The music climbs again, steady and warm—flutes weaving through the hum of voices. Men laugh. Servants weave between the tables with fresh bread and jugs of ale.
The hall has recovered from King Robert's outburst.
But Aeryon can sense the attention that still clings to him like a thin veil.
Robb leans across the table. "Well. I think you made an impression."
Jon gives a dry smirk. "A bold one."
Aeryon answers with a small shrug. "I didn't choose his comparison."
"You didn't deny it too loudly, either," Robb teases.
"I denied it exactly enough."
Jon snorts. "That sounds like something Lord Stark would say."
Aeryon allows himself the faintest smile.
But then a shadow falls across the table.
Not heavy.
Not threatening.
Elegant.
Controlled.
Measured.
The kind of shadow only a trained swordsman casts.
Aeryon doesn't need to look up to know who it is.
Jaime Lannister.
Robb stiffens.
Jon sits straighter.
Ghost lifts his head, ears tilting.
Aeryon waits a heartbeat.
Then lifts his eyes.
Jaime stands there with a cup of wine in hand, posture relaxed—but his gaze locked onto Aeryon with pinpoint intensity.
"I hope you won't mind," Jaime says smoothly, "if I borrow our northern guest for a moment."
Robb opens his mouth. Probably to object.
Aeryon answers first. "Of course, Ser Jaime."
He rises, every motion calm.
Jaime gestures toward the edge of the hall, near the columns where the firelight flickers lower and conversations blur into background noise.
Aeryon follows.
When they stop beside a stone pillar carved with running wolves, Jaime takes a sip of wine and studies him openly.
Not hostile.
Not friendly.
Analytical.
"You carry yourself with confidence," Jaime says. "But not the kind I usually see from young knights."
Aeryon doesn't answer yet.
Jaime steps closer—not invading space, but eliminating distance. "And you don't look away when a king compares you to a dead prince."
Aeryon tilts his head. "Should I have?"
"That depends," Jaime replies, swirling his wine. "Did the comparison trouble you?"
"No."
"Interesting."
Jaime's eyes flick over Aeryon's face, studying bone structure, jawline, eye shape—searching for something he can't quite place.
"You know who you resemble," Jaime murmurs. "I know you do."
Aeryon meets his gaze evenly. "A coincidence of hair and eyes is hardly a crime."
"No," Jaime agrees. "It isn't."
He leans slightly closer, dropping his voice lower. "But my sister hasn't taken her eyes off you since she arrived. And that, I find… noteworthy."
Aeryon keeps his face perfectly still.
"And you?" he asks softly. "Have you taken your eyes off me?"
Jaime's lips twitch in a faint, humorless smile. "Not for a moment."
Aeryon can feel the pressure behind those words—testing, probing, not quite challenging but close.
A lion circling something unfamiliar.
Something it doesn't understand.
Jaime breathes out slowly. "You don't flinch. Most men would."
"Most men aren't me."
"That much," Jaime says, "is very clear."
The air between them hums with unspoken meaning.
Across the hall, the Lannister sigil gleams on banners. King Robert laughs at something Ned says. Servants bustle. Northern men cheer at a joke.
But here, in the corner shadows—
—it's just the Kingslayer and the reborn god hiding in plain sight.
Jaime lifts his cup again.
"Tell me, Aeryon of the Vale," he says quietly, "who exactly are you?"
Aeryon answers with a small, controlled smile—the kind that reveals everything and nothing.
"A man enjoying a feast, Ser Jaime."
Jaime studies him one last moment.
Then he chuckles softly, though the sound holds no mirth.
"Liar," he says.
And with that single word, he turns and walks back into the hall—
leaving Aeryon standing at the edge of the firelight, the echo of the accusation hanging between them.
Not shouted.
Not angry.
Just true enough to be dangerous.
The ripple is no longer a ripple.
It is a wave.
For a moment after Jaime's departure, the hall feels quieter than it is.
The music still plays.
The fire still roars.
Men still laugh and drink and call for more ale.
But Aeryon hears none of it.
He's listening to the echo Jaime left behind—
not the word, but the intent.
The lion wasn't accusing.
He was warning himself.
Jaime Lannister recognized something he couldn't name.
Something dangerous.
Aeryon breathes once, slow and steady.
Then he turns from the cold shadow of the pillar and walks back toward the tables.
Robb spots him first.
The young Stark leans in immediately once Aeryon sits. "What did he want? You look like you were just interrogated by a cat with a grudge."
Jon shoots Robb a tired glare. "Robb, that isn't how cats work."
"Fine—a very large cat with a sword."
"That's worse."
Aeryon sets his cup down. "Ser Jaime was… curious."
Robb's eyes widen. "Curious? He stared at you like he expected you to sprout wings."
Jon lifts a brow. "Did he ask why you look like a Targaryen?"
Aeryon's gaze stays calm. "No."
It's not a lie.
Not exactly.
Ghost noses Aeryon's hand under the table, sniffing him once, then twice, as if searching for something unusual.
Aeryon rubs the wolf's head gently. Ghost's fur is soft, white, cold from the floor.
