once. "Now I take what I want."
The tension between them tightens—warm, sharp, unspoken.
Aeryon steps half a pace closer.
Cersei doesn't move away.
Her breath catches—just a little—as if she didn't expect him to close the distance so boldly.
She draws in a slow breath.
"Tell me the truth," she murmurs. "Who are you really? What are you doing in Winterfell? And why… why do you look like a ghost from my youth?"
Aeryon lowers his voice so only she can hear it.
"I am whoever the world needs me to be."
Cersei's lips part slightly, the answer sending a ripple through her composure.
"Dangerous words," she whispers.
"True ones."
She holds his gaze for a long, silent moment.
Then she moves past him—slowly—circling him like a lioness gauging whether the creature before her is prey… or something more dangerous.
When she stops behind him, her voice is quiet and close.
"You realize," she says, "if anyone knew I summoned you here, it would raise questions neither of us could answer."
"I know."
"And you still came?"
Aeryon turns his head just enough to meet her eyes over his shoulder.
"You asked."
A breath escapes her—soft, disbelieving, almost a laugh.
When she steps in front of him again, the distance between them is small enough that candlelight pools over their skin like liquid gold.
Her voice drops to nearly a whisper.
"Do you intend to use this resemblance? To manipulate me?"
"No."
Her brows lift. "No?"
Aeryon steps closer—slow, deliberate—until her perfume curls around him like warm nectar and winter apples.
"I don't need to use your memories," he says quietly. "You're far more interesting in the present."
Cersei's breath hitches.
Just slightly.
But enough.
"You're bold," she murmurs.
"You want honesty."
She searches his face again, looking for deception.
She doesn't find any.
The moment stretches, heavy with unspoken implication—heat simmering beneath restraint.
Then—
Soft footsteps approach outside the door.
Aeryon's senses sharpen.
Cersei hears them too. She moves instantly, closing the last inches between them, her voice low and urgent.
"You go first," she whispers. "Leave through the servant's stair. I will follow later. No one must see you."
Her hand lifts—hesitates—then touches his wrist, a brief, electric contact.
"And Aeryon…"
Her gaze locks on his.
"…we are not finished."
Aeryon silently nods.
And moves toward the small back door she indicated, the faint sound of approaching guards echoing down the hall.
He slips through the shadows—
—and disappears.
The door shuts behind him with the softest click, swallowed instantly by the thick stone of the servant corridor. The passage is narrow and cold, built long before comfort mattered more than function.
Aeryon moves without sound.
No torch.
No guiding light.
Only the faint blue glow of winter filtering through cracks in the stone.
Behind the wall, muffled voices speak:
"Your Grace?"
"Is everything in order?"
"Shall we prepare your bath?"
Cersei's voice answers—smooth, composed, practiced.
"Yes. Leave me."
Her mask is flawless.
Aeryon keeps moving.
The stone floor is uneven beneath his boots, dust swirling with each careful step. Pipes run along one side, old wood supports along the other. The space feels forgotten, ancient—one of Winterfell's many hidden skeletons.
He turns a corner and descends a cramped staircase spiraling downward into darkness.
Halfway down—
a faint scuff echoes behind him.
Aeryon stops.
So does the sound.
He doesn't move.
Doesn't breathe.
Listens.
Then—
A soft voice speaks out of the dark.
"You walk too quietly."
Aeryon pivots, muscles coiled.
A small figure stands at the top of the stairs, barely visible except for an oversized cloak and a mop of auburn hair.
Bran Stark.
The boy tilts his head. "Most people in the castle walk loud. You don't."
Aeryon keeps still, calculating.
Bran steps forward one creaking stair at a time, eyes curious rather than accusing. "Mother says these passages are dangerous. But I like them. They feel… secret."
Aeryon answers evenly, "They are."
Bran stops two steps above him, peering at Aeryon like he's studying a puzzle. "You're the new man. The one with silver hair."
"That's me."
Bran squints. "You're not from the Vale."
Aeryon raises a brow. "No?"
"No." Bran's eyes brighten with certainty. "People from the Vale speak softer. You don't. You sound like nobody I've ever met."
Aeryon fights a smile. "You're observant."
"Everyone says that."
"Because it's true."
Bran beams—proud, but still curious. "So why are you here? In the walls? At night?"
Aeryon steps down one stair, bringing himself eye-level with the boy. Bran doesn't retreat. He's fearless in the way only children who don't understand danger can be.
"I was taking a faster route to my quarters," Aeryon says.
Bran frowns. "No one knows these routes except the Starks. And Old Nan. And sometimes Arya, but she doesn't count."
"Then perhaps I'm good at finding things," Aeryon replies.
