Chapter 3: The King's Arrival
The wheelhouse emerged from the treeline first—massive, gilded, an obscene declaration of southern wealth. Four horses strained to pull it through the muddy Northern road. Behind it, the column stretched back further than the eye could follow: knights in crimson and gold, servants and squires, supply wagons, more knights, more servants, more wealth than Winterfell saw in a year.
The courtyard had transformed into a sea of organized chaos. Every servant wore fresh clothes. Every guard stood at attention. The Stark family had assembled in a line before the great keep's entrance, arranged by precedence and tradition.
Ned stood at the center, Catelyn at his side. Then Sansa, radiant with anticipation. Then Bran, practically vibrating. Then Rickon, already squirming in Hodor's arms. Then Arya, who'd somehow acquired mud on her dress between breakfast and now.
I took my position beside my father. Jon stood half a step behind me—a compromise between his birth and my wishes that satisfied no one.
"Robb." Ned's voice was low, pitched for my ears alone. "We should speak later. About... recent changes."
"After the feast, Father."
His eyes lingered on me for a moment longer than comfortable. Whatever he saw there made his jaw tighten.
Horns blared again. The procession had reached the gates.
Robert Baratheon rode through first.
The sight hit me like a physical blow. The king was massive—not with muscle, but with the accumulated weight of years and drink. His black beard was tangled and graying. His eyes, once fierce, had grown dull and bloodshot. The warhammer at his saddle was ceremonial now, a relic of battles he could no longer fight.
Dead within the month.
Robert dismounted with a grunt that echoed across the courtyard. His gaze swept the assembled Starks before landing on Ned with something that might have been love.
"Ned!"
My father bowed. "Your Grace."
"None of that." Robert crossed the distance in three strides and pulled Ned into a crushing embrace. "Gods, you've gotten fat."
Ned's lips twitched—the closest he came to a smile. "And you've gotten... royal."
Robert threw back his head and laughed. The sound was too loud, too hungry, the laugh of a man desperate for joy.
His attention shifted to the rest of us. To Catelyn, whom he greeted with courtly distance. To Sansa, whose beauty he noted with approval. To Arya, whom he called a wild thing. To Bran and Rickon, whom he dismissed with a pat on the head.
Then to me.
"And this must be Robb." Robert's hand landed on my shoulder like a siege weapon. His grip was still strong—a warrior's grip, however far the warrior had fallen. "You've got the Tully look, boy. But there's wolf in those eyes."
"Your Grace." I bowed precisely as deep as protocol demanded. No deeper.
Robert grunted. Approval or disapproval, impossible to tell. His gaze slid past me—and stopped.
"A bastard, eh?"
Jon went rigid at my side.
Robert's eyes traveled from Jon's dark hair to my auburn, cataloging the differences. "Good stock, Ned. Good stock." He moved on without another word, already demanding wine.
Jon exhaled slowly. His hands had curled into fists at his sides.
I bumped his shoulder with mine. Said nothing. The tension in his frame eased slightly.
The wheelhouse doors opened.
Cersei Lannister descended like a goddess gracing mortals with her presence. Golden hair. Green eyes. A face carved by master sculptors and animated by cold contempt. Her gaze swept across Winterfell's yard, finding it wanting.
Something prickled at the base of my skull.
Not precognition—not combat awareness. Something else. A wrongness that raised the hair on my arms and set my teeth on edge. As if the very air around her was slightly poisoned.
She'll kill Robert. She's killed children. She'll burn a city before the end.
Cersei's eyes met mine for a fraction of a second. Whatever she saw there made her lip curl with dismissal. Another Northern savage. Another obstacle to be managed.
Good. Underestimate me.
Jaime followed.
The Kingslayer moved like liquid gold, every motion deliberate and graceful. His white cloak caught the wind. His smile was everything Robb's memories had promised—arrogant, charming, dangerous. He surveyed the courtyard with the easy confidence of a man who'd killed kings and walked free.
Our eyes met.
His slid past without pause. I was seventeen. Unremarkable. Not worth consideration.
Keep thinking that.
Joffrey came next.
The crown prince was twelve years old, blond and pretty, with a face that would curdle into cruelty with age. He already wore the sneer of someone who believed the world owed him everything. His eyes found Sansa, evaluated, approved.
My jaw clenched.
One more thing to prevent.
