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SLW Chapter 55 : A Visitor
🕑 Added 2025-04-07 21:00:11 +0000 UTCDragonstone –
The sea moaned below the cliffs of Dragonstone, gray waves lapping against the blackened stone like the slow rhythm of an ancient heart. Aeron stood once more at the edge of the fortress, the vastness of the ocean stretching out before him. His gaze was sharp, thoughtful, but edged with a quiet frustration.
“She’s taking her time, those ships are slow...” he muttered, folding his arms.
His cloak rippled with the breeze as his eyes scanned the empty horizon. He turned back toward the keep, the weight of decisions hanging heavy on his shoulders. The Cannibal shifted in the distance, wings partially spread, a looming reminder of his unmatched might.
“I’ll leave soldiers here,” he said to himself. “Dragonstone must remain secured… but I cannot wait for her forever, I can do things in the meantime..”
A flicker of darkness danced behind his irises, his mind already moving ten steps ahead.
“It’s time I pay a visit to the great houses myself… time to see if the Lords of Westeros still remember how to kneel.”
He turned on his heel.
“Exchange,” he whispered to the system then vanished into shadow.
****
Winterfell –
Snow fell gently over the walls of Winterfell, not in howling gales or blinding flurries, but in a quiet, drifting peace. The banners of House Stark once again flew over the great keep, wolves howling in the wind as Robb Stark, the Young Wolf, walked the halls of his home for the first time since war had torn him from it.
In the Great Hall, the hearth blazed with fresh fire. Seated at the long table were Sansa, Maester Luwin, and Ser Rodrik Cassel, while Robb leaned over the maps and ravens, his brow furrowed in thought.
“The truce holds for now,” Robb said, rolling his shoulder, still sore from weeks of campaign. “But it feels... uneasy. Like the calm before something darker.”
“We’ve survived much,” Ser Rodrik said, voice gravelly but proud. “And not alone. Not entirely.”
Sansa, sitting with a cup of tea in her hands, glanced up. “You mean that man… the one they whisper about. The Shadow Monarch.”
Ser Rodrik’s face darkened with grim respect.
“He is no mere whisper, my lady,” he said. “I saw him with my own eyes. He stood among us here in Winterfell. He fought in the courtyard. It was his shadows that brought down Roose Bolton who were with our King Robb.”
Sansa blinked, eyebrows rising in disbelief. “Isn’t that just a story? A tale the smallfolk trade to pass time? Shadowmen and a deathless king?”
“If I hadn’t seen it myself,” Robb said, standing straight, “I’d say the same. But I did see it. His power… . That wasn’t a trick. It was sorcery, aye, but real. Too real.”
“He saved us here from Theon.” Maester Luwin added, stroking his beard. “And he accused Roose Bolton of treachery. Said the man sought to tip the war in the Lannisters’ favor. And then… he said that he would end him.”
“So he did us a favor?” Robb asked, half-cynical, half-wary.
Maester Luwin hesitated, eyes flicking to the fire. “Perhaps. But his reasons were his own. He sought no crown. No praise. He came… and vanished.”
Sansa shivered, the memory of that night haunting the edges of her thoughts. “Then what does he want?”
“What any power wants,” Ser Rodrik murmured. “To shape the world.”
Robb nodded slowly. “He did send letters telling us to bend the knee...what a strange man… Aeron Grim. A dangerous one, too. But perhaps… not an enemy.”
From the courtyard below, the sound of steel clashing rang out. Arya, training with a needle, paused mid-swing. She had been listening from the shadows by the stair.
Her breath misted in the air as she stared up at the window above at her brother, her sister, their talk of shadows and power.
“Aeron Grim,” she whispered under her breath.
And for a moment… the cold wind seemed to still.
Maester Luwin cleared his throat a subtle sound, yet one that instantly commanded attention.
“There is… one more matter, my king,” Luwin said, his voice laced with unease.
Robb turned, brow furrowing at the maester’s grave tone.
“What is it, Luwin?”
The old man stepped forward, holding a tightly wound raven scroll sealed in black wax. He offered it with both hands, like it was heavier than it looked.
“A raven from Castle Black. The seal is Lord Commander Mormont’s. You should read it yourself.”
Robb broke the seal with a swift flick, eyes scanning the parchment.
“To the Kings and Lords of the Seven Kingdoms,
I, Jeor Mormont, Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, do hereby declare a pact made between my order and the Free Folk of the North. The Wall was never meant to keep out men who bleed and breathe, but to guard against the dead who do neither.
The Others march. We’ve seen them. We’ve fought them. And we’ve lost good men to them.
