Chapter 15: House Stark

Winterfell loomed, a gray fist punching through the snow, towers jagged like broken teeth against the pale sky. Jon's heart kicked hard, a stutter of home and something else—dread, maybe, or just the weight of lies they'd spun. He glanced at Arrax, the giant's face like a foreigner, blond hair and blue eyes , the same eyes scanning the walls like he was sizing up a battlefield. "Remember," Jon muttered, voice low, rough as the gravel underfoot, "you're a wandering knight. Shipwrecked. From beyond the Seven Kingdoms. Got it?"

Arrax grunted, a sound like boulders shifting. "I've told worse lies," he said, but there was a twitch at his mouth, a crack in the armor. He rubbed that scar on his neck, a tell Jon knew now meant he was thinking of things best left buried. Ryk shuffled beside them, smoothing his cloak for the tenth time, like wrinkles were the enemy here. "Better than sayin' we're from the Wall," he whispered, "but I still feel like a fraud in these boots."

Jon swallowed, throat dry as old parchment. "Just stick to the story. And Arrax—" He hesitated, the words sticking. "Try not to kill anyone." It came out half-joke, half-plea, and Arrax's laugh was a low rumble, a storm brewing far off. "I'll behave, Snow. For now."

They passed under the gate, the iron portcullis hanging like a jaw ready to snap. The courtyard sprawled before them, alive with the clatter of life—smiths hammering, horses snorting, servants scurrying with arms full of firewood. The air smelled of smoke and hay and something sharper, like steel freshly whetted. Jon's chest tightened, an ache blooming fierce and sudden. Home. But it wasn't, not really—not after the Wall, not after the blood and the cold. He was a ghost here, a bastard with a blade and a lie.

A guard ambled over, grizzled and squinting. "Jon Snow," he said, voice warm but wary, "thought you were chained to the Wall. Who're these?" His gaze flicked to Arrax, lingering on the giant's bulk, the battered armor that didn't quite fit any knight Jon knew.

"Friends," Jon said, too quick, the word stumbling out. "This is Ser Arrax, a wandering knight from… afar. Shipwrecked. And Ryk, his… squire." Ryk snorted, then coughed to cover it, smoothing his cloak again like it was a shield.

The guard's eyebrow arched, but he shrugged, waving them through. "Keep your swords sheathed," he muttered, "and don't piss off the lady." Jon nodded, relief flooding cold and quick, and led them deeper into the belly of Winterfell.

Jon took them through the courtyard, boots crunching on gravel, pointing out the landmarks like a maester reciting scrolls. "That's the First Keep," he said, nodding to the squat, ancient tower, its stones worn smooth by time and wind. "Oldest part of the castle. They say Bran the Builder laid the first stone himself, after he raised the Wall." Arrax's eyes traced the lines of it, calculating, like he was measuring its strength against some unseen foe. "Bran the Builder," he echoed, voice low, "a man who ventured into the unknown, huh?"

Jon blinked, caught off-guard. "Aye. He went where no one dared, built what no one thought possible. A legend." He didn't say the rest—that Winterfell was a place where legends were born, or broken. But Arrax's gaze sharpened, like he heard it anyway.

They passed the Great Hall, its doors flung wide, the scent of roasting meat wafting out, mingling with the tang of iron from the forge nearby. Jon's stomach growled, a traitor, and Ryk laughed, a sharp bark. "Gods, I could eat a horse," he said, but Jon shushed him, nodding to a cluster of servants eyeing them curious. "Later," he muttered, "I'll find us lodging. And food."

Arrax didn't seem to hear—just stared at the heart tree peeking over the godswood wall, its red leaves stark against the gray. "That's the godswood," Jon said, voice softening, a reflex. "The heart tree's older than the castle. Some say it's the eyes of the old gods." Arrax's hand twitched, like he wanted to reach for something—a weapon, a prayer—but he stilled, eyes distant. "Faith's a blade here too," he murmured, "sharp and old."

Jon didn't know what to say to that, so he kept walking, leading them past the crypts, their entrance a maw of shadow. "The Stark ancestors are buried there," he said, "kings and lords, watching over us." Arrax's gaze lingered on the dark mouth, and Jon wondered what ghosts haunted him, what dead he carried.

They stopped in the yard, near the stables, the clang of a blacksmith's hammer ringing steady, a heartbeat. Jon turned to Arrax, voice low. "I'll find us rooms. Might take a bit—things are tight here." Arrax nodded, but his eyes were on the towers, the walls, the people scurrying like ants. "This place," he said, slow, "it's a fortress, but it's alive. Not like the worlds I've known—cold steel and oaths sworn in blood." He rubbed his neck again, scar tissue catching the light. "Here, I'm a stranger. No Forge Worlds to supply me, no Imperial deals to lean on. Just this." He spread his hands, empty, and for a heartbeat, he looked almost lost.

Jon's chest tightened, a pang of something—pity, maybe, or kinship. "You'll find your way," he said, awkward, the words too small. "Legends start somewhere, right?" Arrax's laugh was a rasp, dry as old leaves. "Aye, Snow. They do."