Then Myrcella and Tommen—innocent children caught in their mother's web. The Hound loomed behind them, scarred and massive, radiating violence like heat from a forge.
Arya tugged my sleeve. "Is that really—"
"Shh. Later."
She grinned, undeterred. Fearless little wolf.
Finally, at the rear of the procession, came Tyrion Lannister.
The Imp.
He dismounted awkwardly—his legs too short for graceful movement—and immediately demanded wine from a passing servant. His mismatched eyes swept the courtyard with razor intelligence, cataloging everything, dismissing nothing.
Those eyes found mine.
I inclined my head. Genuine respect, carefully measured.
Tyrion's eyebrow rose. His lips quirked into something that wasn't quite a smile.
He sees too much, I thought. He could be useful. Or dangerous.
The same could be said of anyone worth knowing.
The crypt visit was traditional. Robert and Ned vanished into the depths of Winterfell to pay respects to Lyanna Stark—the woman Robert had started a war for, the woman whose death had broken something in the king that never healed.
Jon's mother, I thought. If the truth is what the stories say.
Another thing to handle. Carefully.
The courtyard gradually emptied as guests were shown to chambers and servants scrambled to prepare the evening feast. I stood apart from the chaos, Grey Wind pressed against my leg, watching the castle transform around me.
"You're thinking very loud."
Arya had appeared again. She studied me with the unnerving perception of a child who notices everything and understands more than she should.
"I'm thinking about tonight. The feast."
"Will there be dancing? I hate dancing."
"Probably. Mother will expect you to behave."
Arya's face scrunched with disgust. "I'd rather practice swordwork."
And someday you will, I thought. Someday you'll become the most dangerous person in Westeros.
"Tell you what," I said. "After the feast, when everyone's drunk and distracted, come find me. I'll show you a few moves."
Her eyes went wide. "Really?"
"Our secret."
She beamed—a rare, brilliant expression that transformed her narrow face into something radiant. Then she was gone, darting through the chaos toward whatever mischief called to her.
Grey Wind huffed.
"I know," I murmured. "I'm changing things. That's the point."
Movement caught my eye. Near the broken tower, a small figure climbed. Bran. His hands found holds in the ancient stone with practiced ease. His bare feet gripped surfaces that should have been too smooth.
My blood went cold.
The fall. Jaime pushes him. He sees—
The timeline crashed through my thoughts. Days. It would happen in days. Bran climbing, always climbing, until he climbed too high and saw too much.
Grey Wind growled, sensing my sudden tension.
I could stop it. Call out now. Order him down. Ground him until Robert's party leaves.
But that would only delay things. The tower wasn't the problem. Jaime and Cersei were the problem. And if I revealed what I knew—
Think. Don't react. Think.
Bran reached a window ledge and paused to rest. Fifty feet up. Utterly fearless.
Options cascaded through my mind. Prevent the climb entirely. Catch Bran mid-fall. Confront Jaime before it happened. Expose the incest publicly. Each path branched into consequences, some catastrophic, some merely terrible.
No perfect answer exists. Only least-bad options.
Grey Wind pressed closer. Through the bond, I sent him a command: Watch. Remember.
His golden eyes tracked Bran's ascent.
Behind me, the feast hall doors were opening. Servants carrying enormous platters of food rushed past. Musicians tested their instruments. The kingdom's power was gathering under one roof, and I needed to be there—needed to be seen, needed to plant seeds that wouldn't bloom for months.
But my eyes stayed on Bran.
He disappeared through a window, continuing his climb where I couldn't follow.
Days. I have days.
Jon appeared at my shoulder. "You're staring."
"Bran's climbing."
"He always climbs."
"I know." I tore my gaze away. "Come on. We've got a feast to survive."
Jon fell into step beside me. Grey Wind padded on my other side. Behind us, the broken tower loomed against the darkening sky.
Jaime Lannister is in that castle, I thought. The man who will cripple my brother. The man who killed his king. The man who beds his sister and calls the bastards princes.
And he doesn't know I'm coming.
My hand found Grey Wind's ruff. His fur was thick and warm beneath my fingers.
The feast hall doors opened. Light and noise spilled out. Somewhere inside, Robert Baratheon was already drunk and demanding stories of the rebellion. Somewhere inside, Cersei plotted and Jaime smirked and Tyrion drank himself clever.
I stepped through the threshold.
The game had begun.
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