Morning came soft and still, with a pale sheen of sunlight stretching across the rooftops of Winterfell. A gentle hush clung to the air, as though the old stones themselves were holding their breath.
Gadriel stirred from his sleep in the modest room he'd rented at the inn, stretching slowly as the first rays of dawn filtered through the window's shuttered slats. Dust motes danced in the air, catching the light like falling embers. For a moment, he lay quietly, staring up at the wooden beams above him. His body, though ancient by any normal measure, remained strong and free of ache. Yet he lingered in bed a little longer, listening.
The inn was quiet. Too quiet.
No usual clatter of early breakfast preparation, no hum of low conversation. Gadriel furrowed his brow.
He rose without further delay and dressed methodically, fastening the straps of his dragonbone armor, each movement silent and practiced. The weight of Dawnbreaker rested comfortably against his hip as he secured it in place. He stood in front of the small mirror above the washbasin for a brief moment, adjusting his cloak so that the hilt of his sword remained mostly hidden beneath its folds. To a passerby, he would seem only a weather-worn traveler, perhaps wealthy, but unremarkable.
With everything in place, he stepped outside.
Winterfell's air was brisk, and the faint bite of chill teased the exposed parts of his skin. His golden eyes scanned the courtyard from beneath his hood, noting the way several servants bustled past with a nervous energy, their heads down and their movements rushed. Guards lingered at the gates, speaking in hushed tones, and he noticed two of them casting quick glances toward the main road leading south.
Something was different today. Anxious.
Gadriel narrowed his eyes but said nothing, tucking the information away. He made his way toward the archery range with steady, quiet steps, boots crunching lightly over the packed dirt path. It had become a ritual—meeting Bran here for daily instruction. The boy was learning quickly, his posture already improved, and his shots more consistent with each passing day.
He arrived first, as always, and waited with arms crossed. A few minutes passed, and soon Bran appeared, bow in hand and a quiver slung over his shoulder.
"Morning, Gadriel," Bran greeted cheerfully.
"Morning," Gadriel returned with a slight smile. "You're early today."
Bran shrugged. "Wanted to practice more."
Gadriel nodded, stepping aside to let the boy take his place at the shooting line. "Let's get to it, then."
As Bran began lining up his first shot, Gadriel folded his arms and watched silently. He offered corrections sparingly but precisely, shifting Bran's elbow by the slightest degree, reminding him to breathe evenly, to focus on the space between the target and the string.
It was as the boy notched his third arrow that Gadriel's thoughts drifted back to the servants, to the guards, to the strange hush over the castle this morning. He watched Bran release another arrow, then said casually, "Tell me, Bran… do you know why everyone seems tense today?"
Bran looked at him in mild surprise. "You didn't hear?"
"Hear what?"
"The king is coming," Bran said matter-of-factly, drawing another arrow from his quiver.
Gadriel blinked. "The king?"
"Yeah," Bran said, letting the arrow fly. It struck just left of the center. "He's on his way here. I heard Father talking about it. He's supposed to arrive in a day or two."
Gadriel let out a quiet breath. "I see."
The idea hadn't occurred to him, not in earnest. He knew there was a king who ruled the land—he'd heard mention of the Iron Throne in taverns and conversations—but he had not considered that he might cross paths with him. The notion felt… strange. Even when he had walked the streets of Solitude, under the banner of the Empire, Gadriel had never truly cared for thrones or those who sat upon them.
But still, the idea of seeing the king of this land stirred something in him. Curiosity. Perhaps even anticipation.
"Do you know why he's coming?" Gadriel asked.
Bran shook his head. "Not really. I just know Father has been talking about it with Maester Luwin and the others. Everyone's been rushing around since yesterday."
Gadriel nodded slowly. "Thank you, Bran. Now—again. Watch your elbow this time."
The lesson continued for another half-hour before Bran began to tire. Gadriel offered him a small nod of approval as the boy wiped sweat from his brow.
