The introductions in the dining hall continued.
Eddard looked toward the boy at the far left end of the table.
“Bran Stark.
We all call him Bran.”
Bran sat beside Catelyn, a small wooden bow resting across his knees, its limbs carved with rough patterns.
He looked even smaller than Aven had imagined, his cheeks still carrying traces of baby fat.
But those eyes — the Stark grey, that particular shade, were already deeper and quieter than any other child his age had a right to.
Further out from Bran sat a lean, dark-haired boy, his expression calmer than Robb’s by several degrees.
Eddard raised a hand toward him.
“Jon Snow.”
Jon gave a slight nod.
His gaze was gentle but held a thread of distance, like someone long accustomed to standing just outside the warmth of a crowd.
None of Robb’s open boldness.
None of Arya’s restless energy.
He simply looked at Aven, nodded once, and said nothing.
Not unfriendly.
Just not close.
“Welcome to Winterfell.”
Simple.
Perfectly measured.
Eddard gestured toward the small figure beside Catelyn’s knee, a round-cheeked, soft-haired little creature gnawing at a piece of bread with great concentration.
“Rickon Stark.
The youngest.”
Rickon looked up, made a muffled sound of acknowledgment, then dropped his head and went back to gnawing.
His eyes were wide and round.
The new arrival warranted exactly one moment of curiosity, no more.
“Do you like climbing?” Bran asked.
His voice had that particular clarity of a seven-year-old, but the tone was serious, not small talk.
More like confirming something that mattered.
“I do,” Aven said.
“But I’m not as bold as you.”
Bran blinked.
“How do you know I’m bold?”
The corner of Aven’s mouth moved.
“My father talks about you.
He says young Bran of Karhold’s neighbor is very bold, and that one day you’ll stand at the top of the highest tower in the North.”
Bran’s face went slightly pink.
But the corners of his mouth wouldn’t stay down.
“I like the view from up high,” he said.
“So do I,” Aven said.
Bran smiled, showing a tooth that hadn’t fully grown in yet.
Catelyn reached over and smoothed his hair with a light touch.
Eddard’s gaze shifted to the girl at Robb’s right.
“Sansa Stark.
My eldest daughter.”
Sansa sat perfectly straight, her spine not quite touching the chair back, the kind of posture that doesn’t come from reminders, it gets carved into the bone.
Her auburn hair was braided into an intricate plait over one shoulder, the end tied with a silver-grey ribbon.
Her face was very pretty, bearing a beauty not yet fully bloomed but already clear in its outline.
Her blue eyes, Tully blue, her mother’s gift, caught the candlelight like polished stones.
“Pleased to meet you, Aven.” Her voice was soft and measured, every syllable placed just so.
“Welcome to Winterfell.”
Flawless.
Aven could see exactly what she was doing, Catelyn’s manner, copied faithfully.
“Thank you, Lady Sansa,” Aven said.
Sansa nodded and raised her goblet for a small sip, the motion as elegant as a miniature painting.
But when she set the goblet back down, Aven noticed her fingers stayed on the rim a beat too long.
She was watching him.
She just didn’t want anyone to know it.
Eddard’s gaze moved to the other end of the table.
“Arya Stark.”
Arya was stabbing at the last piece of meat on her plate.
She looked up when she heard her name.
Her hair was even wilder than it had been in the training yard, and there was a faint grey smudge on her cheek, from the afternoon’s archery practice, most likely.
Her grey eyes, the same grey as Eddard’s, looked at Aven with an unvarnished directness.
“Do you know how to use a sword?” No small talk.
Straight to it, same as Bran.
“Yes.”
“Then teach me.”
“Arya.” Catelyn’s voice carried from the far end of the table, quiet but carrying a note of exasperation and warning both.
“What?” Arya frowned at her mother.
“Robb has Ser Rodrik to teach him.
I only have —” She looked down at the dinner knife in her hand.
Swallowed the rest.
Aven watched her and thought of what was coming.
