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SLW Chapter 13 : Winterfell
🕑 Added 2025-01-28 20:36:07 +0000 UTCThe guards, still frozen in shock, could barely comprehend what they were witnessing. One of them muttered, “That… that thing is unnatural.”
Aeron turned to them, his smirk returning. “He’s mine now.”
As if on cue, Garm turned his massive head toward the guards and let out a low, menacing growl. The men flinched, but Aeron waved a hand dismissively. “Relax. He won’t harm you. Not unless I tell him to.”
The guards exchanged uneasy glances but said nothing more. Aeron turned back to Garm and gave the shadow beast a small nod. With that, Garm faded into the shadows beneath Aeron’s feet, merging seamlessly with his master’s own shadow.
Aeron stood tall, wiping the sweat from his brow. His purple eyes glinted with determination as he sheathed his sword. “Let’s move,” he said to the guards, his voice steady. “We’ve wasted enough time here.”
Aeron turned to face the guards, his gaze sharp and unyielding. His voice dropped, cold and deadly. “If any of you speak a word of what you saw here today, I’ll kill you and your entire bloodline. Is that clear?”
The weight of his words pressed down on the group like a physical force, leaving no room for defiance. At first, the guards didn’t respond, their faces pale and frozen in shock. But then a low, guttural growl emanated from beneath Aeron’s shadow a sound so feral and menacing that it sent shivers down their spines.
One guard stammered, “O-Of course, my lord!” The others quickly chimed in, nodding frantically. “Yes, my lord!”
Aeron’s lips curved into a faint smirk. “Very well.” He glanced down at the shadow beneath him and whispered, “Thanks, Garm.” The growling ceased as if on command, the silence that followed more unnerving than the sound itself.
Raya, still seated on her horse, stared at Aeron with wide eyes. Her face was a mixture of disbelief and awe. She opened her mouth to speak but hesitated, her mind struggling to process what she had just witnessed.
Noticing her expression, Aeron approached her, his tone softening. “You’re okay?”
Raya blinked and shook her head slightly, as if snapping herself out of a trance. “You’re… you’re a sorcerer, aren’t you? When did you learn to do all that?”
Aeron scratched the back of his head, a sheepish grin replacing his usual smirk. “It’s complicated,” he said, his tone almost apologetic. “But don’t ask me any questions about it. Just know this I’ll keep us safe.”
Raya studied him for a moment, her gaze searching his face for any sign of doubt. But there was none. Aeron’s confidence was steady, unshaken. Finally, she nodded, her lips curling into a small smile. “You’d better. Because I’m not going back to Bear Island.”
Aeron chuckled, his hand brushing the hilt of his sword. “Don’t worry. Neither am I.”
With that, he mounted his horse, casting one last glance at the pyre behind them. The guards silently followed his lead, their fear palpable but their loyalty now undeniable. Raya kept close to Aeron’s side, her curiosity simmering just beneath the surface as they rode deeper into the Wolfswood.
*****
Aeron caught his first glimpse of Winterfell, and his breath hitched in his throat. The great stone fortress loomed in the distance, its grey walls as steadfast and immovable as the North itself. Towering battlements crowned the keep, and the Stark banners—a grey direwolf racing across an icy white field—fluttered in the wind, proud and unyielding. It was a sight Aeron had dreamed of but never imagined he’d see with his own eyes.
He had read about Winterfell in countless tales, imagined its towering walls and the warmth of its great hearths, but reality far surpassed his expectations. The keep looked ancient yet enduring, its stones weathered by centuries of harsh winters. Smoke rose from the chimneys, carrying the scent of hearthfires, and the sound of life within the castle walls reached Aeron even from this distance—horses neighing, men shouting orders, and the faint hum of everyday work.
Aeron slowed his horse, taking in the sight. His violet eyes traced every detail, from the gatehouse to the imposing Great Hall that jutted above the rest of the keep. For a moment, he forgot the cold bite of the Northern air, the ache in his muscles from days of travel, and even the ominous shadow that lingered beneath him. He was here. Winterfell.
Raya rode up beside him, her own expression a mixture of awe and curiosity. “By the gods,” she muttered, her voice barely audible. “It’s… bigger than I imagined.”