Bran seems oddly satisfied with that, though the crease between his brows lingers.
"She saw you," Bran says suddenly.
Aeryon stills. "Who?"
"The Queen." Bran leans in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "When she arrived earlier. I was on the roof walk. Everyone was looking at Father and the King. But she was looking at you."
Children notice everything adults don't.
Aeryon keeps his face unreadable. "Is that unusual?"
"Mother says queens never look at strangers." Bran shrugs. "But she looked at you like she remembered something."
Aeryon's heartbeat stays steady.
Bran studies him for another long moment—curious, thoughtful, a little too perceptive.
Then he smiles. "You're interesting."
The boy steps past him, descending the stairs.
But halfway down, Bran stops and glances back over his shoulder.
"You should be careful," he says softly. "People who make the Queen stare don't usually stay safe."
Aeryon inclines his head. "Thank you for the warning."
Bran nods once and disappears into another branching hallway, leaving only faint echoes behind him.
Aeryon exhales quietly.
Not annoyance.
Not fear.
Calculation.
The Starks' youngest son is far too observant.
And if a boy noticed the queen's staring…
Adults will too.
Aeryon resumes walking deeper into the passage, boots whispering across old stone.
Behind him, hidden by walls and secrets, he hears the muffled sound of Cersei dismissing her guards.
They both escaped the moment.
But the consequences are only beginning.
The narrow tunnel empties slowly into a wider, slanted passageway. Cold air leaks through from somewhere ahead—fresh, not the stale, trapped chill of hidden stone.
Aeryon follows it.
Each step brings him closer to light, to noise, to the living heartbeat of Winterfell. The muffled murmur of the great hall grows clearer: men laughing, mugs slamming, dogs barking, plates clattering.
He brushes dust from his gloves and shoulders, running a hand through his silver hair to shake free the fine grit of ancient walls.
When he finally reaches the small, crooked wooden door at the end, he pauses—listening.
Footsteps.
Voices.
The fragrant steam of spiced winter stew drifting under the crack.
Normal.
Unthreatening.
Good.
He pushes the door open.
Aeryon slips into a side hallway just off the great hall, emerging as if he'd simply taken a quick detour.
Servants pass him with trays.
Two Stark guards walk the corridor, nodding as they go.
A northern woman carries a basket of linens, mutters something about "royal southerners drinking us dry," and hurries past.
Aeryon's breathing evens.
He blends in.
Invisible in plain sight.
Exactly as he intended.
Then—
"Aeryon!"
Robb Stark's voice rings down the hall, warm and open.
Aeryon turns, face composed.
Robb strides over, cheeks flushed from drink and the cold, a grin pulling at his mouth. "There you are. Father's been looking for you—said he wanted you seated near the high table for the dinner. Some talk about recognizing your service."
Aeryon inclines his head. "I'm honored."
Robb laughs. "Nonsense. You earned it. Rodrik sings your praises—though he complains you're too quiet and too fast."
"That sounds like him."
"It does." Robb folds his arms, then tilts his head. "You look like you've been crawling through cellars."
Aeryon doesn't flinch. "Got turned around looking for the armory."
"Ah." Robb chuckles. "Winterfell's halls confuse everyone. Even me, sometimes."
He gestures. "Come. We can walk together."
Aeryon matches his pace, steps smooth, heartbeat steady.
But as they near the archway leading into the great hall—
the noise swelling, fire roaring, music rising—
Aeryon feels a prickling sensation on his skin.
Someone is staring.
He doesn't turn immediately.
He waits.
Listens.
Feels.
The gaze is sharp. Focused. Directed only at him.
Finally, he shifts his eyes without moving his head—
—and sees Jaime Lannister leaning casually against a carved pillar, cup of wine in hand, golden hair catching firelight.
He isn't smiling.
He isn't relaxed.
He's studying Aeryon like a man appraising an unfamiliar sword: noting every line, every flaw, every possible danger.
Robb notices none of it.
But Aeryon does.
Aeryon returns a polite nod. Nothing more.
Jaime's eyes narrow a fraction—almost imperceptibly.
Robb claps Aeryon's arm. "Come, sit. Eat. You'll want strength tomorrow. Father's doing the welcoming ceremony for the king, and everyone important will be there."
Aeryon allows himself to be led toward the long tables.
But as he steps into the great hall, he glances back—
—and Jaime Lannister is still there.
Still watching him.
Not with suspicion.
Not with jealousy.
With recognition.
Like he's trying to remember why Aeryon's face bothers him so much.
Like he's seen it before.
And somewhere above, behind stone walls and candlelight, Cersei Lannister is likely thinking the same thing.
