Years passed.
The chill of Winterfell was harsh, but for Köinzell, it was familiar—a reminder of the high elven peaks where snow kissed stone and time moved like ice.
Disguised under the name Korin, he arrived in the North as a wandering sellsword with strange blade techniques and sharper eyes. He was taken in by Master Rodrik Cassel after defeating three bandits in a tavern with nothing but a rusted training sword.
> "The North could use quiet blades like yours," Rodrik had said.
Now, he worked quietly in the background—never drawing too much attention, yet always present during training sessions, patrols, and strategy councils.
But Köinzell's true focus was the young boy growing in the shadow of the Stark name.
> Jon Snow.
The bastard child of Eddard Stark.
The boy who carried the blood of dragon and wolf.
Köinzell observed him from a distance: how Jon clenched his fists when people whispered, how he trained harder than any other Stark child, and how his eyes always searched for something more.
> "He doesn't know what burns inside him," Köinzell whispered one day while sharpening his blade under the godswood. "But the fire is there."
Sometimes, Bran would sneak up behind him, asking questions about sword styles and faraway lands. Arya followed soon after, fascinated by his quick footwork. He gave them small tips, earning their trust but not their suspicion.
> "You fight strange," Arya noted. "Like a cat—but sharper."
Köinzell chuckled. "Cats don't cut steel."
And still, Jon Snow lingered at the edge—curious, but hesitant.
Until one snow-laced morning changed everything.