The road north was long and winding, the chill of early spring settling deep into the bones of the travelers. Baldwin rode close beside King Robert Baratheon, the king's boisterous laughter ringing through the campfire's flickering light each night. To Robert, Baldwin was no longer just a squire or a bastard—he was the little brother he never had, a bond forged in blood and battle.
As the camp broke at dawn, Baldwin caught sight of the towering walls of Winterfell, rising like ancient sentinels against the sky. The cold bit harder here, but Baldwin welcomed it. The North was harsh, and those who lived here were forged by its unforgiving seasons.
When they entered the great hall, Baldwin's gaze fell on the man standing at the head of the long table — Lord Eddard Stark, Warden of the North. Stark's presence was quiet but commanding, his gray eyes sharp and thoughtful beneath the heavy brows. Baldwin felt an immediate respect for the lord, a sense that beneath his stoic exterior was a man who valued honor as deeply as himself.
Robert clapped Baldwin on the shoulder with a grin. "Come now, Baldwin. This is Lord Stark, the true northman. A man as solid as the winter itself."
Baldwin dipped his head respectfully. "My lord Stark."
Ned Stark inclined his head in return. "Ser Baldwin. Jon Arryn spoke of you often. I see now you carry the Vale's wings well."
The greathelm's metal wings caught the light as Baldwin nodded. "I am honored to be here, my lord. And to fight by your side."
Their conversation was interrupted by the distant howl of the wind outside, a reminder that in the North, the real battle was always waiting — whether from enemies or the unforgiving cold.
Baldwin's hand instinctively rested on the hilt of his Zweihänder, the weight familiar and steady. Whatever storms were coming, he would face them with honor — as a son of Arryn, a knight, and a brother-in-arms.