The courtyard of Winterfell had grown quieter after Jon and Bran left together, their words still faintly echoing in Gadriel's mind. He remained standing, his gaze fixed on the great stone walls, though his thoughts had long since drifted far beyond them.
The Wall.
That was where the deserter had come from, wasn't it? The one they said was to die for breaking his vows. If this man truly was from such a place, then perhaps there was something to learn by watching. Gadriel's curiosity tugged at him — but at the same time, a certain unease kept him rooted in place. He had not been summoned. He had no right to be there. Following uninvited to witness an execution could draw unwanted attention, and the last thing he wished was for Lord Stark or anyone else to think him strange.
Still… knowledge was worth the risk.
Gadriel's hand slipped into the enchanted bag that hung at his side — the satchel that served as his storehouse, his hoard of equipment from Skyrim. His fingers closed around the familiar shape of a vial, smooth glass cool to the touch. He pulled free an invisibility potion, the faint shimmer within catching the morning light.
He hesitated. It was not lost on him that skulking about unseen might only confirm that he was out of place here. But then again, wasn't subtlety what was required? Best to keep to the shadows.
He uncorked the vial and downed the liquid in one practiced motion. At once, the sensation spread across his skin — a tingling, like cold mist rolling over bare flesh. His arms began to fade, then his tunic, his boots, until the world swallowed him whole. Within seconds he was gone from sight, armor, blade, and body alike.
Now a ghost among men, Gadriel moved.
He followed the crunch of boots and the shifting of hooves, catching sight of Jon mounting his horse and Bran climbing awkwardly onto a smaller pony. Their voices were low, indistinct, carried away on the breeze. The gates creaked as they opened, and Gadriel kept pace effortlessly, his steps near soundless on the packed earth.
Not long after, others joined the procession: Robb, riding with quiet confidence; Lord Stark himself, stern and silent; and another man marked by a golden kraken emblem pinned near his chest — a sigil Gadriel did not recognize but stored away in memory.
They rode with purpose, and Gadriel matched their speed with ease, running swift as a hunting wolf. He passed between shadows, unseen and unheard, until at last they reached the place where the deserter was held.
Gadriel stood among the gathered men, though none knew he was there. He watched.
The dialogue unfolded much as he expected — questions asked, answers strained, fear spilling from the condemned man's lips. Gadriel's ears caught the words white walkers, unfamiliar yet weighted, spoken with desperation. His brow furrowed though no one could see it. White walkers? The name meant nothing to him, and yet the fear behind it was unmistakable.
Then came Lord Stark.
He drew his greatsword, a weapon unlike most Gadriel had seen here — broad, heavy, forged for power and authority both. The steel gleamed cold in the northern light as Stark's voice rang out in solemn ritual:
"In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, by the word of Eddard of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, I do sentence you to die."
With one clean stroke, the man was gone. His head fell, blood spraying into the snow-dusted earth.
Gadriel did not flinch. Death was not unfamiliar to him; he had witnessed more than he could count, many by his own hand. Still, he could not help the weight that settled over him. The man's crime had been real, yet his fear had also been real. To die for such fear… it seemed harsh. But this was not Skyrim, nor Whiterun, nor any land he had known. He was a guest here — no, a stranger. He had no say.
He turned his gaze aside. Enough.
And with that, he moved.
The run back to Winterfell was swift. His feet ate the ground, the wind itself stirred in his passing, whispering through grass and brush. A few men turned at the sudden gust, puzzled, but saw nothing more than empty fields and dismissed it. In a heartbeat Gadriel vaulted the wall, clearing stone and timber with ease before landing soundlessly within.
He slowed to a brisk walk as the potion wore thin. Soon his body shimmered back into view, clothes and form restoring until he stood whole again.
Back at the archery field, he reached for a simple bow left by the racks. Not his dragonbone bow — far too conspicuous for casual use — but a plain one suited for practice. He nocked an arrow and loosed. The shaft struck true, dead center. Again and again he fired, his aim unwavering.
His lips moved in a low mutter. "The Wall… white walkers… what manner of threat drives a man to forsake his oath?" The questions lingered unanswered in the air, arrows flying as if each shot might pin down the truth.
Time passed. An hour, perhaps two. Then movement caught his eye.
The courtyard stirred, people gathering toward the gates. Gadriel lowered the bow, setting it carefully aside. He brushed his hands together and walked toward the growing crowd.
By the time he reached, the entire household had assembled. Men and women lined either side of the gate, forming two rows of honor. Gadriel, not wishing to stand apart, slipped into place among them.
The creak of the gate split the air.
Through it came an entourage — knights armored and bright, banners unfurling in the wind. Some bore a lion, golden and proud; others, the crowned stag. Guards flanked them, their discipline sharp, their numbers strong. At their heart rolled a grand carriage.
It stopped.
From within stepped a man broad of chest and belly both, black hair streaked with gray, beard full and bristling. His presence alone seemed to press upon the air, as though his very bulk demanded space. Beside him a woman descended, her hair gleaming gold in the sunlight, with three children close behind her.
The children bore the same golden locks. One, a tall youth nearly grown, his hair brushing his shoulders. Another, a round boy with cheeks full from good eating. And a girl, younger still, delicate in her features.
The sight drew Gadriel's eyes more than he cared to admit. Their golden hair was not unlike his own pale strands, though his carried the silvered sheen of another world. He folded the thought away quickly.
Then the murmur moved through the crowd. One by one, they dropped to their knees.
Gadriel hesitated only a moment before following suit, bowing his head. Better not to stand out. Best to keep still and silent.
And as the weight of the moment pressed upon him, he pieced it together. The banners, the procession, the man at the center of it all.
So. This was the king.