Aeryon sits among the lively hall, surrounded by laughter and clatter and song…
…but the Lion twins' eyes burn in the back of his mind.
One meeting is over.
The ripple has begun.
Winterfell's great hall is alive—louder, warmer, fuller than Aeryon has ever seen it.
Flames roar inside the massive hearth, illuminating long banners with dancing gold light. The smell of roasted meat mixes with woodsmoke and spilled ale. Northern dogs weave under the tables, hunting scraps. Minstrels tune their lutes near the far wall, plucking uneven notes.
Aeryon forces his shoulders to relax as he takes in the chaos.
He is one man in a sea of noise.
But two pairs of eyes anchor on him with precision.
Cersei's absence is noticeable.
Jaime's presence is not.
He still watches.
From his position near the King's table, Jaime leans one shoulder against a carved pillar, golden armor gleaming like it was born for firelight. His face is unreadable—too calm for someone who's been drinking, too focused for someone pretending not to.
Aeryon breaks his gaze first.
Always better to make the hunter wonder.
He turns his attention to the food being set before him—thick northern stew, fresh bread, slices of venison. A servant hurries past, placing another pitcher of ale on the table.
Robb Stark drops onto the bench across from him, cheeks still flushed. "Gods—Father made me listen to the King retell the same hunt three times. If he starts a fourth, I may walk into the fire."
Aeryon hides a small smile. "Is it that bad?"
"It is when he mimics the boar," Robb mutters, stabbing a piece of meat.
Jon Snow joins them, quieter, tugging off his gloves. Ghost pads behind him, silent as falling snow.
Jon sits. "Robb's being dramatic."
"No," Robb shoots back. "I'm being accurate."
Aeryon lets the brothers banter—absorbing the rhythm of their voices, their comfort, their absolute lack of suspicion in him.
It's almost peaceful.
Almost.
Robb leans forward, lowering his voice. "So. You met Ser Jaime yet?"
Aeryon lifts a brow. "Briefly."
"Well, he's been staring at you all evening," Robb says. "Hardly subtle about it, either. If he does it any harder, he'll burn holes through your cloak."
Aeryon's tone stays light. "Perhaps I remind him of someone."
Jon glances toward Jaime. "He looks more… curious than hostile."
Robb scoffs. "Jaime Lannister is never just curious."
Aeryon takes a sip of ale, letting the warmth settle his chest.
But then—
A sudden hush rolls across the nearest tables, like a soft wave of silence. Not the whole hall, but enough to draw attention. A few men straighten in their seats.
Aeryon feels the shift before he sees the cause.
King Robert Baratheon is walking in their direction.
Not stumbling, not jovial—
but clear-eyed, determined, and accompanied by Lord Eddard Stark.
Robb and Jon tense instantly.
Aeryon remains still.
Robert's booming voice cuts through the noise.
"Here he is! Ned, this is him—the young silver-haired lad you mentioned."
Aeryon rises smoothly.
Ned nods at him with a composed expression, though there is a faint tightness around his eyes. "Aeryon. The King wished to meet you."
Robert plants himself in front of Aeryon, staring at him the way a man evaluates a horse he might buy.
"Seven hells," Robert mutters, studying his face openly. "If I didn't know better, I'd swear I was lookin' at Rhaegar with a haircut."
The table goes silent.
Robb chokes on air.
Jon blinks.
A few northern guards glance nervously at one another.
Aeryon meets the King's stare without letting anything flicker across his expression.
Robert's eyes narrow. "You got some Targaryen in you, boy?"
The great hall doesn't breathe.
Across the room, Jaime straightens sharply.
Aeryon answers with perfect calm:
"No, Your Grace. I only have one father."
Robert stares at him for one long moment—
and then bursts into a booming laugh that makes the entire hall jump.
"HA! Good answer." He claps Aeryon's shoulder so hard the table rattles. "You might be prettier than Rhaegar, too. Don't let that go to your head."
Ned clears his throat lightly. "Robert—"
The King waves him off. "Fine, fine. You northern types and your seriousness."
He points at Aeryon. "Sit. Drink. Enjoy the feast. We'll speak more later."
He stumbles off toward another round of food and wine.
Ned Stark lingers for half a second—just enough to give Aeryon a subtle, unreadable look—before following the King.
Jon exhales. "That… could have gone worse."
Robb nods vigorously. "I thought he was about to accuse you of treason on the spot."
Aeryon takes another calm sip of ale.
But behind him, Jaime Lannister hasn't taken his eyes off Aeryon once.
Not during the King's words.
Not during the laughter.
Not even now.
Aeryon sets his cup down, never looking back.
He doesn't need to.
He can feel the lion watching.