Robb sighs heavily. "Leave it to Jaime Lannister to turn a feast into a mystery."
Jon's eyes flick toward the royal corner. "He's still watching."
Aeryon doesn't look.
He doesn't need to.
He already knows Jaime is.
---
A servant arrives—a girl no older than Arya, balancing a tray of bread. She stops at Aeryon's side timidly.
"Uh… m'l—m'sir?" she stammers.
Aeryon softens his voice. "Yes?"
She holds out a folded scrap of parchment, hands shaking slightly. "This—this was given to me. Said to bring it to you. Not to anyone else."
Robb frowns. "Who gave it?"
The girl swallows, eyes flicking toward the shadows near the stairs. "A lady. Dressed nice. Didn't say her name."
Aeryon takes the note.
She scurries away like a sparrow escaping a hawk's shadow.
Robb leans so far over the table he nearly falls. "Well? Who's it from? One of the southern ladies?"
Jon elbows him. "Do you ever stop talking?"
"I will if this is interesting."
Aeryon ignores them both for a moment, letting the noise of the hall hide the small sound of parchment unfolding beneath the table.
The message is short.
Precise.
Written in graceful, unmistakable handwriting.
"You did well.
The next meeting will not be in my chambers.
Servants gossip. Walls listen.
Follow the lantern on the battlements after moonrise."
—C
Aeryon refolds the message and slides it into his glove with the same calm he'd use for adjusting a cuff.
Robb is still watching him eagerly. "So? What is it?"
Aeryon gives a small, almost bored shrug. "Directions. Someone misplaced a piece of gear. They want me to fetch it later."
Robb groans. "That's not interesting at all."
Jon gives Aeryon a skeptical sidelong look, but says nothing.
He doesn't believe the explanation.
But he also doesn't pry.
Ghost settles at Aeryon's feet again, resting his head across Aeryon's boot like it belongs there.
Aeryon drinks slowly, letting the warmth from the cup settle.
Outside, winter wind howls against the stone.
Inside, the feast grows louder.
But none of the sound matters.
Because above them—
on the battlements—
one lantern will burn brighter than the rest.
Calling him.
PART 14
Last moment from Part 13:
Because above them—on the battlements—one lantern will burn brighter than the rest.
Calling him.
Moonrise comes slowly in Winterfell—
a stubborn silver disk climbing past drifting clouds.
Firelight from the feast spills through the great hall doors when Aeryon rises. It clings to the back of his cloak as he steps away from the table.
Robb notices immediately.
"You leaving?" he asks, half-drunk, half-curious.
Aeryon nods. "Air. It's hot in here."
"Then take Jon with you," Robb groans dramatically. "He broods better in the cold."
Jon doesn't even glance up from his cup. "Go enjoy your fresh air, Aeryon."
Ghost lifts his head, watching silently.
Aeryon gives the wolf a small gesture—a calming one—and steps away from the table.
The hall swallows the noise behind him as the heavy doors close.
Winterfell's night is colder than earlier, sharp enough to bite at his ears. Snow drifts in lazy spirals, brushing his hair, settling onto his shoulders like pale ash.
Up above, torches line the battlements in a steady row.
Except one.
One lantern glows brighter, warmer—
a concentrated golden flame burning insistently through the dark.
His path.
Aeryon walks slowly, measured, as though he's simply enjoying the cold. A passing guard pays him no mind. Another yawns, leaning on his spear.
He climbs the stair tower, boots knocking softly against the stone.
Halfway up, he hears a sound.
Not loud.
Just… barely off.
A shift.
A breath.
A foot brushing stone.
Not hostile—
but watchful.
He keeps moving.
The lantern's glow grows stronger as he reaches the top of the stairs. The battlements stretch left and right, wind curling between the crenels.
But he's not alone.
Someone stands at the battlement edge, cloak snapping in the wind like a dark banner.
Aeryon stops.
The figure turns slightly—just enough to look at him over a shoulder.
Not Cersei.
Not even close.
It's Theon Greyjoy.
His grin is small, sharp, and annoyingly smug.
"Thought I heard someone sneaking about," Theon says, pushing off the stone. "You move quiet for a southerner."
Aeryon keeps his voice controlled. "Just getting air."
Theon's eyes flick toward the bright lantern.
Then back to Aeryon.
Then to the lantern again.
He's not stupid enough to know what it means.
But he's curious enough to want to.
"Strange place to get air," Theon drawls, stepping closer. "Most men go to the yard. Or the godswood. Not the highest, coldest corner of the entire bloody castle."
He leans an elbow casually on a battlement. "Meeting someone?"
Aeryon meets his gaze without blinking.
"Are you?"
That gets a smirk.
"No," Theon says, shrugging. "I just like to see who comes up here after dark. Winterfell is dull. Little mysteries keep me alive."
The lantern's flame flickers behind him—
too bright, too intentional.
Cersei's signal.
Aeryon's time.
And Theon Greyjoy is standing directly in the middle of the path.
Theon narrows his eyes slightly, studying Aeryon's hair, his face, the silver in the moonlight.
