The King's Arrival
The morning sky in the North is the color of smoke, pale grey and veined with streaks of cold blue. Above the towering ramparts of Winterfell, banners flutter in the brisk northern wind—wolves on grey, the dire sigil of House Stark, sewn freshly and hung high. Snow still clings in patches to the battlements and the rooftops, but the worst of winter's breath has faded into the memory of the long night. Now, the stones of Winterfell hum with preparation and purpose.
Courtiers, grooms, cooks, and soldiers move through the bailey like threads in a loom, each pulling their weight in anticipation of the king's arrival. The scent of roasting boar, pinewood smoke, and freshly turned earth fills the air. I overheard Old Nan muttering about omens and kings under dark skies, but even she keeps herself busy with a broom and a curt tongue for any who get in her way.
Stalls have been set up just beyond the inner gates. Vendors from White Harbor and the barrow towns came early, hawking sweets, iron trinkets, and dyed fabrics to the swelling crowd. Farmers from the surrounding lands stand with caps in hand. Free riders and smallfolk line the roads, eager for a glimpse of southern finery. Laughter and gossip mingle with the nervous beat of hooves on stone.
But not everyone is celebrating.
I watch from a narrow ledge high atop the First Keep. The wind tugs at my cloak, snapping it behind me like a torn shadow. Beneath me, the ancient fortress stretches out in measured lines, stone and frost and steel. I watch it all—every movement, every flicker of change—with quiet detachment.
Winterfell is so beautiful.
The Blackworks' ravencotes are silent for once. My men are down in the yard or among the traders, having a day off. And still, I can't shake the weight in my chest.
Winterfell has grown. The meadery is larger now, the stores better stocked. There are new stone paths, new walls, repairs underway. Ned finally talked to me about repairing the broken tower after two years of nagging him. But this moment—the king approaching—means something else. A turn in the wheel.
I glance left.
On the other side of the courtyard, Bran is perched on a merlon, too young to understand the full stakes of claiming the wall and looking out. His eyes scan the treeline to the south. Looking for a crown. I envy him, in a way—he is ignorant of what comes with the king.
A few minutes later, we are all in the courtyard by the gate. We are dressed in our finest—Lord Stark in black wool trimmed with silver thread and his greatcloak clasped by the direwolf of House Stark, stoic as ever; Robb in a dark blue tunic with grey stitching, his sword at his side, eager and proud; Sansa in a flowing dress of deep forest green and soft cream, her hair in elegant northern braids adorned with tiny silver bells; Arya fidgeting in a simple grey dress she clearly despises, boots peeking out from under the hem. Even Rickon wears a small wool surcoat with a pup-sized direwolf stitched on the chest. Only I wear black—not by tradition but by choice, the leather and wool fitted to my frame like a second skin and a black coat over it. Hopefully, they won't notice that the band holding my hair in a bun is red. We cut a solemn, strong line against the cold stone of the gatehouse.
Then I hear it: the horns.
Three long blasts. The sound echoes across the fields and halls, rising like the howl of some ancient beast.
The gates open.
And through them comes the King's party.
First ride the outriders—lean men in fine mail, their banners snapping gold and crimson. Lannister colors. Then come the guards in Baratheon black and gold, their antlered helms glinting in the light. Tall destriers paw at the earth, kicking up dust. The king's household knights follow, armor polished to a sheen, many bearing proud sigils from the Crownlands, the Stormlands, and the Reach.
Then comes the royal wheelhouse, drawn by eight heavy horses, gold-framed and immense. It bears the queen and her children, the curtains drawn.
But all eyes turn to the rider at the head of the procession.
King Robert Baratheon.
He rides a massive black courser, its coat as dark as jet and its breath steaming in the cold. Robert himself is even larger—broad of chest, thick of neck, his beard gone mostly to grey. A velvet mantle of blue and gold drapes his shoulders, but it's the hammer strapped to his saddle that draws murmurs from the men. He is too fat to swing it.
Robert is laughing as he enters, deep and booming. His eyes sweep the crowd with familiarity and hunger. The kind of man who measures the worth of a place by the meat on the spit and the firmness of a handshake.
"Winterfell!" he shouts, pulling back on his reins.