The Free Folk have agreed to stand with us to fight the true enemy that rises from the cold and brings death with it. We do not seek your permission. We seek your understanding. If Realms is to survive what is coming, old hatreds must die, or they will be buried in the snow with the rest of us.
Let the kingdoms prepare. For Death does not knock. It breaks the door down.
Jeor Mormont, Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.”
Robb’s hand trembled slightly as he lowered the letter, the weight of the words sinking in.
“What treachery is this?” he said, voice rising. “They’re letting the Wildlings through the Wall? After generations of blood, raids, and slaughter they would welcome them?!”
Sansa looked equally shaken. “But… what if it’s true? The Others. About the dead?”
Maester Luwin nodded solemnly. “It is desperate, But not without reason. I’ve studied the old histories. And what Lord Mormont speaks of… it aligns with ancient texts, long ignored. And considering we have a man that commands shadows..”
Before Robb could speak again, the doors to the Great Hall flung open with a heavy slam, and a breathless soldier strode in, snow clinging to his boots and hood.
“My king!” he called out. “A ranger has arrived from Castle Black.”
Robb’s eyes snapped to him.
“Who?”
The soldier grinned despite the chill in his bones.
“Jon Snow, my king. Your brother. He’s here.”
Robb’s breath caught. For a moment, the weight of crowns, kingdoms, and prophecies lifted.
“Jon…” he whispered. His fists unclenched, and a rare smile pulled at the corner of his lips. “Let him in. Now.”
The soldier nodded and vanished.
As the sound of bootsteps echoed back down the corridor, Robb turned to the others.
“We’ll ask him ourselves,” he said. “About the Wall. About the Wildlings. About the dead.”
Ser Rodrik stood, eyes narrowed. “If half of what we’ve heard is true… then we’ve been fighting the wrong war.”
The fire roared brighter as if stirred by fate itself, and outside Winterfell’s great hall, a direwolf howled long and loud into the cold night.
****
The great hall of Winterfell was alive with the clatter of plates, the soft murmur of reunited kin, and the warm flicker of firelight reflecting off ancient stone. Though the banners of House Stark swayed proudly above, the mood was somber, grounded in the weight of grim truths and darker omens.
Robb Stark sat at the head of the long table, his crown resting beside a half-finished meal. Beside him sat Jon Snow, newly arrived from Castle Black, his face gaunt with fatigue and eyes like black steel. Sansa, quiet but listening, poured him a cup of hot wine. Arya lingered near the fire, whetting her dagger, while Ser Rodrik and Maester Luwin leaned in with rapt attention.
Jon had just finished telling them of what lay beyond the Wall of cold blue eyes, of villages lost to silence, of the uneasy alliance with the Free Folk.
“There’s no time,” Jon said, his voice low but firm. “Every rider we send south should carry the same message: the dead are coming. The Wall has never faced an enemy like this.”
Robb leaned back in his chair, jaw clenched. “to hear it from you…” He shook his head. “The realm is unprepared.”
Jon looked around, his eyes shadowed. “We need allies. Not just swords. People who understand what we’re up against.”
Sansa frowned. “What of this… stranger you mentioned? The one the Lord Commander wrote about. The one who warned them first.”
Jon didn’t answer immediately. He looked down at the table. “Aeron Grim.”
The fire popped. Even the flames seemed to dim at the name.
“He came to Castle Black like a ghost out of legend. Rode a shadow beast. Eyes like purple wildfire caught in moonlight. I don’t know what he is, but he’s not just a man.”
Arya looked up sharply. “You all have been mentioning this person alot, he is becoming more of a legend than a real person.”
“No,” Jon said quietly. “He’s very real. He fought with us at the Fist of the First Men. If the the enemy in the north fears anything…” He looked to Robb. “It might be him.”
Then, a cold gust swept through the hall. The torches flickered.
Everyone turned as the shadows cast by the fire deepened unnaturally. Jon’s own shadow stretched—twisted—and then began to move of its own accord.
Robb stood up, hand reaching instinctively for his sword. “Jon”
“I… I don’t…” Jon stepped back, his breath catching as his own shadow pulled free of him like oil on water.
The shadow thickened, rose, and took shape. Eyes widened. Mouths fell open.
A figure stepped out from the black smoke as if the world itself had conjured him from darkness. Tall, lean, cloaked in midnight, with hair black as crow feathers and violet eyes that burned like amethysts lit by fire.
He smiled slightly, gaze sweeping the hall.
“Ah…” he said, voice smooth and cool, “the smell of Winterfell. Gods, I almost forgot it.”
Steel hissed free as Robb drew his sword. Arya was already between him and Sansa. Even Ser Rodrik looked stunned.
Jon, however, didn’t move. He just stared.
“Aeron…” he breathed.
