The Reclamation

picture of edward outfit and weapon :

assassin robes

gungir spear

norden arc bow

briton shield

altair sword 

tomahawk

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The sky hung heavy with clouds as Ned Stark and Edward descended the stone steps of the keep in silence. The soft crunch of frost beneath their boots was the only sound between them. Winterfell loomed quiet and still around them as they crossed the courtyard, making their way toward the armory.

The iron door creaked softly as Ned pushed it open, and Edward stepped in behind him. Rows of weapons and armor lined the stone walls, glinting faintly in the torchlight. The air was thick with the scent of oiled metal and aged leather.

At a wooden bench near the far wall, an old man sat hunched over, carefully polishing the edge of a longsword. Though his back was bowed with age, his hands moved with the steady precision of someone who had done the same task for decades.

He looked up at the sound of the door and quickly stood, offering a slight bow. "Lord Stark," he greeted, his voice rough like worn stone. "Didn't expect you this early."

"Master Ronnel," Ned replied with a nod. "Still rising with the sun, I see."

The old man gave a toothless grin. "Aye, old habits die hard. What brings you down here, my lord?"

Ned gestured to Edward beside him. "I'm here for him."

Ronnel's eyes shifted to Edward, studying him with the keen gaze of a seasoned armorer. "New face," he muttered. "Didn't think you were outfitting fresh men so soon."

"He's no ordinary man," Ned said. "Go to the back. There's a chest. Bring it here."

At that, Ronnel blinked, recognition flickering in his eyes. He gave a respectful nod. "Aye… I remember that chest."

As the old armorer shuffled into the rear of the armory, Ned turned to Edward, his voice low but firm.

"You trusted me enough to tell me your secret," he said. "I may not understand it fully, but I respect the courage it took."

Edward met his gaze, silent but attentive.

Ned continued, "So I am trusting you now. I kept your weapon and your garb safe since your arrival. I kept them hidden because I didn't know what you truly were. But now... I believe you mean no harm to my family or my people."

Edward inclined his head. "You have my word, Ned. I will not betray your trust."

"See that you don't," Ned said quietly, though not unkindly.

Ronnel returned moments later, carrying a sturdy chest secured with iron latches. He placed it gently on the nearest table and stepped back with a respectful nod.

"Everything's just as you left it, my lord," he said, eyeing Edward with newfound reverence.

Edward stepped forward, resting a hand atop the chest. His gaze shifted to Ned. "Thank you," he said simply.

Ned gave a brief nod, then gestured toward the adjoining chamber. "Go get changed. Meet me outside when you're ready."

Edward nodded and lifted the chest with ease, disappearing into the next room. The door closed behind him with a soft thud.

Inside, he set the chest down and opened it, revealing his assassin's garb within. Without a word, he began to undress, folding his clothes neatly before reaching for the familiar attire.

Once he had donned the assassin's robe, he turned back to the chest to retrieve his weapons.

He reached for Gungnir first—the Spear of Eden. It was lighter than it looked, the metal humming faintly with a power just beneath the surface. He strapped it across his back.

Then came the Noden Arc Bow—smooth to the touch, its craftsmanship unlike any common weapon. He slung it over his shoulder, the motion instinctive by now.

Last was the Briton Shield, solid and dependable. He fastened it into place, checked the fit, and gave a short nod.

These three had been his trusted weapons ever since his first timeline leap—when he'd chased Lucius into an era of Vikings, gods, and myth. He remembered it clearly: the blinding flash of white, the jarring pull of time itself, and then the cold, unforgiving wilderness of ancient Norway. It was there he had found these relics. From that moment on, they had never left his side.

At the bottom of the chest lay one more weapon—sheathed in a simple, unadorned scabbard.

Altair's sword.

It had once rested beside the Assassin's remains, hidden deep within a secret vault beneath Masyaf. When Ezio uncovered the vault and stood before Altair's final resting place, he had been there too—part of that timeline, walking beside Ezio in silence. He remembered the moment clearly. Altair, even in death, had left behind more than knowledge. He had left a gift. A symbol of trust.

"For my friend," the words still echoed in his memory.

In the timeline where Edward had worked alongside Altair, fighting and laughing in the brief moments between battle, the two had grown close—more than comrades, they had become brothers. The memory made Edward smile faintly.

He drew the blade slowly, the steel whispering against the sheath. The edge remained flawless. The balance, perfect. He ran a thumb along the fuller, letting the cold metal anchor him to the present, then slid the sword back into its scabbard and secured it across his lower back.

And then, beneath a worn leather wrap, he found the final piece.

A broken tomahawk.

The blade, forged from darkened iron, was still sharp, though the wooden handle had long since splintered. It had been a gift from Connor—the Assassin of the American colonies. Given to Edward at the end of the Revolution, when the war had ended and peace had finally begun to take root.

Though the tomahawk was no longer whole, it still carried the weight of its past—the history, the blood, the bond. Edward turned it over in his hand, thoughtful, reverent.

He tucked it gently into his robe.

He would fix it—when time allowed.

His gear reclaimed, Edward stood in silence.

He looked down at his reflection in the polished surface of the Briton Shield—hood drawn, cloak draped over his armored shoulders, blades and tools strapped securely across his body. Time had weathered him, but the purpose in his eyes remained unchanged.

