The weight of those eyes settles on him still—
curious, hesitant, narrowing in places, widening in others.
Winterfell breathes around him: cold air, clanging steel, the bark of a hound, the distant lowing of cattle.
Aeryon shifts slightly, letting the breeze push his silver hair toward his cheek as Lord Stark turns away to speak with Rodrik. The courtyard begins to move again—slowly, like a machine waking.
That's when someone stops directly in his path.
Jon Snow.
Closer now than before, carrying that same quiet presence of someone who knows how to take up as little space as possible.
Jon's dark eyes flicker over Aeryon's features—silver hair, violet eyes, fine posture—and there's a brief, unguarded moment of… wonder? No.
Recognition. Of something he can't name.
"Ser Aeryon," Jon says finally, tightening his grip on the practice spears he's holding. "You're… new."
Aeryon lets a small smile tug the corner of his mouth. "Astute observation."
Jon blinks, caught off guard.
Then Aeryon adds gently, "But yes. New to the North. New to Winterfell. Not new to snow, though."
Jon's brows lift slightly. "Most southerners complain. Loudly."
"I'm not most southerners."
A beat passes. A barn cat darts between them. Someone shouts across the yard. The wind shifts.
Jon studies him again, more carefully this time, as if trying to solve a riddle. "People are already talking," he says quietly. "About your hair. Your eyes. You stand out."
"Do I?" Aeryon tilts his head innocently. "Here I thought the North welcomed people warmly."
Jon huffs—barely a laugh, more like the idea of one.
"Some do," he says. "Some don't. But… I suppose it depends on the person."
Aeryon steps closer—not in a threatening way, but in a way that makes Jon straighten unconsciously.
"And what about you?" Aeryon asks. "Do you welcome me?"
Jon hesitates, the way someone does when they're not used to being asked anything sincere.
"I don't know you," Jon answers honestly. "But you looked at me like… I mattered."
Aeryon's expression softens.
"You do."
Jon's breath catches just slightly.
No one says that to him.
Not like that.
Not as if it's a fact, rather than pity.
Before Jon can form a reply, a sharp voice cuts through the courtyard:
"Jon! Bring those spears! Robb's waiting!"
It's Sansa, passing by with a swirl of auburn hair, her blue eyes flicking briefly—very briefly—toward Aeryon. She slows, startled for half a heartbeat by the sight of him, but masks it with practiced politeness.
"Excuse me," she says softly, and moves on.
Jon exhales, shoulders tightening as he shifts the spears in his arms. "I… should go."
Aeryon nods. "Then I'll see you soon, Jon Snow."
Jon pauses.
Not because Aeryon said his name.
But because Aeryon said it like it wasn't an insult.
A moment later, Jon turns and jogs toward the training yard, glancing back once—just once—before disappearing behind the line of soldiers.
Aeryon watches him go, lips curving faintly.
A bond made.
A seed planted.
Something subtle beginning to shift.
And all around him, Winterfell continues to watch.
Aeryon remains where he stands, boots half-sunken in cold slush, the air carrying the smell of horses and woodsmoke. Jon's retreating footsteps fade behind the clatter of weapons and distant conversation.
Around him, movement shifts—
subtle at first, then all at once.
The courtyard begins to part like a tide.
People step aside.
Guards straighten their backs.
Servants lower their heads.
Stableboys scramble to clear paths.
Aeryon doesn't have to ask why.
He hears it: heavy hooves, the creak of gilded wheels, the murmur of voices growing sharper and more self-important.
The royal party is entering the courtyard.
Rodrik hurries back to Aeryon's side, puffing slightly. "Mind yerself, lad. Best stay quiet unless spoken to."
Aeryon replies without looking away, "I'm very good at blending in."
Rodrik stares at his silver hair, his violet eyes, and the way the torchlight catches on the faint runic pattern the System left etched on his iris.
"Right," Rodrik mutters. "Ye blend like a bonfire in a snowstorm."
The first horses appear past the gatehouse—sleek, flawless beasts draped in crimson-and-gold caparisons.
The sigil is unmistakable.
Even without their name spoken aloud.
Men in polished armor dismount first—stern-faced, squared-shouldered. The Lannister guards move with a precision that screams arrogance.
Then comes the carriage.
Massive. Gilded. Dripping wealth that does not belong in the North.
Its door swings open.
Queen Cersei steps out.
The courtyard seems to pull tighter around itself.
Her golden hair gleams richer than the trim on her gown; her expression, smooth and cold as polished marble. Every movement is controlled, regal, sharpened by years of power.
Her gaze sweeps the courtyard—
—and stops on Aeryon.
It isn't a glance.
It's a halt.
Her face doesn't change, but her eyes…
her eyes widen, just barely, the faintest intake of breath lifting her chest before she recovers.
Rodrik notices. "Gods," he whispers under his breath. "She's lookin' at ye like she's seen a ghost."
Aeryon remains still, posture relaxed, expression unreadable.