A roar answers him. The people cheer, though not all smiles are genuine. We all kneel. Gods I hate this, this butcher celebrated the death of my baby siblings and here I am kneeling.
As the king greets Ned my eyes are elsewhere. Cersei Lannister is like a painting come to life, flawless. She stuns the eye so completely that for a moment, all thought in my head quiet. I've seen beauty before, even grace, but never like this. Hers is the kind that turns heads in every hall and leaves silence in its wake. She carries herself not like a queen by marriage, but by right. There is steel behind the silk, something sharp behind those eyes. I feel it at once. She is not a woman to be underestimated. But beauty can be a kind of armor—and sometimes, a weapon. I remind myself to be wary.
Jaime Lannister is no less striking, though in a different way. The golden twin, they call him, and it's not wrong. He looks as if he belongs in the Seven's own court—tall, an arrogant look, blinding in the sun. Yet under the charm and polish, I see something else: a killer's ease, a predator's grace. His every movement is practiced, deliberate, deceptively casual. He's the kind of man who smiles as he sizes you up, who wields arrogance like a sword and expects you to admire it. And the worst part is—it's hard not to. He's beautiful, and he knows it.
Joffrey, though... Joffrey is the rot beneath the rose. Golden hair, fine clothes, the posture of a prince—but there's something brittle in him. Something mean. His smile is all edges, and his gaze lingers too long on Sansa. He looks at Winterfell as if it's beneath him, as if he's doing the North a favor by gracing it with his presence. I feel the urge to warn Robb, or Bran, or even Arya. But the boy is still just that—a boy. Spoiled, soft-handed, and cruel in ways he hasn't yet been made to pay for. That will be a problem. Soon. Very soon.
Finally it is my turn to greet the king. His gaze stops on me for a second and I feel like my hearth stops.
I bow low. "Your Grace."
"So this is the Steel Stark mm? Gods, boy, Jon kept nagging with copper counting because of you, aren't you a bit too pretty to be Neds lad?"
I keep my face still, but my lips twitch.
"It comes from my mother, I am sure, Your Grace." Like my Father actually, my real Father. "Looking at Lord Stark... well, it's obvious, isn't it?"
Robert laughs and steps forward. "Seven hells, look at you! They told me you'd turned to steel in the north, and I'll be buggered if it isn't true. Steel Stark, is it? That what they call you now?"
"A jest, Your Grace. Nothing more."
Robert's grin widens. "Well, jest or not, I like it. Every king needs steel. And it seems I have been buying from you!" He quickly loses interest after that and demands to visit the crypts. My Mothers bones, she hated you.
The crowd watches, whispers passing like wind through dry leaves.
I stand straight, eyes calm. Inside, I'm measuring the distance between the courtiers and the guards, between myself and the wheelhouse. Already, the game has begun.
I bow once more and step back beside Robb, who looks at me with a half-grin and something that might've been pride.
Winterfell's Great Hall had always loomed in my mind as the heart of the North — vast, solemn, unchanging. But that night, with banners raised and candles blazing, it felt like something else entirely. Not just the seat of House Stark, but a stage. And every soul within it, a player in a game I had only just begun to understand.
Servants moved swiftly between tables, polishing silver, laying trenchers, and lighting more candles than I'd ever seen gathered in one place. The scent of roasted meats already hung in the air, spiced with cloves and smoke from the roaring hearths. I stood near one of the carved pillars along the side of the hall, clad in black, as always. While Eddard managed to get me with them outside, the feast wasn't his realm to rule and even my best tunic couldn't hide what Catelyn saw me as. Bastard. Outsider. Observer.
My eyes moved across the room. Lords and ladies of the North took their places — Manderlys from White Harbor, Glovers from Deepwood Motte, the dour men from Last Hearth. Theon Greyjoy lounged at the far end of one table, laughing too loudly at something no one else found amusing. Typical.
But it was Catelyn Stark who drew my gaze, even as I wished she wouldn't.
She sat at the high table beside Robb, her posture flawless, her smile measured. She looked past me several times without ever truly seeing me. Not tonight. Her civility was like ice — smooth, cold, and sharp beneath the surface. She said nothing, did nothing. And still, her silence pressed harder than any insult.
Robb sat proudly to her side. He looked older in his new tunic, more lord than boy. His back was straight, shoulders squared, but I could see the tension in the way he clasped his hands behind him, the way his heel tapped against the stone floor. He was nervous. I would have been too. The King was coming.
