Chapter Four: The Bastard and the Bloodborn
The snow fell heavier in the days that followed Renji's arrival at Winterfell. The North was settling into its long breath before winter, and Renji found himself both welcomed and watched. He was given a modest chamber in the eastern wing, near the rookery, and spent his days walking the battlements, studying the castle's layout, and quietly observing its people.
He was no longer a stranger. But he was far from trusted.
The Bastard in the Yard
Renji first saw him in the training yard — a boy of sixteen, dark-haired, lean, and quiet. He moved with precision, his sword strikes clean and deliberate. Unlike the other boys, who fought with bravado, this one fought with purpose.
Jon Snow.
Renji leaned against a pillar, arms folded, watching. When Jon disarmed his opponent with a swift twist and a low sweep, Renji nodded to himself.
"You fight like someone who's trying to prove something," Renji said aloud.
Jon turned, surprised. "And you watch like someone who already has."
Renji stepped forward. "Renji Kurozawa."
"I know," Jon replied. "The blood mage. The ghost. The one who saved Benjen."
Renji smirked. "I prefer 'traveler.' Less dramatic."
Jon lowered his sword. "You're not from here."
"Not from anywhere anymore."
Jon studied him. "You don't flinch when people call you unnatural."
"I stopped flinching when my world burned."
Jon was silent for a moment. Then he offered his sword. "Want to spar?"
Renji took it. "Gladly."
Steel and Silence
They moved to the center of the yard. A crowd gathered — mostly stablehands and guards. Renji held the sword awkwardly, unfamiliar with its weight. He preferred his blood-forged blade, but this was about connection, not dominance.
Jon struck first — a testing blow. Renji parried, barely. The second strike came faster, and Renji ducked, pivoting with supernatural grace. Jon narrowed his eyes.
"You're holding back."
"So are you."
They exchanged blows — steel ringing, boots crunching in snow. Renji adapted quickly, his instant comprehension absorbing Jon's style. He began to mirror him, then counter him, until Jon was forced to switch tactics.
By the end, both were breathless. Jon's sword was at Renji's throat, but Renji's hand hovered near Jon's heart, glowing faintly with blood magic.
They stepped back, nodding.
"You learn fast," Jon said.
"You fight clean," Renji replied.
They sat on the edge of the yard, sharing water and silence.
"You're different," Jon said. "Not just your powers. You carry something heavy."
Renji looked at the snow. "Guilt. Loss. A promise I couldn't keep."
Jon nodded. "I know that weight."
The Girl in the Library
That evening, Renji wandered into Winterfell's library — a quiet sanctuary of parchment and dust. He found her there, seated at a desk, surrounded by scrolls.
Maera, a ward of House Stark. Not noble by birth, but educated, sharp, and fiercely independent. She had raven-black hair tied in a braid, and eyes like storm clouds — thoughtful, unreadable.
Renji paused, watching her read. She didn't look up.
"You're blocking the firelight," she said.
Renji stepped aside. "Apologies. I was admiring your focus."
She looked up then, studying him. "You're the blood mage."
"Renji."
"Maera."
He moved closer. "What are you reading?"
"Old Valyrian texts. I'm trying to understand the origins of dragonbinding."
Renji's eyes lit up. "Fascinating. The language is layered — tonal, emotional. It's not just spoken, it's felt."
Maera raised an eyebrow. "You know Old Valyrian?"
"I know every language," Renji said, sitting beside her. "It was part of my second wish."
She blinked. "Wish?"
Renji smiled. "Long story."
They spent hours talking — about magic, history, the ethics of power. Maera was skeptical, sharp-tongued, but curious. Renji found himself drawn to her — not just her intellect, but her fire.
She challenged him. And he liked it.
The First Thread
Over the next few days, Renji and Maera became a quiet fixture in the library. They debated theories, translated texts, and occasionally walked the battlements together. She asked about his past. He told her pieces — the village, the shrine, Aiko.
One night, as they stood beneath the stars, Maera said, "You speak of your sister like she's still with you."
Renji looked up. "She is. In my dreams. In my choices."
Maera touched his arm. "That kind of love doesn't fade."
Renji turned to her. "Neither does guilt."
She didn't flinch. "Then let me help carry it."
It wasn't a confession. But it was a beginning.
The Warning
Jon found Renji the next morning.
"There's talk," he said. "Maester Luwin says ravens from the East speak of strange movements. Magic stirring. Shadows rising."
Renji nodded. "I felt it. Something's coming."
Jon looked at him. "And you? What will you do?"
Renji's eyes glowed faintly. "What I couldn't do before. Protect. Fight. Love."
Jon smiled. "Then you're not a ghost. You're a flame."
End of Chapter Four
Renji had found allies. A friend in Jon Snow. A spark in Maera. And a place — however fragile — in the heart of Winterfell.
But the East stirred. And the blood remembered.