Androw sighed, sheathing his sword with a sharp clink. "You're hard to read now," he muttered, clearly annoyed.
Rhaena remained unfazed by his irritation. Instead, she offered a small, knowing smile. "Aren't you the same, Androw?" she replied, her tone almost playful.
Without waiting for a response, she glided over to a wooden block in the corner of the forge near him and seated herself with an air of practiced elegance. Androw watched her, feeling helpless. She was as stubborn as ever, and though he hadn't expected her arrival, he realized he had no clear plan to deal with this unyielding woman now.
He knew one thing for sure—no one would dare draw swords in Winterfell without a good reason, not unless someone committed a crime severe enough for even the Northerners to scorn. All he had to do was play along without giving in, but what came next promised even more trouble.
Just then, a group of men entered the forge, led by a tall figure with black hair, cold grey eyes, and a short beard. His stern expression was as frigid as the northern wind. Lord Alaric Stark was a man whose presence alone commanded attention, even the Targaryen name did not stir him.
Rhaena rose from the wooden block, standing in polite courtesy but no more. Her demeanor remained calm, and she didn't bow or show any deference, as was typical of her. Alaric's face showed no emotion as he addressed her with a curt, "Princess."
He spared Androw a quick glance, curiosity flickering in his eyes for a brief moment, but then his attention returned to Rhaena. His tone was stern, without a trace of the respect or humbleness often shown to those of royal blood. "I wasn't expecting your arrival, Princess," he said flatly. "My men will try to accommodate you as best they can, but don't expect balls, masques, or dances. This is the North. Winter is coming.".
He didn't wait for a response as his gaze shifted toward the gathering crowd outside the forge. "We'll continue this conversation in my chamber," he added, gesturing for her to follow. The growing crowd clearly concerned him.
At that moment, Red Dog entered the forge, his eyes immediately locking onto Androw. Androw didn't break eye contact. They were two predators sizing each other up, and everyone in the room could feel it.
Alaric noticed the unspoken exchange between them. His curiosity deepened. He had known Androw was hiding something about his identity, but he hadn't expected that it might tie him to the Targaryens—and, by extension, to Rhaena.
Rhaena on the other hand, her expression shifted subtly, betraying her irritation with Lord Stark's aloof treatment. She had never been particularly fond of the Starks, and Alaric's cold indifference toward the Targaryens only solidified her stance. Despite this, she maintained her composure, her eyes flicking briefly to Androw. He stood there, silent but clearly calculating, with thoughts running through his mind.
The moment Red Dog entered, Androw's attention shifted. Rhaena noticed, her gaze following his to the door, where more men were beginning to gather outside the forge, drawn by her arrival and Lord Stark's presence. Crowd started form outside and she knew they had no choice but to move the conversation elsewhere. Her decision made, she glanced back at Androw and spoke with quiet authority.
"Androw, come with me," she said, though there was no plea in her tone—only expectation.
Androw's response came swiftly, his voice steady but firm. "I'm sorry, Rhaena," he said, offering no further explanation.
The men who had followed Alaric into the forge exchanged surprised glances. It wasn't often one saw a blacksmith, or anyone for that matter, speak so casually to a Targaryen princess. But no one dared voice their thoughts, not in the presence of Lord Stark.
Rhaena, weary from her long journey, felt the sting of Androw's refusal but didn't let it show. Dealing with Androw's stubbornness was proving to be yet another burden, adding to her exhaustion. She didn't press him further, merely offering a parting glance as she said, "I hope you change your mind."
With that, she turned and followed Alaric, her demeanor cool and composed. As they walked out, Lord Stark briefly met Androw's eyes, his expression unreadable. Androw responded with only a small bow, offering nothing more.
Once Rhaena and the others had left, Androw turned his attention back to Red Dog.
Ser Joffrey Doggett, known to many as "Red Dog," gave an ugly smile as he addressed Androw. "We should talk later, Lord Consort," he said, the words laced with a veneer of respect.
Androw returned the gesture with a wary smile. "We should, Ser Joffrey," he replied, fully aware that the King's loyal hound had something on his mind—something private. Otherwise, there would be no reason for the King's men to leave his side so easily.
Red Dog gave a nod and exited the forge without another word, his armor clinking as he pushed through the crowd. Androw followed him to the doorway and then shut the forge's door behind him, sealing out the growing number of onlookers.
Alone again, Androw let out a long breath. He turned back toward the forge, the glow of the embers casting flickering shadows on the walls. The scent of burning charcoal filled the air, but Androw's thoughts were far from the work of his hands. His gaze drifted to the coals, but his mind was elsewhere.
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