In the story he remembered, this nine-year-old girl would watch her father’s head fall and lose every companion she had in the flight that followed.
She would become an assassin who recited her enemies’ names like a prayer before sleep.
She would put Needle through more throats than anyone should have to count.
She would learn to wear other people’s faces and cross names off a list, one by one.
But right now she was just a nine-year-old girl who wanted to stay in the training yard a little longer.
Who wanted someone to teach her.
“Beat Bran first,” Aven said.
“Then I’ll teach you.”
Arya’s eyes lit up.
Just for a second, before she pulled it back into a look of studied indifference.
“Beat Bran?
That’s nothing.”
“Is not!” Bran shouted from the other end of the table.
Arya stuck her tongue out at him.
Catelyn sighed.
But there was a curve at the corner of her mouth, small enough that most people would miss it.
Eddard said nothing.
He raised his goblet and drank, and there was something quiet in it, the particular contentment of a father watching his children make noise and knowing everything is, for this moment, exactly right.
There was one more.
“Theon Greyjoy.”
Theon flashed a quick, easy smile.
Dark curls slightly disheveled, eyes bright, a touch of levity in his manner that was perfectly calibrated, friendly without trying too hard.
“Aven of Karhold.” He raised his cup.
“Long heard the name.” His tone was warm, the ease of someone treating you like an old friend from the first sentence.
“I hear you’re capable.
We’ll have to find out in the training yard.”
Aven nodded.
The enthusiasm had a deliberate edge to it.
Still, it landed well enough.
Finally, Eddard’s gaze settled on Catelyn. Get faster updates on novelping.com.
“My lady.
Catelyn Stark.”
Catelyn set down her goblet and gave Aven a small nod.
Her smile was proper and warm.
But behind those blue eyes, Aven could see it, a watchfulness, quiet and contained.
Women of House Tully were not to be underestimated.
Catelyn Stark was harder than most Northerners ever guessed.
She would hold Winterfell alone when Eddard was gone.
She would guard the North when Robb marched to war.
And at the Red Wedding, with her own throat already opening, she would kill one of old Frey’s grandsons with her bare hands.
“You’ll be staying at Winterfell for a while,” she said, voice soft but clear.
“If you need anything, speak to Vayon Poole directly.”
“Thank you, Lady Stark,” Aven said.
Catelyn nodded.
The lines of her face eased slightly.
She raised her goblet toward him.
Aven raised his in return.
His gaze moved down the table, Robb, Sansa, Arya, Bran, Jon, little Rickon still pressed against Catelyn’s knee, then paused on Theon for a moment, and came to rest on Aven at last.
“Aven,” Eddard said.
The table went quiet.
“Your father’s letter said I should teach you kindness.” His voice was steady and clear against the crackle of the hearth.
“But kindness can’t be taught.
It has to grow.”
He held Aven’s grey-blue gaze.
“While you’re here, you don’t need to learn how to be a lord.
You only need to do one thing — see what a family can look like.”
He raised his goblet.
“To family.”
Robb raised his.
“To family.”
Sansa raised hers.
“To family.”
Arya raised hers too fast and sloshed a little ale onto the tablecloth.
Catelyn looked at her.
Said nothing.
Bran had to stand on his chair to reach his cup.
“To family.”
Aven raised his goblet.
His hand was steady.
The ale moved in the candlelight, amber catching the glow of the hearth fire, and in it he could see the reflected faces of everyone at the long table.
“To family,” he said.
He drank it down.
The warmth spread through his throat and settled in his chest, deep and solid, like a hand closing around something and holding on.
He set down his goblet and looked at them all.
He would know these people for a long time.
Longer, perhaps, than they had lived in the story he remembered.
Perhaps he could change some of it.
The fire crackled in the hearth.
Beyond the windows, snow fell without sound.
In the great hall of Winterfell, laughter and voices wove together, warm and unhurried, like a river running through the cold heart of the North, slow and sure, going on.
➤ Next: One Year — Into the Unknown