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One month later, at dawn, the gates of Winterfell were packed with people.
Wind swept in from the north, carrying the last bite of winter, snapping the banners taut.
The direwolf flags hung in rows along both sides of the gate, twisting and rolling under a pale gray sky.
Aven stood in the first row, next to Bran.
He was a Karstark, he had a name, he had a house, and Eddard Stark had said it himself: Robb would need him someday.
Lady Catelyn had placed him here.
No one argued.
Robb stood beside him.
The two of them quietly fixed each other’s attire in the ranks.
Robb’s cloak had gone crooked; Aven reached over and straightened it, refastening the clasp.
Robb glanced down, then looked up at Aven’s collar and pressed down a corner that had flipped out.
“Why does my mother insist on dressing us up like this just to meet the king?” Robb’s voice was barely above a whisper, meant only for Aven.
Before Aven could answer, Theon’s voice crept forward from the second row.
“I’d wager it’s for the queen.” That trademark grin sat easy on Theon’s mouth.
“Word is the Lannisters are all fashion-conscious.
The queen probably doesn’t want to look at a pack of northern bumpkins in old leather jerkins.”
Robb let out a quiet laugh and said nothing.
But Aven noticed him glance down at his own clothes and reach up to smooth his cuffs flat.
A soldier came striding from the direction of the gate, his armor dusted with a thin layer of frost, his breath clouding white in the cold.
He stopped before Eddard and dropped to one knee.
“Lord Stark.
The king’s procession is nearly here.”
Eddard nodded.
He stood at the head of the formation in a dark gray surcoat, a silver direwolf brooch pinned at his collar, Ice riding at his hip.
His hair was neatly combed, his beard freshly trimmed.
He looked a few years younger than usual.
He turned and scanned the ranks behind him.
Robb, Sansa, Bran, Aven, all present.
Rickon was too young for this; Catelyn had left him in the castle with a handmaiden.
But there was still someone missing.
“Aven.” His voice wasn’t loud, but every person in the formation heard it.
“Where’s Arya?
Didn’t she say she was going to find you this morning?”
Aven hesitated.
Arya had come to find him this morning, yes, said she wanted to show him something good.
He’d been feeding Ember at the time and had told her to come back later, and then,
His gaze drifted past Eddard’s shoulder to the horse track inside the gate.
A cart was rolling out from the castle, probably an empty one headed toward the kitchens.
Perched on the cart bed was a small girl with brown hair, a steel helm two sizes too large jammed down over her head, sitting so crooked it covered half her face.
Her legs dangled over the edge, swinging idly.
She was humming some tune she’d picked up from gods knew where.
The corner of Aven’s mouth twitched.
“Behind you, my lord.”
A wave of poorly smothered laughter rippled through the ranks.
Robb went first, clamping a hand over his mouth, shoulders shaking.
Theon actually laughed out loud before a look from Ser Rodrik cut him off.
Bran stretched onto his tiptoes, craning to see past Eddard with wide, curious eyes.
Eddard turned around.
The cart was trundling past right behind him, and the little girl on the cart bed looked up and met his eyes.
Her expression went from perfectly relaxed to oh no.
“Arya Stark.”
The words weren’t loud.
But every Stark child knew that tone, the one that meant you’re done.
Arya jumped down from the cart.
The helm slid off her head, hit the ground with a CLANG, rolled twice, and came to rest beside Eddard’s boot.
Aven stepped forward quickly, scooped up the helm, then hoisted Arya into his arms and carried her back to the line.
She struggled once, couldn’t get loose, and gave up, just turned her face to the side so she wouldn’t have to look at Eddard.
He set her down next to Bran and lifted the helm off her head.
Underneath was a wreck of tangled brown hair, flattened in every direction, a few tufts sticking straight up on top like a bird’s nest caught in a gale.
Sansa stood nearby, her lips pressing together.
The look she gave Arya was pure here we go again, the corners of her mouth pulling down, clearly about to say something, probably about the hair, probably something about acting like a lady just once in her life.
Aven got there first.
“Little wolf pup.” He crouched down and met Arya’s eyes, a smile on his lips.
“Wearing that helm, you look like a real warrior.” New chapters come out on g.com first.
Arya’s eyes lit up.
Her chin lifted just slightly, and no matter how hard she tried, the corners of her mouth kept pulling upward.
She loved this.
Aven knew she loved this.
He had known it from his very first day at Winterfell: with Arya Stark, you could never say you should be.
You had to say you already are.
Sansa caught his eye.
The look wasn’t sharp, but the meaning was plain enough: you’re spoiling her again.
Aven gave a small shrug and offered his best won’t happen again expression.
Sansa didn’t press it.
She looked away and resumed her post, skirts immaculate, chin at an angle precise enough to have been measured with a ruler.
The formation went quiet.
Out beyond the gate, down the road through the morning mist, a column appeared.
Two rows of knights led the way, their armor gleaming a cold, flat white under the gray sky, their cloaks gold, embroidered with the crowned stag of House Baratheon.
Their horses struck the frozen ground in a steady, muffled rhythm — thud, thud, thud — like a slow heartbeat.
Then the standard-bearers.
The Baratheon banner unfurled in the wind, black field, gold stag, snapping hard.
Right behind it came the Lannister banner, crimson with a gold lion, the queen’s house, riding alongside the king’s.
The two flags flew together, one gold and one red, vivid and jarring against the pale northern sky.
Then —
A horse.
A warhorse.
Deep brown, nearly seventeen hands at the shoulder, muscle shifting beneath its hide with every stride, each step carrying a weight that had nothing to do with hurry.
The man on its back wore black armor, the breastplate etched with branching antlers.
He was broad across the shoulders, his face hard and set.
But the lines at the corners of his eyes held something else, a weariness worked deep by years of wine and worse.
The King of the Seven Kingdoms had come.
➤ Next: The King’s Scrutiny
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