Hours had passed since the king's arrival, and Winterfell had taken on a different air. Torches were lit in the yard, banners hung from the rafters, and the scents of roasted meats and spiced wine drifted from the great hall. Gadriel stood in his chamber, slipping free of his light armor of boiled leather and iron studs. Piece by piece, he set it aside until he stood in simple tunic and trousers. For tonight, he chose plainer clothes—dark wool, a belt, and boots cleaned for the occasion. Not fancy, but decent enough to be seen among lords and royals.
He stepped outside, the night brisk on his face. Ahead, the hall glowed warmly, folk bustling in and out. Gadriel paused, noting the steady stream of servants carrying trays, jugs, and baskets. Final touches, he thought. The feast would soon begin.
Halfway across the courtyard, he noticed Jon Snow not far ahead. Quickening his pace, Gadriel fell in beside him.
"Quite the night," Gadriel said, glancing toward the glow of the hall.
Jon smirked faintly. "The king does not come north often. They'll want this feast remembered."
"Aye. Let's hope the food is half as good as the effort they've put into it."
Jon gave a quiet laugh, and the two entered together.
The great hall was already buzzing with life. Gadriel followed Jon to the far side of a long table, sitting at his side. Servants wove between benches, pouring wine and setting down steaming dishes. The chatter softened when the doors opened again, and the royal family entered with the Starks. King Robert Baratheon strode in with his queen, golden-haired children trailing behind. The Starks followed, Ned walking nearest the king, while Robb, Bran, Arya, and Sansa settled around their mother.
Once all were seated, Eddard Stark rose, his voice carrying over the tables. "I thank you all for gathering here tonight. We honor the arrival of our king, Robert Baratheon, and his family. May this feast begin."
The cheer that followed was quickly swallowed by the sounds of eating and drinking. Robert's laughter rose above it all, booming and unrestrained, his voice carrying even as he traded stories with Ned.
Gadriel leaned back, surveying the spread. Ducks, roasted venison, joints of beef, pies, bread, and cheese. He filled his plate with a duck leg, slices of turkey, and a cut of venison, adding a cup of ale to wash it down. The drink warmed his throat, but, as always, dulled nothing in his mind.
At his side, Jon reached for a whole duck and set it on the floor. Gadriel raised a brow, but his question was answered when a white blur padded silently from the shadows. Ghost, Jon's direwolf, sank sharp teeth into the bird, eating with fierce abandon.
"Well," Gadriel murmured, amused. "Best not to get between him and his meal."
The feast carried on, voices loud, food and drink flowing. Yet Gadriel's thoughts drifted elsewhere. He finished his plate, drained his cup, and excused himself. The duel loomed near. If the king expected spectacle, then spectacle he would have.
Back in his quarters, Gadriel donned his light armor once more, leather and iron fitting snugly over tunic and trousers. He belted on a short iron sword—plain, unremarkable, the sort of weapon anyone might use. Dawnbreaker and his finer arms stayed hidden.
Returning to the hall, he reached the doors just as Jon pushed past, storming out with a tight expression. Gadriel paused but said nothing, slipping inside instead. The hall was hushed, all eyes turned to Lord Eddard, who stood by the king.
"My lords, ladies," Ned said, his voice steady, "this has been a fine evening of food and company. But I know my king well enough—he has never been truly satisfied by a feast unless it ends with sport. And so, we shall give him a contest of arms. In the yard, a duel is to be fought. May it be worthy of our guests."
Robert slapped the table, laughing in delight. "Aye, Ned! At last, some bloody entertainment!"
The benches scraped back as people rose, filing eagerly out into the night. Gadriel followed, silent but steady, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword.
The training grounds blazed with torchlight, seats already arranged along the edges. The royal family and the Starks took their places, Robert dropping heavily into a high-backed chair beside the queen. His eyes gleamed, eager as a boy's.
Across the ring stood Sandor Clegane—the Hound. His burned face glistened in the torchlight, his massive frame clad in steel. He rested a greatsword on his shoulder, gaze fixed on Gadriel with something close to contempt.
Ned raised a hand. "May all present enjoy what comes. The fight will now begin."
Robert clapped once, sharp and loud. "Go on, then!"
The Hound surged forward with brutal speed, his blade arcing down in a savage cut. Gadriel did not flinch. He waited, then stepped aside at the last heartbeat, the sword cleaving empty air. As he moved, he struck the flat of his own blade against the Hound's helm with a resounding crack. Sandor staggered, dazed, while Gadriel slid back out of reach.
A murmur ran through the crowd.
The Hound shook off the blow with a growl, rushing again. This time his strike came low, sweeping with vicious strength. Gadriel sidestepped again—but Sandor had expected it. His boot lashed out, catching Gadriel in the chest and sending him sprawling. Gasps rippled through the onlookers.
The Hound loomed, raising his sword high. Gadriel rolled clear, steel biting into earth where he had lain a moment before. He rose swiftly, but Sandor was already pressing, raining down blow after blow. Gadriel caught them on his own blade, bracing it with both hands, each strike driving him lower. He bent, one knee sinking, the crowd certain the fight was lost.
At the last instant, Gadriel ducked forward, rolling beneath the Hound's legs. As he passed, he smacked the flat of his blade against Sandor's skull once more. The Hound reeled, stunned. Gadriel struck again, this time with the pommel to the jaw, before darting back seven feet.
The crowd gasped, then roared. Robert's laughter boomed louder than all of them.
Sandor steadied himself, eyes blazing with fury. With a snarl, he charged, sword lifted high, voice bellowing. Gadriel stood calm, waiting. At the moment of impact, he slipped aside, seized the Hound's hair, and kicked his leg out from under him. The force and angle toppled Sandor, his head striking the ground hard. He did not rise.
For a heartbeat, silence. Then the yard erupted. Cheers shook the air, lords and soldiers shouting Gadriel's name. Robert clapped until his hands were red, roaring with approval.
Gadriel allowed himself the faintest smirk, sheathing his blade as he stepped back into the torchlight. The show had ended, and he had given them their spectacle.