POV Arthur
Winterfell didn't have the luxurious appearance of royalty, but its imposing dark castle was strangely comforting. It had a sense of permanence, of living history. It felt as though each stone carried a fragment of ancient legends. I take a deep breath, the cold air burning my lungs, and can't help but smile.
Ragnar walks beside me, his head held high and posture firm. He looks as at home here as I feel out of place. People watch us as we make our way across the courtyard of Winterfell. It's not just curiosity; there's distrust too, especially when they see a wolf walking obediently beside a stranger in foreign clothes.
Children stop playing to stare at us, eyes wide. Some soldiers frown, murmuring among themselves. I can't blame them. It's not every day a man shows up out of nowhere, escorted by a wolf.
Lyanna and Benjen walk just ahead, laughing and exchanging jokes. They have that classic sibling dynamic, a mix of affection and teasing. Lyanna is like a storm — vibrant, unpredictable. Benjen, on the other hand, is more reserved, but there's still a spark of mischief in his eyes. They make an interesting pair to watch, and I wonder how long I'll be able to remain just an observer.
When we reach the main courtyard, Rickard Stark is already waiting for us. He is everything I expected of the Lord of Winterfell: tall, imposing, with a calculating gaze that seems to see beyond the surface. There's no doubt he carries the weight of the North on his shoulders.
He studies me intently, and I can see gratitude in his eyes, mixed with a distrust he doesn't bother to hide. Fair enough. I appeared out of nowhere and brought a giant wolf with me. Any sensible man would be wary.
"Lord Stark," I give a light bow, not too deep, but respectful enough. "Thank you for the welcome."
Rickard examines me for a moment, his eyes assessing every detail, from my foreign clothes to Ragnar by my side. "A guard told me what happened. I'm grateful you protected my daughter, who clearly should not have been alone in the forest." He thanks me while casting a cold glance at Lyanna, though there's also a hint of resignation.
"I was merely passing by, my lord," I reply, smiling slightly. "But I accept your gratitude."
Rickard's eyes shift to Ragnar, and there's a subtle change in his expression. Curiosity, perhaps even a touch of reverence. "A wolf of this size following a man as if he were a trained dog. That's not something you see every day," he comments.
I chuckle softly. "Actually, my lord, I found him beyond the Wall. He was just a pup. I never imagined he'd grow so much in less than two months."
Rickard's eyes widen momentarily as he scrutinizes Ragnar more closely. "Two months? Then he must be a direwolf... A species not seen south of the Wall since the times of the old Kings of the North."
There's a momentary silence. The soldiers around us exchange glances, and even Lyanna and Benjen seem more impressed now. The atmosphere shifts subtly, from distrust to something closer to respect and fascination. I can feel the air of approval, as if my standing had just risen a notch.
Brandon Stark, the heir, approaches with a broad, challenging smile. He's a young, impulsive man, clearly used to leading and being the center of attention. "So, Arthur," he begins, an excited gleam in his eyes. "How about a spar? Nothing too serious, just to see what you're capable of."
I can't help but smile. I know exactly what Brandon is doing. He wants to test me, to see if the stranger who brought a giant wolf can also wield a sword. "Why not?" I respond, twirling my twin swords in a casual motion. "It would be an honor to test my skills against the heir of Winterfell."
Rickard watches the exchange with a keen eye but doesn't intervene. He simply nods, as if granting permission for the young Stark to have his way.
Narrator POV
The training yard of Winterfell is filled with soldiers and trainees. As Brandon and Arthur take their positions for the duel, a crowd begins to gather around. Even Rodrick Cassel, the master-at-arms, abandons what he was doing to watch. He crosses his arms and observes, clearly interested in seeing what this stranger is capable of.
"Fight clean," Rodrick warns, his tone half-serious, half-amused. He knows Brandon well and is aware the young Stark tends to get reckless when provoked.
Brandon takes his stance, holding his longsword with confidence. "Don't worry, Rodrick," he laughs. "I'll go easy on our guest."
Arthur spins his swords with a smile, his eyes alight with excitement he doesn't bother to hide. "I hope I'm up to the challenge."
The fight begins with Brandon making the first move, fast and aggressive. His strikes are precise, strong, and it's clear he's a skilled fighter. But Arthur... Arthur moves with an almost supernatural grace. He blocks each of Brandon's blows with ease, dodging and spinning as if it were a dance.
Murmurs start spreading among the onlookers. Soldiers exchange surprised glances, and even Rodrick Cassel seems impressed. Arthur isn't just defending — he's dictating the pace of the fight, guiding Brandon into making mistakes. In one fluid motion, Arthur disarms the heir of Winterfell, sending Brandon's sword flying and embedding itself in the ground.
Brandon is out of breath, but he laughs, raising his hands in surrender. "I admit defeat," he says, still smiling, but with a gleam of respect in his eyes. "You're better than I expected."
Arthur sheathes his swords, relaxed, and gives a playful bow. "Or maybe I just got lucky, Lord Stark."
Benjen rushes over, eyes wide with admiration. "That was amazing! You have to teach me those moves!"
Arthur grins and ruffles Benjen's hair. "In time, boy. We'll have plenty of time for that."
Later, at the Banquet
The Great Hall of Winterfell is full of life. The table is laden with simple but plentiful dishes: roasted meat, warm bread, and jugs of wine and ale. Rickard Stark raises a cup, looking at Arthur. "Today we toast to my daughter's safe return, but also to the stranger who proved his worth in unexpected ways. Arthur Wayne, and the giant wolf he brought with him, are good omens for the North."
Arthur raises his cup in acknowledgment, and the others follow suit, the sound of the toast echoing through the hall. He shares stories from his travels, carefully choosing the most amusing parts, leaving out the darker details. Lyanna watches him with a curious, attentive look, as if trying to unravel each word.
He also handed over the letter from the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, earning a measure of respect from Rickard when he finished reading it.
At the end of the night, Rickard called Arthur for a private conversation. They retreat to a secluded office, away from prying ears. Rickard sits, his eyes once again evaluating Arthur. "You have impressive skills," he begins. "Men like you are rare. What would you say to serving here in Winterfell?"
Arthur takes a deep breath before replying, still smiling. "I appreciate the offer, my lord, but I'd rather not bind myself with oaths. I am a free man, but I offer my services as a reliable ally, in exchange for a place to rest."
Rickard smiles, finally relaxing. "Very well. I won't force you into anything, but know that you are welcome here, Arthur Wayne."
Arthur gives a short bow, feeling that, even without formal vows or commitments, he has taken a significant step toward becoming part of something greater.