"You know…" he says slowly, "you really do look like someone."
Aeryon doesn't speak.
Doesn't move.
Theon taps his chin thoughtfully. "Can't place it. But it's there. Something familiar."
He leans in just an inch.
Too close.
Too curious.
And then—
Footsteps.
Soft.
Measured.
Deliberate.
Aeryon doesn't turn.
He doesn't need to.
He knows who it is.
A woman's voice drifts toward them, calm and controlled:
"Aeryon. I see you found the wrong company."
Theon straightens instantly.
Cersei Lannister steps out from the shadow behind the lantern's glow—
hair gold even in moonlight, cloak wrapped tight, expression unreadable.
Theon clears his throat, suddenly less smug. "My lady. I didn't realize—"
"You rarely do," Cersei says coolly. "Run along."
Theon hesitates, glancing once toward Aeryon, eyes full of questions he's too smart to ask aloud.
Then he bows stiffly and leaves the battlements, footsteps echoing down the stairs.
Aeryon waits until Theon's steps fade.
Only then does he turn to Cersei.
Her eyes meet his—sharp, intent, and burning with something she hasn't felt in years.
"Walk with me," she says softly.
Not a request.
A command wrapped in silk.
Wind pushes at their cloaks as Aeryon steps to her side.
The lantern sputters behind them, its flame dancing like a secret signaling the night itself.
Cersei doesn't speak at first.
She walks.
Slow, controlled steps, measured against the stone beneath her feet. The kind of walk taken by someone who expects the ground to obey her.
Aeryon matches her pace.
"What did Theon want with you?" she asks, eyes forward.
"Nothing," Aeryon says.
Her lips twitch faintly. Not a smile.
A reaction.
"A terrible liar," Cersei murmurs. "Just like Rhaegar."
Aeryon's breath stills for half a heartbeat.
She notices.
Her eyes flick sideways to read him. "Yes. That startled you."
"Because you said it suddenly," he replies.
"Mm. And because it was true."
She stops walking and turns fully to face him.
Moonlight frames her hair like a crown forged of winter gold. She studies him, closer now, her gaze running slowly across every angle of his face.
"This morning, I saw you on horseback," she says quietly. "And for a moment… a foolish, impossible moment… I thought you were him."
Aeryon keeps his expression neutral. "He's been dead for decades."
"Yes," she says, voice low. "And yet I looked at you and felt seventeen again."
She looks away then—
not out of weakness, but out of annoyance with herself.
"Winterfell has ghosts," she says. "Some follow me even here."
Aeryon steps closer—not touching her, but near enough to make her lift her chin just slightly. Close enough for breath to fog between them.
"What did you want to see me for?" he asks softly.
Her gaze locks onto his again.
"Because you remind me of a story I never finished," she says. "And I do not tolerate unfinished things."
She turns once more, leaning slightly against the battlement wall, fingers brushing frost from the stone.
"Jaime is suspicious," she continues. "Not of what happened between us. Suspicious of you."
Aeryon answers, "He's protective."
Cersei gives a soft, humorless laugh. "He's obsessive. And he's looking for a reason to decide you're a threat."
She leans in, voice dropping to a whisper that barely survives the wind.
"So you will give him none."
Aeryon holds her gaze. "Is that a request?"
"No."
Her eyes darken.
"It's survival."
A gust of wind pushes her hair across her cheek.
Aeryon instinctively moves a hand to steady her cloak—
not touching her, but close.
She doesn't pull away.
Instead, she studies his hand, then his face, as though deciding something unspoken.
"I don't know what you are," she murmurs. "A trick of fate. A relic of memory. A foreigner wearing a dead man's image."
She leans slightly closer.
"But I know you are not ordinary. And I know you didn't come to Winterfell for the view."
Aeryon's jaw shifts. "What do you believe I came for?"
She smirks. "Men like you always want something. Influence. Power. A place in the world that belongs to you."
Her eyes travel over him slowly, deliberately.
"And you could take it," she says.
She pushes off the stone and begins walking again—
but this time, her steps are quieter, more intimate, as if she no longer cares who might see them together.
Aeryon walks with her.
Down below, from the inner yard, a distant clatter of metal rings out.
Training swords, maybe.
But higher up—
from a dark tower window—
a glint flashes.
Someone watching.
Someone tall, leaning slightly out of the shadows.
A single golden reflection catches moonlight.
Jaime Lannister.
He doesn't move.
Doesn't speak.
Just watches the two silhouettes walking together along the battlements, side by side, cloaks brushing the cold stone.
Cersei keeps her voice soft so only Aeryon can hear:
"You will meet me again tomorrow. Privately. Not here."
Aeryon nods once. "Where?"
She slips something into his hand—
a tiny silver clasp shaped like a lion's head.
"Where this takes you," she says.
Then she steps back, deliberately slow, eyes never leaving his—
before turning and leaving the battlements, cloak sweeping behind her like a trail of wildfire smoke.
Aeryon stays still, the clasp resting cold in his palm.
He doesn't look toward the tower.
But he knows.
Jaime is still watching.