Morning came early to Winterfell, though for Gadriel it was no earlier than most. He had long trained himself to wake before the sun, when the air was still cool and the world quiet, before the busyness of the day began. His eyes opened without effort, his body accustomed to the rhythm. For a moment he lay still, staring at the timbered ceiling above him in the modest inn chamber, listening to the faint sounds of movement outside—the shuffle of boots, the muted murmur of voices.
Already, the keep was alive.
He exhaled slowly and sat up, brushing a hand through his pale hair. The events of the past few days lingered faintly in his thoughts—Bran's eagerness during training, the whispers of the king's impending arrival. He'd slept well enough, but a heaviness in the air warned him today would not be an ordinary day.
He rose and went to his pack. Inside lay his usual armor—the dragonbone plates, polished and sturdy, familiar as his own skin. Beside it, Dawnbreaker, its radiant pommel hidden under wrappings, and his cloak to conceal their form. It was what he normally wore when out and about in Winterfell, though carefully veiled to avoid drawing too much attention.
But today was different. Today, the king himself would set foot in this ancient hall. Gadriel had no desire to be the subject of wandering eyes when lords and soldiers filled the courtyard.
He hesitated a moment, hand resting on Dawnbreaker's hilt. Then, with a quiet nod to himself, he set the weapon aside and reached instead for the simpler things he had purchased from a blacksmith some days prior: a plain set of lightweight iron armor, nothing more than boiled leather reinforced with iron studs and small plates. Serviceable, unremarkable. Along with it, an ordinary iron sword, sharp enough to cut but plain as river-stone.
It felt strange strapping on such gear after so many years in the strength of dragonbone and Daedric enchantments. Strange, but necessary. He buckled the last strap, adjusted the plain sword at his hip, and threw his cloak over his shoulders before stepping out into the hall.
The change in the keep was immediate. Where usually there was calm purpose—servants about their chores, guards at ease—today there was a nervous energy that filled every stone passage. Men-at-arms hurried across the yard, adjusting helms and straightening lines. Servants carried baskets and bundles, their voices hushed and brisk. The smell of roasting meats already drifted faintly from the kitchens.
Winterfell, normally steady as the ancient oaks of the North, seemed to quiver with anticipation.
Gadriel took it in quietly as he made his way toward the training yard, only to find it empty. The targets stood silent, the straw dummies unmoving. No Bran waiting with bow in hand, no eager grin or questions spilling out faster than Gadriel could answer them.
He frowned slightly, considering. Then it struck him—of course. With the king's arrival so near, every Stark would have their place in the day's order, every child and servant caught up in the current of preparation. Bran was likely being fussed over by his mother or swept into duties befitting the son of a lord.
Gadriel adjusted his cloak and turned away from the archery grounds.
As he walked, he caught sight of a boy no older than seventeen struggling under the weight of a wooden crate. The lad staggered toward the kitchens, face red with effort, knees threatening to buckle. Without thought, Gadriel stepped forward, caught the edge of the crate, and lifted it as though it were no more than a sack of grain.
The servant blinked up at him, wide-eyed. "Ser—I—thank you, ser—"
"No need," Gadriel said softly, carrying it the rest of the way into the kitchen.
Inside was chaos. The warmth of the great ovens washed over him, filled with the scents of baking bread, stewing meats, herbs crushed under hurried hands. Women bustled from one table to another, knives chopping, pots stirring, voices overlapping in a chorus of order and disorder.
The boy scurried off, and before Gadriel could leave, a cook thrust a basket of apples into his arms. "Set these by the bread, quickly now!"
And so it began.
One task led to another. Gadriel found himself sweeping through the hall with trays, steadying a tottering stack of goblets, carrying barrels of ale with ease that left the cellar hands gaping. The hours passed in a blur of motion, his hands steady, his presence quiet. He was used to labor, to the discipline of work, and though few in the kitchen knew his name, he became part of the great unseen effort that turned Winterfell into a place fit to host a king.
