The journey on the Silent Seagull was a lesson in reality. After a lifetime spent on the hyper-advanced Odyssey and in the curated perfection of Aegis, the simple realities of a traditional ship were a stark reminder of the world we were re-entering. We felt the pitch and roll of the waves, the bite of the salt spray, and the honest chill of the wind in a way we hadn't for decades. It was grounding. Humbling.
We made landfall not at the bustling port of White Harbor, but in a smaller, quieter town further down the coast, a place where news traveled slower and observers were less cynical. Our ship, the Silent Seagull, with its strange ironwood hull and remarkable speed, caused a stir, as did the quiet confidence with which we traded a few small, perfect gemstones for fresh supplies and horses. We paid generously, spoke little, and inquired about the safest route to Winterfell. By the time we left, the first whispers of our new identity had been sown: the quiet, wealthy merchants from a land no one had heard of.
The ride inland was a pilgrimage for me. Seeing the North with my own eyes was profoundly different from observing it on a holographic map. We rode through vast, empty landscapes under a wide, grey sky, the air crisp and clean. We saw hardy crofters working their fields, their faces grim but resolute, and small, tough villages huddled around smoky longhalls. This was my heritage. The land of my father and brother. A deep, instinctual feeling of homecoming warred with the knowledge that I was a stranger here, an anachronism with an impossible secret.
After a week of travel, we saw it. Rising from the rolling hills, stark and immense against the horizon: Winterfell. It was not a map or a dream. It was real, a sprawling fortress of grey granite, exuding an aura of grim, unyielding strength. I saw the architectural choices my father had made, the lines of the towers, the sheer scale of the curtain walls, and a wave of profound, complicated emotion washed over me—pride, grief, and a longing for a life I never had.
We approached the main gate and were met by a dozen guards in grey cloaks, their hands on their swords, their eyes sharp and suspicious. A man with a stern face and the bearing of a seasoned commander stepped forward. This was Ser Rodrik Cassel, Winterfell's master-at-arms.
"Halt," he commanded, his voice firm but not hostile. "State your names and your purpose."
I dismounted, Torren following my lead. We pulled back our hoods, letting the guards see our faces.
"I am Rudr, and this is my associate, Torren," I said, my voice calm and respectful. "We are emissaries of the Eastern Isles Consortium. We have traveled a great distance and come to seek an audience with Lord Rickard Stark on matters of trade and mutual prosperity for the North."
Ser Rodrik's eyes narrowed, taking in every detail: our fine but undecorated clothing, the strange, masterfully crafted swords at our belts, and the well-fed, powerful horses we rode. We were an enigma. We didn't fit the mold of any known house or merchant guild.
"Lord Stark does not entertain every merchant who appears at his gate," he said gruffly.
"The goods we offer and the routes we command have never been seen in Westeros," I replied smoothly. "Our proposal will bring a wealth of resources to the North, the kind that will see them through the longest of winters. I believe Lord Stark will find five minutes of his time a worthy investment."
My confidence, and perhaps the hint of immense wealth, seemed to sway him. After a moment of silent consideration, he gave a curt nod. "You may enter. You will be escorted. Your weapons will be kept in your sight, but out of your reach."
With guards flanking us, we were led through the great stone archway, under the watchful eyes of the portcullis. We stepped into the bustling courtyard of Winterfell, the heart of the North. I saw the Great Keep, the armory, the Godswood in the distance. It was all just as I had seen in my mind a thousand times. I was a ghost, walking in the home of my own family, a stranger with their blood in his veins. The first gate had been passed. The true test, the meeting with the Lord of Winterfell, was yet to come.