"You're improving," he said simply.
Bran beamed. "Thanks."
With that, the boy trotted off toward the keep, and Gadriel was left alone by the straw targets. He lingered for a while, eyes drifting to the sky. Clouds had begun to gather. The light was dimming again.
He turned and made his way back to the inn.
❧
A plate of roast meat and barley stew sat in front of him at the table by the hearth. Gadriel took slow bites, chewing thoughtfully. The inn had grown busier over the past days, but this afternoon remained quiet. Perhaps many of the patrons were involved in preparing for the king's arrival. He doubted a royal visit was a common affair in the North.
After finishing his meal, he reached into his satchel and pulled free his journal. He turned past sketches of flora, pages on atmospheric differences between regions, and observations of local dialects until he reached a blank page.
The King of this land—Robert, I believe—is expected to arrive in Winterfell within the next two days. His presence causes unrest, or at the very least a tension among the people. Even those not directly tied to the Stark family seem to walk faster, speak quieter. It reminds me of visits from the Emperor in Solitude, though perhaps with less ceremony.
I wonder if I will see him. I wonder what sort of man he is. Ruler of an entire continent. I can't help but think of the Septim line. Of how Tiber was worshiped, then forgotten.
I should not get involved. But curiosity is a stubborn thing.
He paused, tapping the tip of his charcoal pencil to the corner of the page.
Later, I'll ride out again. Dust needs the exercise, and I could use more samples. The land around here is rich. Wild.
He closed the book, tucked it away, and headed for the stable.
❧
Dust was glad to be out again. The dark mare moved with smooth, quiet steps through the fields outside Winterfell's walls. Gadriel let her lead for a while, loosely holding the reins as he scanned the underbrush.
He'd packed his notebook, several vials, and a small satchel of tools. Along the riverside, he found wildflowers with silver-spotted petals, brittle-stemmed fungi with a bitter, peppery smell, and one particular plant with dark leaves and blue blossoms that reminded him of mountain flowers from the Throat of the World.
Unfamiliar flora. Petals seem to absorb light. Possible reaction to low sun exposure? Will test extract later.
He scribbled as he walked, stopping now and then to crouch beside a mushroom or pluck a leaf. The light changed as the sun began to sink low, casting everything in shades of gold and blue.
At one point, he paused beside a rocky ridge and gazed out toward the horizon. The North stretched endlessly before him—dark forests, pale hills, and somewhere far beyond, icy mountains that scraped the clouds. It stirred memories of the Pale, of hiking near Windhelm in the dead of winter. He could almost smell the snow again.
Winterfell… yes, he thought. It reminds me of home.
The land felt untamed in a familiar way. Cold, harsh, but honest. And though the politics and customs remained alien, the bones of the place were something he could understand.
Eventually, he turned Dust back toward the gates.
❧
The sky had faded to purple by the time he returned to the inn. Gadriel brushed Dust down himself, whispering softly to the mare as he removed her tack. She nickered gently in response, nudging his shoulder once with her nose.
He returned to his room, set down his gear, and unfastened his armor. The room felt warmer than before. Outside, a lantern flickered near the stable's edge.
He sat at his small desk once more and flipped to a fresh page.
The people whisper of the king's arrival. Even now, I hear the innkeeper speaking to her husband—questions of feasts, of security, of gifts.
I don't know what I expect from this Robert. I imagine him as a man like many others: loud, entitled, perhaps even cruel. But perhaps I am wrong. Time will tell.
Still, I should remain cautious. I've drawn little attention so far, and I would prefer to keep it that way. For now, I'll wait. Observe. Record.
He leaned back in his chair, letting the words settle.
Then, slowly, he moved to his bed, pulling the blankets over his frame. He glanced once more at the closed window, the faint light of the moon casting a pale stripe across the floorboards.
Tomorrow, perhaps, more would be revealed.
But for tonight, he rested.