When the doors opened, all conversation ceased. The herald's voice thundered through the hall:
"All rise for His Grace, Robert of House Baratheon, First of His Name—"
The words went on — titles, victories, gods — but Robert Baratheon barely waited for them to finish. He entered with the presence of a storm, broad-shouldered and bearded, every step heavy with the weight of rule and wine. He laughed as he walked, already reaching for Robb before the boy had fully bowed.
Behind the King came the rest of his entourage — Queen Cersei in emeralds and scorn, Jaime Lannister like a golden blade beside her, Prince Joffrey trailing behind with charm in his eyes. And then, shorter than them all but with a presence of his own, came Tyrion.
He didn't strut like his brother, didn't smirk like Theon. He walked with quiet purpose, eyes darting about with a curiosity I recognized. He saw everything — including me. Our eyes met for half a breath.
After the king had been seated, and wine poured into goblets of polished gold, I made my way to the lower end of the table, among the lesser lords and southern knights. Not my true place, but close enough to see, to listen.
I wasn't expecting much company, but Tyrion Lannister claimed the seat across from mine with the air of a man who feared neither judgment nor gossip. He settled in like he owned the table, goblet in hand, eyes already dancing with amusement.
"You must be the Bastard of Winterfell," he said, studying me with those mismatched eyes. "I've heard a great deal about you, Snow."
"And you must be the Imp of Casterly Rock," I replied, voice even. "I've heard quite a bit about you too."
He raised his goblet in salute. "So many names, so little wine. Gods, we ought to start a club for misfits and monsters. Do bastards in the North read, or do you just… design?"
I smirked. "We have eyes. And books. Some of us even use them."
That earned a bark of laughter. "A sharp tongue! Excellent. I'd feared all you Starks would be brooding wolves, staring into fires and muttering about honor."
"I do that too," I said. "Just with a book in one hand."
His brow rose. "And what do you read, Snow? Tales of knights and monsters? Old families' histories you'll never be part of?"
"Stars," I said simply. Those requests from Casterly Rock must have been his.
That caught him. His expression shifted from amusement to interest. "Stars, is it? Now that's a surprise. A bastard astronomer. I may faint. I read about your little invention… you called it… a telescope?"
"A bigger, more complex Myrish eyeglass, really," I said. "With mirrors and calibrated lenses. Not a toy for sailors, this one sees past the clouds."
His eyes sparkled. "I had one made in Casterly Rock after hearing the rumors. Cost a fortune and half my pride convincing the smiths it wouldn't explode. But when I saw the Father and his little daughters dancing around him—" He exhaled, the memory clear in his gaze. "—who would've thought other planets have moons?"
"Humanity takes itself too seriously," I said. "Some still think everything revolves around our world. Some even say the world is flat. Despite all evidence to the contrary."
"Ah, yes," Tyrion muttered. "The sort who think dragons are a hoax and think thinking is treason."
"Exactly. I figure if the stars are suns, then maybe other suns have planets too. Why not? Why should this world be special?"
"Like you wouldn't know what being special is, bastard. You have a mind and most don't." He really likes to smirk, doesn't he?
"Touché" I said.
He sipped his wine; eyes locked on mine. "And what does your sightings in the skies tell you, Jon Snow?"
"There's order, sure," I said. "Mathematical, even. But meaning… meaning's harder. Maybe we see it because we want to. Maybe we're just apes with stories, trying to make sense of the dark."
Tyrion leaned forward, wine forgotten. "You sound like a philosopher, Jon Snow."
"Maybe I'm just a lonely boy with a telescope and too much time. Or I am as bored as you are."
Tyrion let out a wheezing laugh. "Touché…" He narrowed his eyes. "What in all the Seven Hells does 'touché' mean anyway? You lot in the North inventing words to confuse us civilized folk?"
Dammit… I can't slip up like this. I smirked. "It's old tong slang. Sort of. It means 'hit,' or more precisely, 'you got me there.' It was used for spars, but I like using it like conceding a point in a duel of wits." Buy it…
"Ah," he said, grinning. "Leave it to a bastard astronomer to fence with words."
"Touché again," I said, raising my brows.
