"Boss, we're almost at Winterfell!"
"Gods, this cursed place is too cold!"
When Cauchy spoke, he looked as though he wanted nothing more than to shrink his entire head into the fur-lined hood of his cloak. Each breath he exhaled curled into the air as a thick white cloud, even though half his face was covered by a coarse wool scarf.
Hearing his grumbling, Karl tugged at Fox's reins and brought the horse to a slow stop.
He lifted his gaze toward the great shape looming ahead of them.
Winterfell.
A vast, ancient castle stood in the distance, its stones a deep, somber gray — so dark it seemed carved from the very spine of the continent itself. The walls rose starkly against the endless white that blanketed the land, like a brooding giant crouched beneath the pale sky. A thin mist of smoke drifted lazily upward from behind the outer walls, hinting at life, warmth, and civilization hidden within the cold wilderness.
"Have you been here before?" Karl asked as he pulled down the scarf at his neck. Warm white breath misted from his lips as he turned toward Cauchy.
Karl wore the same armor he had donned since the journey began, though it now looked far more suited for the northern roads. Draped across his shoulders was a heavy bearskin cloak — thick, snow-white, and long enough to cover both him and Fox's broad back. Even his helmet was padded inside with soft fur, taken from a white fox they had chanced upon days ago. After Karl's arrow brought it down, its pelt proved useful beyond measure.
It was warm. Blissfully warm.
"Why in the seven hells would I ever come to this godforsaken place?" Cauchy shot back, immediately launching into more complaints.
"There's nothing here but snow — endless, knee-deep snow! It's like the whole North is just frozen dog shit spread across a giant plate. How Northerners survive here is beyond me…"
Their journey through the North had been grueling. The farther they traveled beyond the Neck, the harsher the cold became. Wind bit like sharpened knives; snowflakes stung like grains of glass. Even the smallest exposed patch of skin hurt as though sliced open.
Behind them lay the swamps and wetlands of the Neck, a miserable landscape Karl doubted he'd ever forget.
Year-round humidity. Tangled undergrowth. Stagnant pools of dark water. Hanging vines coated in gray fungus. The constant hum of insects. Unseen snakes lurking beneath the mushy ground.
And if one was unlucky — lizard-lions.
Men had died for less.
In the marshlands, one misstep off the stone causeway meant being swallowed alive by quicksand before anyone could help. Even crossing safely felt like tempting fate.
"Traveling by boat would've been so much better…" Cauchy sighed dramatically.
Then after a moment, as if his memory warmed up, he added, "Actually… now that I think about it, I have been north before. Once. White Harbor."
Karl's eyebrow rose slightly.
Cauchy, encouraged by the attention, immediately dove into a rambling story.
"There's a place called the Fish King Square, right past the Seal Gate — all cobblestone, a bit crooked but charming in a provincial way. In the middle there's this fountain, but that's not the important part! No, what matters is the alley right past it. Leads to a brothel — a decent one, too!"
He held up a gloved finger proudly.
"Oh! And there's a tavern called the Lazy Eel."
He paused, then added with surprising sincerity:
"If you're looking for the oldest prostitutes or the worst ale in all of White Harbor — that's your place. Terrible, truly terrible. But the meat pies? Gods, the meat pies! All stuffed with lard and cartilage… absolutely delicious! Perfect on a freezing day with a steaming mug of tea."
Despite his complaints, he was clearly getting nostalgic. Karl could almost see the memory warming him from the inside.
Karl wasn't impressed by the mention of the brothel or the poor ale — but he did swallow hard when the meat pie was mentioned. His stomach growled quietly.
He cleared his throat.
"I want a bowl of thick soup," he muttered. "Damn it, Dogtooth Cauchy… just mentioning food is torture."
"I heard there are hot springs in Winterfell," another man chimed in. "We should definitely try them!"
"And dark beer," someone added. "A hot mug of dark beer! That's what I need."
"Thick stew… hot bread… anything warm…"
One after another, voices rose in excitement.
After days of icy wind and long riding, the promise of warmth — food, baths, taverns — was enough to ignite the entire group's spirits.
Cauchy, hearing this, puffed up proudly like a rooster.
And, of course, he immediately picked a target.
"Just now, did I hear a dog barking? Hall, was that you?" he jeered. "Thick soup? If your fingers aren't frostbitten off, maybe you can enjoy something else too."
The men burst into laughter, warm as fire.
Karl shook his head, unable to suppress his own grin. These idiots — loud, crude, half-frozen, and still able to make a joke out of anything — were endearing in their own chaotic way.
In the distance, Winterfell rose higher as they approached. The cold seemed a little less biting now.
Karl patted Fox's neck. The horse snorted and pawed at the snow.
"Let's go, you bastards," Karl shouted. "The Lord of Winterfell may not prepare a royal feast for us — but the women who plan to empty your purses are probably ready to give you the 'warmth of home'!"
Roars of laughter followed.
Karl pulled up his mask once more and urged Fox forward, leading the column. The horse's hooves sank deep into the snow — at least a hand's width — sending sprays of white powder and dark soil flying with each step.
Winterfell, cloaked in mist and smoke, beckoned them closer.
Not long after they set off again, barking echoed from somewhere ahead — low, sharp, disciplined. Karl raised a hand, slowing the group.
A moment later, a patrol of mounted Stark guards emerged from the whiteness. Lean, sturdy Northern hounds ran beside their horses, barking sharply as they spotted the newcomers.
The patrol's banner snapped in the wind:
A silver-gray direwolf racing across a field of white.
House Stark.
"HALT!"
The call rang out loud and clear. The Stark men lowered their spears and moved to block the road, their faces half shadowed under heavy hooded cloaks. As Karl and his riders slowed to a stop, one of the Stark soldiers urged his horse forward.
He wore chainmail the color of cold iron, over which lay a thick wool cloak. His breath streamed white as he studied Karl's group, eyes sharp and cautious.
His gaze flicked up to the banners carried by Karl's men. Only when he recognized the king's colors did his stiff shoulders loosen.
He approached Karl directly.
"Are you the king's vanguard?" he asked.
Karl pushed his scarf down a second time.
"My name is Karl Stone," he answered clearly. "I am the commander of the King's Guard vanguard for this mission. King Robert's caravan is less than ten miles behind us."
Karl straightened in the saddle.
"I need you to notify your lord — Duke Eddard Stark — so he may prepare to welcome His Majesty appropriately."
The Stark captain blinked, recognizing the name. Something flickered in his expression — curiosity, perhaps — but he asked no questions.
He simply nodded.
"The Duke and his family are already prepared to greet the King," the man replied. "If you wish, I can lead you into the city first."
Karl gave a short nod of approval.
"Good. Men — follow them."
The tension eased from the cold air. The Stark guards turned their horses and began guiding the vanguard toward the main gate.
As Winterfell's towering walls grew nearer and the warm mist above the castle thickened, Karl couldn't help but feel something stir deep inside him.
He was about to meet an old acquaintance.
And Winterfell — ancient, cold, yet somehow inviting — waited quietly ahead, like a sleeping beast ready to awaken.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)