By the time he was setting polished plates upon the long tables of the great hall, his cloak set aside and sleeves rolled, he almost forgot how strange a picture he must have looked—a person of tall frame and noble bearing, moving like a servant among them.
It was then that Lord Eddard Stark entered.
The lord of Winterfell paused upon the threshold, his grey eyes falling immediately upon Gadriel. The men laying out goblets stopped, uncertain.
"Gadriel," Stark said, his voice measured. "What are you doing here?"
Gadriel straightened, setting down the plate in his hands. "Earlier I saw one of your servants struggling with a crate. I lent a hand. One task became another, and—" he gestured lightly to the table before him, "—I seem to have ended up here."
For a heartbeat, silence. Then Stark's stern expression eased, though only slightly. He shook his head with something close to bemusement.
"You have an uncommon sense of duty for a guest," Stark said.
"Where I come from," Gadriel replied evenly, "when there is work to be done, one does not stand idle."
Stark regarded him a moment longer, as though weighing those words, then let it pass. "So be it. But I did not come to speak of labor. You know the king arrives before the day is done."
Gadriel inclined his head. "I had heard whispers."
"There will be a feast in this hall. My son Bran asked that you attend."
That caught Gadriel off guard. "Bran?"
"Aye. He seems to have taken to your tutelage." Stark's expression softened a fraction. "It would honor him to see you among the company."
Gadriel hesitated, then bowed his head. "Then it would be my honor as well. Tell me when I should come."
"Do not concern yourself. A servant will fetch you when the hour comes."
"Very well."
With that, Stark moved on, his mind already elsewhere, his steps purposeful as he disappeared into the depths of the hall.
Gadriel released a slow breath, gathered his cloak, and left the keep.
The courtyard was as busy as ever, but now he let himself walk without aim, observing. The banners stirred in the wind, the Stark direwolf snapping against grey stone. The gates bustled with guards, their armor freshly polished, their movements sharp with discipline. Somewhere beyond the walls, the king's party was on the march, and the entire of Winterfell seemed to pulse in rhythm with their approach.
He was still watching when a small voice broke his thoughts.
"Gadriel!"
Bran. The boy ran up, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with a secret he could barely keep.
"What are you up to?" Gadriel asked, smiling faintly.
Bran leaned closer, lowering his voice. "I'm going climbing. On the walls near the town."
"Climbing?" Gadriel arched a brow. "And why are you whispering?"
"Because Mother doesn't like it," Bran admitted, glancing around. "I'll get in trouble if she knows."
Gadriel studied him for a moment. Then his lips quirked. "As long as I can join you, I see no reason to tell."
Bran's face lit up. "Really? You'll come?"
"I think someone ought to keep an eye on you," Gadriel said dryly.
And so they went together.
The climb was not difficult for Gadriel—his hands steady, his balance sure, his body stronger than any wall could best. But he moved at Bran's pace, letting the boy scramble up first, steadying him with a guiding hand when needed. They perched upon a ledge overlooking part of the yard, the wind in their hair, the stone rough beneath their fingers.
For Bran, it was joy. For Gadriel, it was a strange, quiet reminder of days long past, when he too had sought high places simply to see the world from above.
But the moment was cut short.
"Bran!" a voice called sharply from below.
They looked down to see Jon Snow standing in the yard, dark hair catching the light, his face stern.
Reluctantly, Bran began to climb down, Gadriel following with ease.
"What is it, Jon?" Bran asked once his feet touched earth.
"Father wants you," Jon said, his tone edged with gravity. "A deserter from the Wall. He's to be executed."
Bran's eyes widened, but he nodded.
Gadriel tilted his head, curiosity stirring.
The two boys hurried off together, Bran casting a last glance back at Gadriel before disappearing into the crowd.
Left standing in the courtyard, Gadriel folded his arms, his thoughts lingering on Jon's words. The Wall. A deserter. Execution.
He had much yet to learn of this land.
And today, it seemed, was only the beginning.