With a quiet breath, Edward turned. The room echoed faintly with the soft sound of his boots as he stepped toward the door—then faded entirely as he left the armory behind.

Outside, the sun had shifted just slightly, casting long shadows across the courtyard. He spotted Ned Stark standing at the edge, gaze fixed on the training yard where Robb and Jon were sparring with wooden swords. The clang of practice blows rang out in the crisp air.

Edward approached in silence, his steps soundless on the stone. As he reached Ned, he placed a hand lightly on his shoulder.

Ned turned, visibly startled. "Seven hells," he muttered with a breath of surprise. "I didn't hear a thing. You walk like a shadow."

Edward said nothing—just offered a faint smile and turned his attention toward the training yard.

Ned followed his gaze. "What do you think?" he asked, nodding toward the boys.

Edward watched for a moment, eyes narrowing slightly. "They're good," he said simply.

Ned gave a quiet hum of agreement before starting to walk. Edward fell in step beside him.

"Where are we going next?" Edward asked.

"The library," Ned replied. "

Ned gave a quiet hum of agreement before starting to walk, his heavy boots clicking softly against the stone floor. Edward fell in step beside him, the sound of their cloaks brushing the ground faint but distinct as they passed through the hallway.

Across the courtyard, on a raised balcony overlooking the yard, Arya and Sansa stood side by side, watching Robb and Jon spar below. Their expressions couldn't have been more different.

"Jon's gotten better," Arya said, leaning forward on the railing, her eyes wide with excitement. "Did you see that feint? Robb didn't even see it coming!"

Sansa barely responded, her gaze drifting beyond the yard, her thoughts clearly elsewhere. "Who's that with Father?" she asked, her brow furrowing as she nodded toward the tall figure walking beside Lord Stark.

Arya followed her sister's gaze, her body going rigid. "That's him," she said quickly, her voice dropping. "The man from the woods. We found him in the Wolfswood—he was bleeding badly."

Sansa raised an eyebrow. "That's him? But... he doesn't look like the same man Father brought in yesterday. Not anymore. He looks..." She trailed off, her eyes scanning the stranger up and down.

Arya's frown deepened as she studied the man. "I know. He doesn't look half-dead now, but trust me, that's him. We found him barely alive."

Just then, soft footsteps behind them drew their attention. Catelyn Stark approached, walking with quiet grace, her hands folded neatly in front of her. She paused beside her daughters, her sharp gaze following their line of sight.

"Ned didn't mention we were expecting a guest this early," she commented coolly, her eyes narrowing as she assessed Edward's figure.

A maid passing by with a basket of linens glanced toward the corridor and whispered quietly, "He's wearing strange robes, my lady. Not like anything we see here in the North. And his weapons..." She hesitated, her voice uncertain.

Catelyn's expression stiffened, her gaze sharp as she took in the man's appearance. His cloak was dark, blending into the shadows, and the embroidery was subtle yet intricate—clearly not from the North. His clothes beneath were simple, practical, but still, there was something about him that seemed out of place.

"What sort of man wears such a thing?" she murmured, her voice low, colder than before.

Sansa tilted her head, narrowing her eyes. "He does look rather distinguished," she said, almost to herself. "But those robes... they don't look like something a typical noble would wear. They seem... different."

Arya's face brightened with mischief. "You just like his fancy cloak."

Sansa raised an eyebrow, a teasing smile on her lips. "I like men who don't smell like the stables," she said, shrugging casually.

Arya grinned widely. "Well, he didn't smell like anything when we found him. He was barely breathing."

Catelyn's gaze remained cool and calculating, but there was a subtle flicker of unease in her eyes as she observed the man walking beside Ned. "There's something off about him," she murmured, her voice low but firm. "The weapons... the way he carries himself. He's not someone I'd trust."

"I like him," Arya said with a grin, her eyes gleaming with excitement. "He looks like he's hiding something."

"Maybe something dangerous," Sansa added, folding her arms and studying Edward with a calculating look.

Arya's smile grew as she leaned closer to her sister. "Even better," she said, mischief dancing in her eyes. Her curiosity getting the best of her, Arya quietly slipped away, eager to follow the two men and discover where they were headed.

She moved swiftly through the hallways, careful not to be noticed, her footsteps light. Driven by the need to understand more about the mysterious man now in Winterfell, she followed Ned and Edward as they made their way through the corridors. Eventually, they reached a large wooden door—one that led to the Winterfell library, a place where countless books were kept.

Inside, Ned stopped by a table covered in scrolls and thick volumes. Turning to Edward, he spoke with a calm, steady voice. "Edward, you're welcome to stay in Winterfell as long as you need," he said, offering a leather-bound book. "Use this if you think it'll help. It might have the answers you're looking for."

Edward accepted the book with a small nod. "Thank you, Ned," he replied, his voice calm and sincere.

As Ned turned to leave, he paused for a moment and glanced back. "If you ever need anything, don't hesitate to come to me," he said, his tone firm yet kind. With a final nod, he closed the door behind him, leaving Edward alone in the quiet, dimly lit library.

Edward exhaled softly, the weight of his thoughts pressing on him. He walked over to the nearby table, opened the book, and began to read. His fingers traced the pages, his mind intent on finding any information that could help him