He clinked his cup against mine. "Now you're just showing off."
We sipped in companionable silence a moment. Around us, laughter and music filled the hall, but I barely heard it.
"No," he said, and his voice softened. "You're not just a lonely boy. Your gaze is too sharp. Too hungry. He tapped his fingers on the rim of his goblet. "Tell me, Jon. Do you believe the stars tell the future?"
I hesitated, then shook my head. "No. But they might tell something. About time. About cycles. About how little we are. They were here before us. They'll burn long after we're dust."
"Beautifully said," he mused. "And yet people prefer flames in a bowl and robed fanatics whispering doom."
"Because stories feel safer than silence," I said. "People want purpose more than truth."
"That, my dear bastard, is both cynical and poetic." He smirked. "Touché, I believe."
"You're learning," I said with a grin.
"And just like that, the North corrupts the South," he muttered, pouring himself more wine.
"Give it time, and we'll have you wrapped in furs and naming your direwolf."
"I was thinking more a shadowcat," he replied, "less loyalty, more teeth."
I laughed. "Then you're already halfway there."
"Ah," Tyrion said with a grin, raising his cup. "to find a man after my own heart in this cold land. Heresy in the sept, madness in the Citadel. You'd get along splendidly with the alchemists of Qarth."
"Warlocks," I corrected, smirking. He knew that. Just another test, another baited hook. "I doubt they'd take a Northman seriously."
"No one takes them seriously. But if you survive them, you leave with knowledge. And bit mad probably."
"Doesn't knowledge always burn a little?" I asked.
He laughed at that. "And most lords think books will bite them!"
I tilted my head. "Too many swords, too few books I say."
"It's their lose at the end, they would believe anything," he said. "Just as they want to believe a Lannister is made of gold or a Stark is carved from snow and sorrow."
"That's what stories are for," I murmured.
"To lie beautifully," Tyrion replied. "And perhaps… to reach truth by accident."
We sat in silence a moment, letting that hang between us. Around us, laughter and music filled the hall, but I barely heard it.
"After watching the skies with your contraption I have found myself thinking about this a lot, I might as well bring it up to the source of my troubles." He tapped his fingers on the rim of his goblet. "Tell me, Jon. Do you think there's life beyond this world?"
I blinked. "Do you?"
"I do," he said. "If as you say worlds are going around other stars. Thousands of stars. Millions of worlds. Why would this one be special?"
"I've wondered the same," I said. "But if there is life out there… why haven't they found us?"
"Maybe they have," Tyrion said, eyes glinting. "And they looked, and turned away."
We both looked over as Theon tripped over his own feet, sending a tray of bread tumbling.
"Tell me that's not a Greyjoy," Tyrion said, squinting. He snorted. "If there's intelligent life out there, they're steering clear of him."
We laughed, and a beat passed.
He gave me a long look, and his voice lowered. "Let me give you some advice, Jon Snow."
I arched a brow. "Oh?"
"Oh yes," he said, draining his goblet. "Bastards with minds are always dangerous. Because you have nothing to lose, and no reason to believe the world is as it claims to be. Don't let them drag you down. Don't let them belittle you into silence. You're a bastard—wear it like armor, and no one will be able to hurt you."
I studied him a long moment. "You speak from experience."
He raised an eyebrow. "All dwarfs are bastards in the eyes of their fathers."
"Touché," I said, quietly.
This time, he didn't laugh. He only nodded, as if the word had never meant more.
We talked most of the night — about the Valyrian star charts, the ancient cosmology of Yi Ti, and a comet Tyrion claimed his uncle Gerion saw during a trip in the Stepstones. I found myself forgetting the cold edge of the hall, the judgmental glances. With Tyrion, there were no masks. Just wit, and a hunger for knowledge that mirrored my own. A dwarf and a bastard wondering about the world.
Later, Robb stood and raised a toast. His voice carried over the hall, clear and strong, and for a moment, everyone looked at him not as a boy, but as the heir to Winterfell. Even Catelyn's expression softened. She placed a hand on his arm, pride flickering through her usual restraint. I clapped and cheered with the rest.
If only the Queen stopped glaring at the King, well... he could take his hand out of that serving girl's clothes too.
