"The Gates of Winterfell"
Summary:
Aeryon and Rodrik reach Winterfell at dawn. Aeryon meets the Stark family for the first time, presenting himself as a wandering noble from the Vale. The North studies him with curiosity… and something else.
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The hooves echo first.
Not loud—
just steady, rhythmic thuds rolling across the frosted stones of the Kingsroad as Winterfell's massive walls rise out of the morning fog. The sky is still pale, the sun not fully over the horizon, and the cold breath of the North clings to everything like a second skin.
Rodrik's voice cracks through the quiet as he shifts in his saddle.
"There she is," he mutters, awe softening the grit in his voice. "Winterfell. Gods… never thought I'd be ridin' through these gates again."
Aeryon lets Quiet slow beneath him, taking in the sight.
The walls are ancient—
not pristine, not polished,
but alive in a way stone shouldn't be.
Not like Minecraft blocks.
Not like anything artificial.
These stones had seen war.
Fire.
Kings rising.
Kings falling.
And for the first time since he arrived in this world,
Aeryon feels the weight of real, living history pressing in.
Rodrik clears his throat nervously.
"Remember your story. Minor noble. Spread between the Vale and the North. That's all. Don't talk too much."
Aeryon smirks. "I rarely do."
Rodrik snorts. "Lad, you talk plenty. Just… don't talk yourself onto a headsman's block. Ned Stark's fair, but he's still a Stark."
They ride toward the gatehouse.
Two guards in thick furs and boiled leather step forward, spears grounded. One squints up at Aeryon.
"Ser Rodrik—I didn't know you were expected back."
Rodrik straightens with a little pride. "Life's full o' surprises. I bring a guest."
Their eyes shift to Aeryon.
Not suspicious.
But curious.
The way Northerners look at someone who isn't carved from the same snow and stone as they are.
"A guest from the Vale," Rodrik adds. "A man of good birth and better intentions."
The guard nods. "Lord Stark will want to meet him."
Aeryon inclines his head. "And I him."
The gates open slowly—
creaking, groaning, timber grinding against frozen metal—
until Winterfell's courtyard spills open in a flurry of motion.
Stable boys rush toward horses.
Servants haul firewood.
A blacksmith hammers steel with sparks jumping like fireflies.
And from the training yard, the clatter of wooden swords cuts sharply through the air.
Rodrik smiles. "Feels like home."
A small voice yells, "Jon! You're cheating!"
Aeryon turns toward the training yard railing—
and there they are.
The Stark children.
Robb Stark with a wooden sword, stance strong, hair red as embers.
Jon Snow opposite him, moving quicker, lighter on his feet.
Bran beside them, trying to mimic their footwork.
Arya perched on a barrel, shouting instructions as if she were the commander of an army.
Sansa stands further back, hands clasped, watching the chaos with an expression equal parts fond and mortified.
Rodrik's smile widens when he sees them.
"One day, those five'll rule the whole bloody North."
"Maybe more," Aeryon murmurs.
Rodrik raises a brow, but before he can question it—
A quiet command cuts the air:
"Rodrik?"
Eddard Stark steps from behind a column.
It's strange seeing him alive.
Straight-backed.
Strong.
Clear-eyed.
The weight of the world not yet crushing him.
Rodrik bows. "My lord."
Ned's eyes slide to Aeryon. Sharp. Calm. Assessing everything in a single glance—the horse, the posture, the clothes, the sword, the hands.
"You've brought a guest."
Aeryon dismounts smoothly, landing lightly in the dirt. "My lord Stark."
Ned studies him.
Not rudely.
Just deeply—
as if trying to decide whether Aeryon belongs here or will never belong anywhere.
"You came from the Vale?" Ned asks.
"Yes, my lord."
"What brings you to the North?"
Aeryon smiles the polite, diplomatic smile he prepared.
"Opportunity."
Ned's eyebrows lift slightly. "There is little of that here."
Aeryon holds his gaze. "That depends on what one is looking for."
The corner of Ned's lip twitches—
not a smile,
but something close.
Rodrik steps in. "The lad helped me on the Kingsroad, my lord. Wolves attacked. He saved my life."
Ned's eyes sharpen. "Is that so?"
Aeryon answers evenly, "I only did what anyone would do."
Ned shakes his head once. "No. Not anyone."
He steps closer.
And then something unexpected happens.
Jon Snow notices Aeryon first.
The boy pauses mid-sparring stance, wooden sword lowering as curiosity flickers in his dark eyes.
He walks over, wiping sweat from his brow.
"You're not from here," Jon says bluntly.
Aeryon smiles. "No. And you are not like them, are you?"
Jon blinks. "What?"
Aeryon nods toward Robb, Bran, Arya, and Sansa. "They all look alike."
Robb calls out, "Jon! Stop talkin' and finish the match!"
Jon flushes slightly. "They're not all alike."
Aeryon gives him a look that makes Jon freeze just a little.
"No," Aeryon says quietly. "You're right. You're the interesting one."
Jon has no idea how to respond to that.
Robb jogs over, breathless. "Father, who's your guest?"
Ned answers, "A nobleman from the Vale."
Arya leans over the railing. "He doesn't look like a nobleman."
Sansa gasps. "Arya!"
Aeryon gives Arya a playful half-bow. "Thank you. Nobility is often overrated."
Arya grins widely. Sansa looks mortified. Bran looks curious. Jon looks… seen.
And Ned looks satisfied.
"Rodrik," Ned says, "see him settled in the guest house. Lord Royce will wish to hear word of this man traveling north."
"As you command, my lord."
Ned nods once to Aeryon.
"Welcome to Winterfell."
He walks away—
cloak billowing behind him—
and for a moment Aeryon just stands there, absorbing it.
Winterfell.
Eddard Stark alive.
The Stark children laughing.
The castle buzzing with life before its tragedies.
Rodrik claps Aeryon on the shoulder. "See? Easy enough."
Aeryon watches Arya sprint after Jon, Bran chasing both of them, Sansa sighing, Robb laughing—
—this world, still whole.
Aeryon murmurs under his breath:
"Not for long."