The courtyard of Winterfell was thick with noise and motion. Hooves struck against stone, banners rippled in the wind, and the northern air carried the mingled scents of horses, steel, and pine. Gadriel stood at the edge of the gathering, watching as the royal family descended from their carriages.
At the forefront, King Robert Baratheon embraced Lord Eddard Stark with a booming laugh. The sound carried across the yard, hearty and unrestrained.
"Ned!" Robert bellowed, clapping his old friend on the back with such force that the Lord of Winterfell staggered half a step. "Gods, it's been too long. You've gotten thinner—and grayer!"
Ned smiled faintly. "And you've gotten fatter."
Robert roared with laughter, clearly delighted by the jab, and together they moved toward the keep, already falling into old rhythms of camaraderie. Gadriel watched quietly, piecing together what was plain before him: these two men were not merely allies bound by duty, but companions forged in battles past.
He brushed aside the thought and shifted his gaze. Around the yard, the children of both houses began to mingle. Bran Stark was speaking eagerly with a round-faced boy who seemed to struggle to keep up with his enthusiasm. Arya had been paired off with a golden-haired girl, though the youngest Stark girl looked about as interested as one might be in an embroidery lesson. Sansa, in contrast, was radiant, her eyes fixed on the tall, curly-haired youth who introduced himself as Joffrey Baratheon.
Lady Catelyn exchanged only a few curt words with Queen Cersei, her courtesy thin and brittle as winter ice. Robb Stark lingered near his mother, his silence betraying a guarded caution as he observed the southern newcomers.
Gadriel was content to stand apart, not wishing to intrude. But then his eye caught on a figure unlike the others: a man of small stature, with the same golden curls as the queen's children. His mismatched eyes, sharp with intelligence, and the way he carried himself—half amused, half resigned—marked him apart.
Intrigued, Gadriel approached and inclined his head politely. "You must be of the royal company. Gadriel Dovahkiin, at your service."
The dwarf turned, lips curving into a wry smile. "Tyrion Lannister. At my service? Gods save me—finally someone with manners in this frozen corner of the world."
The two spoke easily, Tyrion steering the conversation with charm and subtle wit. They touched upon the long ride north, Tyrion's family, and eventually Bran's lessons in archery.
"I overheard from my nephew that you've been teaching the boy to shoot," Tyrion said, sipping from a wine cup he had somehow procured.
"Aye," Gadriel answered. "He's eager, though not always steady. But eagerness is half the battle in learning any craft."
Tyrion chuckled. "The boy could do worse than to have a teacher who knows patience. Gods know, I had none."
Their conversation might have gone longer, but Tyrion excused himself with a bow of mock grandeur. Gadriel was left considering the man's words when a familiar voice called his name.
"Gadriel!"
Bran came running, the chubby boy in tow. "This is Tommen—Prince Tommen! I told him you're the best with a bow."
The boy's cheeks flushed pink as he gave a small, polite bow. Gadriel returned it with equal respect. "An honor, Your Grace."
Before long, the boys scampered off again. Gadriel turned to leave, but their conversation had not gone unheard. Prince Tommen eagerly repeated Bran's praise to his older brother, Joffrey.
"Bows," Joffrey said, voice curling with disdain. "Children's toys. Real men fight with swords."
Bran, flushed with loyalty, crossed his arms. "Gadriel's good with a sword too!"
Joffrey's eyes flicked toward the man in question. A smirk tugged at his lips. "Better than my sworn shield?" He gestured to the looming figure beside him, Sandor Clegane—the Hound. The scarred warrior stood silent, a dark shadow against the brightness of the day.
Bran's mouth opened, then closed. He had no answer.
With the self-assurance of one who had never been denied anything, Joffrey strode toward Gadriel, the Hound trailing at his side. His smirk had hardened into challenge.
"You're Gadriel?" Joffrey asked, though the question was more statement than inquiry.
"I am," Gadriel replied evenly, bowing his head slightly. "And you must be the prince."
"Don't bother with courtesy," Joffrey sneered. "I want to see if what the boy says is true. He says you can fight. Prove it. A duel. You against the Hound."
The Hound said nothing, though his scarred face twisted faintly, as though the notion amused him. Gadriel measured him with his eyes: the man was tall, broad, every inch a seasoned killer. Not an opponent to be taken lightly—but not one to fear, either.
"If it pleases Your Grace," Gadriel said calmly, "then let it be after the feast. Better sport with a full belly, no?"
Joffrey scoffed . "Very well. After the feast, then."
He turned sharply, leading the Hound away.
When the crowd began to thin, Gadriel approached Lord Stark, who had just parted from the king. He inclined his head with respect. "My lord, I thought it right to tell you. I have been challenged to a duel—after the feast. Against the Hound."
Ned studied him carefully, his stern expression betraying little. "And you accepted?"
"I did. The prince demanded it. I thought… perhaps the king might take it as entertainment, rather than insult."
For a moment, silence hung heavy. Then Ned nodded. "You judged rightly. Robert will welcome the sight of swords, especially after so long a ride." His eyes softened, though only slightly. "But take care, Gadriel. The Hound is no mere knight. Do not let the prince's games cost you more than pride."
"I understand," Gadriel said.
With that, he withdrew, his thoughts already on the coming night. The feast awaited—and beyond it, the clash of steel.