The hall had emptied slowly, like a tide pulling back from shore. Laughter dimmed. The king had drunk deep, clapped Robb's shoulder, kissed Catelyn's cheek, and finally staggered away to his chambers, flanked by Ser Barristan and two Lannister guards. The fire crackled in the hearth. Trays of half-eaten meat and spilled wine sat forgotten. What remained were whispers, and those with reason to linger in them.
I stood by the pillar nearest the musicians' corner. A bard plucked gently at a lute, slow and deliberate. Not the riotous songs from earlier, but something older. Northern, though his voice held no chill.
"You've stayed late," I said, not looking at him.
"So have you," the bard replied, fingers dancing across the strings. His voice was rough and charismatic.
"Most bards prefer coin to cold," I said, then turned. "But you strike me as someone who's learned to survive in both."
A faint smile ghosted his lips. "I go where the wind carries me."
"North wind, lately," I said.
His hands paused on the strings for just a beat. "Aye. It carries interesting tales. Of bastards with long shadows. Of crows that speak in riddles."
"And kings," I said. "On both sides of the Wall."
A silence bloomed between us. The fire popped. He stared at me.
"You know who I am," he said eventually. It wasn't a question.
Please don't run, you would ruin everything.
He started playing a harp. A slow song that spoke to me of grief.
"I have a guess," I said, voice low. "You play well, bard." Giving him a lifeline.
He looked at me, really looked. "And what does the Bastard of Winterfell want with a man who sings songs?"
I stepped closer. "I want what you want. Survival. Something better than endless blood in the snow."
"That's a dream," he said. "And dreams die fast in winter."
"Not all dreams," I said. "Not if someone plants them deep. Not if they burn."
He exhaled through his nose. "You've fire in you, lad. I can feel it. But fire burns both ways."
I nodded. "Then we'll have to choose our paths carefully."
He strummed a final, low chord. The song ended, but the silence remained.
"Why not reveal me?" he asked. "You could earn favor. Prove your loyalty."
"Or maybe I'm waiting to see if you're worth the silence." I said.
His smile returned, sharper this time. "You want something."
"Just a word, when the cold comes don't fight the wrong people, there is only one enemy." I tried to give gravitas to the statement, and I believe he understood. Hopefully it will be enough.
He stood, lute in hand and harp slung over one shoulder, and dipped his head slightly. "When the winds shift, Snow… I will remember this night."
Gods, that was the most cryptic talk of my life...
He walked away without another word, vanishing through the arch like just another minstrel. He was never seen in Winterfell again.
The clang of swords and the rhythmic thud of boots echoed through the Winterfell yard. The air was crisp, edged with the sharp bite of the northern wind, but sweat beaded on my brow as I parried Robb's latest strike.
"You're holding back," he grunted, pushing against my blade.
"Maybe," I said with a smirk, twisting to disengage and step aside. "Or maybe you're just slow."
Robb laughed, catching his breath. "You're lucky I like you, Snow."
We had been at it for a while now. But we weren't alone long. The doors to the yard creaked open, and Jaime Lannister stepped through like a golden lion in a den of wolves. His armor glinted in the low northern sun, each step precise, rehearsed, confident. Several guards trailed him, and just behind, Tyrion walked in, a goblet already in hand. A few nobles loitered above, watching from the ramparts.
"Practicing, boys?" Jaime asked, resting one hand on the pommel of his sword. His gaze swept over us lazily, but lingered on me a moment too long. "Or playing?"
Robb straightened. "Would you care to find out, Ser Jaime?"
Jaime chuckled, stepping forward. "Oh, I don't duel heirs. Not without cause." He turned his eyes to me. "But bastards? Bastards are fair game."
I stepped forward, eyes steady. "If you'd like a real match, Ser Jaime, I'd be honored."
A hush fell. The tension prickled my skin like frost. Jaime studied me, lips curling in amusement.
"You're bold," he said. "Very well. Let's see what the North teaches its bastards."
The crowd thickened. The king himself arrived with Lord Stark, Cersei, Catelyn, and the rest. Even the younger Stark children watched with rapt eyes. I stretched my shoulders, adjusted my grip. Longclaw wasn't mine yet, but the sword I borrowed was well-balanced. Jaime drew his blade with a flourish, an extension of his arrogance.
We circled.
