The road north was long and winding, a frozen ribbon stretching across the rugged wilds of the realm. Each step of the royal procession was marked by the thunder of hooves, the creak of wagons, and the coarse bark of commands. Baldwin Arryn rode at the side of King Robert Baratheon, the man who had once stormed the gates of a kingdom and now ruled it with a warrior's stubbornness and a stags appetite. The cold did not bother Baldwin; it was the silence of the land that weighed heavy. In the Vale, the mountains whispered, and the wind always had a voice. Here, the North was quiet, as if it were watching.
Baldwin's armor gleamed with a subtle silver hue beneath the sky, the sigil of House Arryn embossed across his chest. Feathers of deep blue adorned the back of his armor in a shape resembling wings, regal and proud, like the eagle that circled above him in the cloud-swept sky. The bird was his constant companion, a fierce Mongolian eagle with sharp eyes and sharper talons. It had been gifted to him by a trader from Essos, though the bond they shared was something deeper than mere ownership. The bird, like Baldwin, answered to no one but loyalty and blood.
The young knight was eighteen, but the weight he carried made him seem older. He had seen war, tasted it at the age of fourteen during the fiery assault on Pyke. Flames, salt, and iron had marked him then, not just on his body but within his soul. He remembered the chaos, the smell of smoke and wet stone, and the first time he had buried his sword into another man's flesh. It had not been a moment of glory—it had been survival. And Jon Arryn had seen it all.
Jon had always been there. From the moment Baldwin drew breath, Jon had held him, not as a noble might inspect a bastard, but as a father accepting a son. He had trained him, guided him, and shaped him into a knight with his own hands. When others whispered of his baseborn blood, Jon silenced them with a glance. And when Baldwin turned seventeen, it was not just Jon who saw his worth—King Robert himself legitimized him. The scroll bore the royal seal, and from that moment, Baldwin was no longer merely a knight of the Vale; he was an Arryn, recognized by crown and court.
But then Jon died.
The news had come like a blade to the gut. Jon Arryn, the man who had stood like a pillar through two kings' reigns, had died quietly in his bed in King's Landing. The maesters claimed illness. Baldwin did not know better. Not yet. What he did know was that grief had not come in a wave. It had come in silence—in the moments he found himself glancing to his side, expecting Jon's voice. In the way Robert's laughter sometimes rang hollow, as though mourning in his own way.
Now they approached Winterfell. The ancient seat of House Stark loomed ahead, tall and proud, its grey stone walls rising from the snowy landscape like the spine of some sleeping beast. Smoke drifted from the chimneys, and the banners of the direwolf flapped in the cold wind. The moment they passed beneath the great wooden gate, Baldwin felt the weight of history settle upon him. This was not just a lord's keep—it was the beating heart of the North.
Robert rode ahead, his voice booming with joy as the gates opened. "Ned Stark! By the gods, you've grown colder since last I saw you!"
Lord Eddard Stark, tall, lean, and solemn, stepped forward. His features were sharp, his eyes grey as the Northern sky. Beside him stood his sons and daughters, his wife Lady Catelyn, and a host of bannermen. Baldwin dismounted with practiced ease, his greathelm tucked beneath his arm, the metal wings that adorned its sides catching the weak sunlight.
"Ned," Robert said, pulling the Northman into a crushing embrace. "Damn, it's good to see you. Too long, my friend."
"And you, Your Grace," Ned replied, voice calm and measured. His eyes flickered to Baldwin. "And this must be the young Arryn I've heard of."
Baldwin bowed deeply. "My lord Stark. It is an honor to stand in Winterfell."
Ned studied him a moment longer before nodding. "You wear the wings well, Ser Baldwin. Jon spoke of you with pride."
"Thank you," Baldwin said quietly. "He was the best of men."
Robert placed a heavy arm around Baldwin's shoulder. "Aye. And now he's gone, and the world's all the poorer. But we live on. That's what Jon would have wanted."
Inside the hall, warmth welcomed them. Fires roared in the hearths, and long tables were being set for a feast. Despite the North's reputation for coldness, there was a quiet hospitality in its walls. Baldwin removed his gauntlets and took his seat near the high table. His eagle perched above, a silent sentinel in the rafters.
As the evening wore on, Baldwin observed the Stark children with a mixture of curiosity and guarded admiration. Robb Stark, poised and already bearing the weight of leadership. Jon Snow, quiet and sharp-eyed. Sansa, graceful and polite. Arya, fierce and restless. Bran, full of questions. And Rickon, too young to know the world beyond the hall.
Ned Stark's gaze settled on Baldwin more than once, thoughtful and calculating. The man was not one to speak more than necessary, but Baldwin sensed the gears turning behind those grey eyes. He wondered if Ned saw Jon Arryn in him—or something else.
That night, Baldwin did not remove his armor. He wore it even as he stared into the hearth's fire in the chamber he'd been given. The gambeson beneath it kept him from the cold, but it was the steel that gave him peace. He had learned long ago that betrayal often struck not on the battlefield, but in quiet halls and soft beds.
He reached for a sealed letter tucked beneath his belt. It was old now—written by Jon Arryn before his death. Baldwin had read it countless times. There were no warnings, no hints of fear. Just pride, and a father's love.
He closed his eyes.
The North was calm, but calm was never safe. Robert trusted Ned Stark. Baldwin wanted to trust him too. But trust was a luxury for knights who wore nothing heavier than a name.
And Baldwin Arryn carried a sword longer than most men's courage—and a legacy wrapped in secrets.
Tomorrow, the hunt would begin. Wolves would run in the forests. And perhaps, somewhere in the cold, the truth about Jon Arryn's death would begin to stir.