Jon left him there, standing in the yard, a giant among men, staring up at the towers like they held answers or threats. The wind picked up, carrying the scent of snow and smoke, and Jon hurried off, boots slipping on the cobblestones. Winterfell watched, silent, and Arrax stood alone, a stranger in a strange land, his legend just a whisper waiting to be born.

The inn's common room reeked of stale ale and smoke, the kind that seeps into your bones and stays there, a ghost you can't shake. Jon stood at the counter, digging through a pouch of coppers, counting out coins that felt heavier than they should. Too much for a bowl of watery stew and a bed that'd probably creak like a dying man's cough. The innkeeper—face like cracked leather, beard a snarl of gray—watched him, eyes narrowed, but kept his mouth shut. Jon's fingers shook, just a twitch, as he slid the coins over, the clink landing soft and hollow. He'd forgotten this—paying for things, being a man instead of a shadow. The Wall carved that out of you, left you cold and weightless.

A poke—sharp, quick, a needle's bite—hit him square in the back. His hand jerked toward Longclaw, instinct snapping awake, then froze. He knew that poke. Slow, he turned, and there she was: Arya Stark, smirking like she'd just stolen the moon, hair a wild tangle, eyes glinting like wet steel. Needle hung at her hip, sheathed but gleaming with pride—the blade he'd given her, a piece of him she'd carried through hell. "Missed you, Jon," she said, voice low, a secret tossed between them. "I'm back, and I'm bored stiff. No one teaches me swords anymore—just sewing and smiling like some doll." She scrunched her nose, a wolf pup chewing at a chain.

Jon's chest cracked open, a laugh spilling out, rough and warm. "You're a lady now, Arya. Act like one." He pulled her in, a hug too tight, too fast, her head smacking his shoulder like she belonged there. "Besides," he said, letting go, "no man'll marry you if you keep stabbing everything that moves." It was a tease, light as snow, but it hit wrong—her grin flickered, just a breath, something small and bruised flashing in her eyes.

"Like I'd want that," she snapped, but her hand smoothed her tunic, a tell he'd clocked years ago—she was swallowing something, words or hurt, he couldn't tell. Then she perked up, leaning close, voice a spark. "Who's that giant in blue? The one who looks like he wrestles bears for fun?"

Jon's stomach twisted, a knot pulling tight. "Ser Arrax," he said, too fast, "a knight. Shipwrecked. A… friend." The lie tasted like ash, bitter and dry, but Arya just nodded, eyes wide, already halfway to dreaming. "Can I meet him?" she asked, bouncing on her toes, a demand dressed up as a plea.

He hesitated, breath catching. Arrax was a storm in a man's shape—good at heart, sure, but his hands were stained red, and Jon didn't know how deep the blood went. But Arya's stare pinned him, fierce and bright, and damn it, he was her brother, not her jailer. "Fine," he muttered, "but don't ask about the armor." She flashed a grin—sharp, all teeth—and bolted before he could blink.

Across the room, Arrax and Ryk hunched over a table, stew steaming in chipped bowls, the giant's frame making the bench groan like it was pleading for mercy. Arya slid in beside them, bold as a thief, chin jutted out. "You're Ser Arrax," she said—no question, just fact—her gaze raking over his armor, the dents and scratches whispering stories she couldn't hear. "Where're you from?"

Arrax lifted his head, slow, eyes catching the firelight like struck flint. "Far off," he rumbled, voice deep as a cave's echo. "A place where the sea eats ships alive." It was their patched-together tale, but he spun it like a legend, dark and heavy.

Arya propped her elbows on the table, stew forgotten, steam twisting up like spirits. "Did you fight dragons? Or monsters?" Her voice danced, a kid chasing wonders, but there was an edge to it, a hunger for something real, something big.

Arrax's mouth quirked, almost a smile. "Monsters, aye. And worse." He ripped a piece of bread, chewing slow, like he was tasting the weight of it. "The worst ones wear skins like ours, little wolf."

She blinked, caught off guard, then grinned wider, fierce and bright. "I like that," she said, and Jon, leaning against the bar, felt a shiver crawl up his neck. Arrax was gentle with her, like a bear pawing at a cub, but his words carried shadows Jon didn't want her touching.

Their voices wove together—Arya peppering him with questions about blades and battles, Arrax answering slow and steady, Ryk snorting into his stew, broth dripping down his chin. Her laughter cut through the gloom, a bright, wild thread, and for a heartbeat, it felt warm, almost right. Then the door slammed open, a blast of icy wind slicing through the haze, and the room went dead quiet.

Guards—three, draped in Stark gray—filled the doorway, their breath fogging the air like dragon smoke. "Jon Snow," one barked, voice sharp as a blade's edge, "and the stranger, Ser Arrax. You're summoned to the Great Hall." His hand rested on his sword, easy but firm, a warning wrapped in manners.

Jon's gut plummeted, a rock hitting bottom. He glanced at Arrax, who set his spoon down—slow, deliberate, face blank as stone. "Trouble?" Arrax murmured, low, just for Jon.

"Likely," Jon said under his breath, pushing off the bar.