He moved with the grace of a dancer and the precision of a killer—like water flowing across stone, light-footed and unbothered by the weight of his golden armor. I'd fought men before—grizzled Karstark men with scars and broken noses, Umbers who swung swords like axes, even Rodrik Cassel himself on good days—but Jaime Lannister was something else entirely.
He didn't fight like a knight. He fought like a man who had already decided the world would bend to him. There was an ease in his movement, a contemptuous confidence in every shift of weight, as though he already saw how I'd lose.
The yard was quiet—quieter than I'd expected. Lords and ladies, servants and stablehands, all watching. Somewhere to my right, I heard Robb mutter something under his breath. The king was laughing. Cersei looked disinterested. Tyrion looked intrigued. I only had eyes for Jaime.
He smiled as our blades met with a crisp, musical chime. I struck low—a feint—then twisted upward, aiming for his shoulder. He didn't even flinch. With the flick of his wrist, he deflected the blow, guiding my momentum away. His counter came instantly, a circular flourish that nearly took my feet from beneath me.
I recovered fast, planting my right foot deeper, pressing in. I drove him back a pace, testing his rhythm. He gave ground easily, too easily—then pivoted. I barely tracked his movement before his blade sang past my ribs, the air sharp with its passage. Just shy of flesh. Deliberate.
"Not bad," he murmured. His voice was smooth, amused, meant for me alone. "But predictable."
The words weren't meant to insult, but to measure. He wanted to see how I'd react. So I didn't. I watched him instead.
He advanced again, faster this time—his sword weaving a pattern I didn't recognize. I parried high, then low, and felt the tremor in my bones as steel struck steel. Sparks danced where our blades kissed. His every movement was polished, calculated. My arms began to ache. My breath came shorter.
He was toying with me.
I adjusted my stance. Lowered my center. Shifted my weight to my back foot. He feinted left, and I didn't bite. He slashed right, and I caught it with the flat of my blade, then twisted—stepping into his reach. For a moment, just a moment, he overextended. I saw it.
I moved.
Steel grazed his shoulder—just a graze, but it was real. The crowd gasped. A dozen voices cried out. I heard Arya cheer. I saw Robb's grin.
Jaime raised an eyebrow. "You're full of surprises."
His smile deepened, something behind it sharpening. And then the tempo changed.
He came at me hard, no longer playing. Fast! Too fast…His strikes were no longer flourishes—they were meant to end the fight. I parried again and again, my arms screaming with each impact. His blade blurred. He forced me back, one step, then two, then five. I ducked a horizontal slash, rolled beneath a thrust, came up swinging—but he was already pivoting, already turning my momentum against me.
Steel clanged, sparks flew. My feet slid through dust and gravel, boots scraping against the stone. My legs burned. My knuckles split.
Still I fought.
We locked blades—face to face now. His breath was steady. Mine ragged. He leaned in, golden hair clinging to his brow. He broke the lock, faster than I could react, spun his blade and struck. I blocked the blow—but the force of it jarred my wrist. My grip faltered. He didn't miss it. He stepped inside my guard, his sword a blur—and stopped.
Cold steel kissed my throat.
We froze.
The yard was utterly silent.
His eyes met mine. Green, bright, and unreadable. Something passed between us in that breathless moment. Not mockery. Not disdain. Something else…
"Yield?" he asked softly.
I hesitated. My chest heaved. Sweat dripped into my eyes.
"Yield," I said.
He lowered his blade.
I stepped back, sheathing my own, trying to calm my pulse. The applause was light, polite. No roar. No triumph. Just the measured clapping of nobles who hadn't expected much and were now politely surprised I'd survived.
Jaime offered a short bow—precise, courtly, performative. I returned it.
"Thank you for the match," I said, honest.
His smile returned, less smug this time. "It's been a while since someone made me work for it. You have a future bastard."
I nodded once, then turned—but not before catching the way his eyes lingered. It wasn't pride. It wasn't curiosity. It wasn't even suspicion.
It was calculation.
As if he were reevaluating everything he thought he knew.
I walked back toward Robb, the pain in my shoulder flaring now that the adrenaline ebbed. But Jaime's gaze stayed with me, hanging in the back of my mind like a question with no answer.
Curiosity? Recognition?
The crowd dispersed. The training yard emptied. But that look lingered, burned into the back of my mind like an afterimage of fire.