Cersei's stare lingers.
Too long.
Far too long for a queen greeting a northern stronghold.
Jaime Lannister dismounts beside her, brushing snow from his cloak. He follows her gaze—and frowns.
Not jealous.
Not suspicious.
Confused.
"Who's that?" Jaime murmurs toward her.
Cersei does not answer.
Her eyes remain fixed on Aeryon—
searching his face, his hair, the exact shade of his eyes.
Aeryon feels the air shift.
Her stare burns with something fierce, private, and almost wounded beneath the surface.
Recognition.
Memories.
Old longing she buried decades ago.
Aeryon doesn't look away; he lets the moment stretch, holding her gaze with quiet, respectful stillness. Not submission—not arrogance—just presence.
Jaime follows her silence, then snorts softly, "Sister?"
She finally tears her gaze away, blinking once, mask sliding back over her features.
"It's nothing," she says, too quickly.
But her voice has a tremor.
Small, but real.
Jaime narrows his eyes.
Before he can question her again, King Robert barrels out of the carriage, drunk on the cold air and the open sky.
"Starks!" Robert booms. "Where's my old friend?"
The courtyard erupts in movement and bows.
Cersei takes a step forward—
but glances back at Aeryon.
One last time.
A look filled with questions.
Shock.
And something dangerously close to desire.
Rodrik leans toward Aeryon. "What in all the hells did ye do?"
Aeryon keeps his voice low.
"Nothing."
And yet—
this was the moment everything between them began.
Robert Baratheon's laugh crashes across the courtyard like a rolling boulder.
"Starks! Ned! Where's the man himself? Ha!"
He strides forward with all the grace of a falling tree.
Around him, the Lannister guards move with rigid efficiency; the Stark men shift unsurely; servants freeze like startled deer.
Yet Cersei…
Cersei isn't looking at any of them.
Her gaze flicks toward Aeryon again—quick this time, sharp, as if she's verifying he's real and not a ghost conjured from old wounds.
Aeryon senses her watching even when she pretends not to.
He doesn't move.
Let her look.
Let her question.
Lord Eddard finally steps forward, bowing his head with stiff formality. "Your Grace. Winterfell welcomes you."
Robert engulfs him in a bear hug, slapping Ned's back so hard the sound echoes off the stone walls.
As the two old friends laugh and talk, the queen moves with her children in a controlled, measured flow. Jaime stands beside her, attentive and quietly wary.
Aeryon feels more eyes on him—the guards, the Stark servants, even Joffrey pauses mid-step, something between disdain and curiosity twitching across his features.
Rodrik mutters, "Keep yer hands folded. Don't speak unless spoken to. Don't—"
The queen moves.
She steps toward them.
Rodrik stops talking.
The air seems to thin as she approaches, every sound muted beneath the icy tension that follows her like a shadow.
Up close, she smells of cold golden apples and wine—expensive, southern perfume that has no business in northern air.
Her emerald eyes fix on Aeryon once more.
"Rodrik," she says coolly, acknowledging him only enough to be polite. "You bring a new man into Lord Stark's service."
Her voice is smooth, regal, and edged like a knife sharpened too thin.
Rodrik bows quickly. "Aye, Your Grace. Ser Aeryon Stone o' the Vale. Found him on the road after brigands attacked his caravan."
Aeryon inclines his head respectfully. "Your Grace."
Cersei studies his face openly now.
Not shy.
Not subtle.
Searching.
Comparing.
Testing memory against reality.
"A Stone?" she repeats, her voice barely above a murmur. "How… unusual."
Jaime watches her carefully. "Unusual?" he asks, tone almost too quiet.
Cersei ignores him.
Instead, she steps the slightest bit closer—
closer than a queen should to a stranger—
and her eyes sharpen.
"Your features," she says softly, "are very… striking."
It isn't a compliment.
It's a confession she doesn't want to be making.
Aeryon holds her gaze, offering nothing in return except a polite bow of his head. "My mother claimed the blood of old Andal houses," he lies smoothly. "Perhaps that explains the coloring."
Cersei's pupils tighten.
A flicker of emotion—too fast to name—flashes behind her eyes.
Desire?
Longing?
Shock?
Or fear of something she remembers too clearly from her youth.
Jaime shifts closer, suspicious now. "You've seen silver hair before, sister."
"Yes," she murmurs, still staring at Aeryon. "I have."
A moment hangs—thin, fragile, heavy with implication.
Then Cersei tears her gaze away, mask snapping back into place as though nothing happened.
"We will speak again," she says quietly, a promise wrapped in silk and danger.
Before Aeryon can respond, she turns, sweeping away with her children and guards, leaving the faint scent of southern perfume and unresolved tension in her wake.
Rodrik exhales loudly, staring at Aeryon like he's grown dragon wings.
"What," Rodrik whispers hoarsely, "in the name of every bloody god… was that?"
Aeryon watches the queen's retreating form.
His voice remains perfectly calm.
"Opportunity."