Aeron nodded, though he barely registered her words. His mind raced, trying to reconcile the historical grandeur of this place with the reality he now faced. “It’s magnificent,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Stark lands. Stark legacy. I never thought I’d stand here.”
They approached the main gates, flanked by towering watchtowers. Guards atop the walls looked down, their expressions curious but wary. The heavy iron gates groaned as they opened, revealing the bustling courtyard within. Winterfell was alive with activity—stablehands tending to horses, blacksmiths hammering steel, and the ever-present sound of voices shouting orders or exchanging banter.
The captain of the Winterfell guard stepped forward, his fur-lined cloak billowing slightly in the breeze. “Who goes there?” he demanded, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
Aeron dismounted, his boots crunching against the frost-covered ground. He straightened, his shadow stretching long behind him in the afternoon sun. “Aeron Grim,” he announced. “Sent by Lord Mormont of Bear Island to deliver a message to the Warden of the North.”
The captain’s eyes flickered with recognition at the mention of Mormont, and he nodded. “You’ll be granted an audience with Lord Robb Stark. Follow me.”
The group was ushered through the courtyard, drawing curious glances from those around them. Aeron couldn’t help but notice how starkly different the people here looked compared to those on Bear Island well-fed, better clothed, and with an air of confidence that came from living under the protection of the Starks.
As they entered the Great Hall, Aeron’s eyes were drawn to the massive hearth at its center, the flames crackling and casting a warm glow over the stone walls. Above it hung the sigil of House Stark, the direwolf etched in iron, a silent reminder of the family’s power and legacy.
At the far end of the hall sat Robb Stark, the Young Wolf himself. He looked younger than Aeron had imagined but carried himself with the authority of a man who had seen battle and borne responsibility beyond his years. His auburn hair was cropped short, and his piercing grey eyes seemed to assess Aeron even before a word was spoken. Beside him stood Maester Luwin and a few advisors, their faces etched with curiosity.
Aeron approached, his boots echoing against the stone floor. He stopped a respectful distance away and inclined his head. “My lord,” he said, his voice steady.
Robb Stark rose from his seat, a faint smile playing on his lips. “No need for formalities. If my bannerman trusted you enough to send you here, then you’re a friend of Winterfell.”
Aeron straightened, his expression neutral despite the weight of Robb’s words. Friend of Winterfell. He allowed the phrase to settle in his mind. “Thank you, my lord.”
Robb gestured to a servant, who stepped forward with a tray of wine. “You’ve traveled far. Rest, eat, and drink. But first, tell me what news from Bear Island?”
As Aeron relayed the details of the pirate raid and his role in repelling the attack, Robb listened intently, his brow furrowing at times. When Aeron finished, Robb leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful.
“You’ve done the North a great service,” he said finally. “And I trust Mormont judgment in sending you. We’ll send men to bear island at once, and I'll inform Lord father of this matter in Kingslanding Winterfell will always be a place of safety for those loyal to the Starks.”
Aeron's brow furrowed slightly as he absorbed Robb Stark’s words. “Lord father, Kingslanding?” he repeated, feigning ignorance. he wanted to gauge the young wolf’s response, see what is exactly going on in the world at the moment.
Maester Luwin, ever the scholar, chimed in immediately. “My lord,” he said with a somewhat dismissive tone, “this man is of lowborn origin. He likely doesn’t know of such matters.”
Aeron smirked to himself, silently amused by the Maester’s bluntness. He could already tell that Luwin was the type of man who preferred logic over personal pride. The man probably thought nothing of Aeron’s lowborn status, seeing only his utility in the larger game of politics.
Robb, took the bait. His gaze remained steady as he turned toward Aeron, answering truthfully. “My father serves as Hand of the King in Kingslanding,” Robb said, his voice firm. “He will handle matters of state in the capital, but as for the situation at sea, we’ll send men to Bear Island, and Winterfell will see to it that our allies are protected.”
Aeron’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully, the pieces falling into place. ‘so he the war is yet to start and Eddard is alive and well, well this is the piece of information that i truly wanted.’ Aeron thought to himself.
