The last thing Arthur Pendragon felt was peace.
The battlefield was silent at last.
The clangor of steel had faded, the shouting of knights replaced by the distant cry of wind over the hills of Camlann. The sky above him was pale and endless, clouds drifting slowly as though the world itself had grown tired of war.
He could not move his arm.
Excalibur lay beside him, its golden hilt stained dark with blood — his blood.
Around him were fallen banners, shattered shields, and the still bodies of men who had once sworn themselves to Camelot.
He did not curse Mordred.
He did not curse fate.
His only thought was regret.
I could not give them the kingdom they deserved.
Footsteps approached.
Sir Bedivere knelt beside him, voice shaking.
"My king… the lady waits."
Arthur's breathing was shallow now.
"Then… it is time."
With great effort, Bedivere lifted Excalibur and carried it toward the lake. Arthur watched through fading vision as the blade rose toward the water's surface.
The lake rippled.
A pale hand emerged, elegant and ancient, taking the sword and drawing it beneath the water.
The moment the blade vanished—
Darkness swallowed Arthur Pendragon.
Cold air rushed into his lungs.
He gasped.
And immediately began crying.
Arthur froze.
He wasn't… dying.
He wasn't even injured.
He was—
Small.
Very small.
His body refused to respond properly, limbs weak and uncontrolled. He heard a woman's exhausted laughter above him.
"A strong child," she whispered.
Arthur tried to speak.
Only a wail escaped his mouth.
He stared upward in confusion. Wooden beams. A stone hearth. No castle he recognized. No banners of Camelot. No knights.
Not Avalon.
Not heaven.
And yet… he lived.
Footsteps hurried inside the chamber. A man entered — tall, broad, dark-haired, carrying the presence of someone accustomed to command.
He stopped at the bedside.
For a moment he said nothing.
Then softly:
"My son."
Arthur's mind stilled.
He did not understand the words — not fully — yet somehow he understood the meaning. The tone carried what language did not.
The man gently took the infant from the midwife. His hands were rough, calloused from sword training.
But careful.
Very careful.
Arthur looked into the man's eyes.
Grey.
Honest.
Burdened.
A warrior who did not enjoy war.
Arthur felt it immediately — the same instinct that had allowed him to judge knights and traitors alike.
This man is good.
A name was spoken nearby.
"Lord Eddard Stark, he has your eyes."
Arthur blinked slowly.
The world did not recognize him anymore.
Camelot was gone.
His knights were gone.
His crown was gone.
But as the man held him close, Arthur felt something unfamiliar yet certain.
Not loss.
Not despair.
A quiet understanding.
If he had been returned to life…
Then his duty had not ended.
Arthur Pendragon, once King of Britain, closed his infant eyes in the arms of Eddard Stark.
He had lost his kingdom.
So he would build another.
And far to the north, beyond forests and mountains, the long winter stirred — as if the world itself had been waiting for a king to return.