The snow fell in silent, relentless sheets, burying the road to Winterfell beneath a shroud of white. Lucien Lannister rode through the storm like a man who had long since stopped feeling the cold.
Adapt or die. The lesson had been carved into him from a young age.
His fingers flexed around the reins, the memory of Salladhor's parting grin still fresh. "A quiet coin for a quiet man," the pirate had said, slipping the gold into Lucien's sleeve like a secret. Lucien had smirked. Quiet men don't last long in this game.
Ahead, the flickering torches of Winterfell's gates cut through the gloom. The Starks would be waiting—wolves in wool and steel, their hospitality as sharp as their swords.
Good. He preferred honesty to the southern simpering.
The blizzard had come snarling out of nowhere, a beast of wind and ice. Lucien's shelter—a half-rotten hunter's lean-to—collapsed under the storm's fist within minutes.
Typical.
He had barely cursed before the scent hit him: blood. Fresh, hot, and reeking of desperation. His dagger was in his hand before his mind caught up.
The trail led to a cave. Inside, a scene from an old Stark legend: a pup, barely weaned, standing over the corpses of its mother and a gutted elk. Three shadowcats circled, their yellow eyes gleaming with hunger.
Lucien didn't hesitate.
Three arrows. Three heartbeats. Three corpses added to the pile.
The pup—male, silver-furred, with eyes like frozen fire—growled at him, legs trembling with exhaustion.
Oh, you're perfect.
"Marcellus," Lucien murmured, kneeling. God of war. Fitting. The pup snarled and then collapsed into the snow.
A chime echoed in his skull—the sound of fate shifting.
Winterfell's courtyard was a tableau of northern austerity. The Starks stood in formation, their faces a mosaic of curiosity and frost.
Ned's voice was flint. "Lucien Lannister."
Lucien bowed, just shallow enough to remind them he wasn't there to grovel. "Lord Stark. Your home is… formidable."
Arya snorted. "He means 'ugly.'"
"Arya!" Sansa hissed.
Lucien grinned. "I mean honest. A rare thing south of the Neck." He gestured to Marcellus, now draped across his shoulders like a living cloak. "I hope a stray direwolf isn't an issue?"
Catelyn's smile could have iced the Trident. "Our wolves come and go as they please, my lord. Unlike lions."
(Theon laughed. Jon's grip whitened on his sword.)
Lucien's grin didn't waver. "A fair point, Lady Stark. Though I've heard even wolves enjoy a well-spun tale by the fire." He gestured, and a servant stepped forward with an ornate chest. "I bring gifts—and tidings from the South."
The chest opened, revealing treasures tailored like arrows to their marks:
For Bran, a Myrish lens, its glass dark as frozen ink.For Catelyn, a brooch entwining the trout and direwolf.For Robb, a chess set carved from weirwood and iron.For Sansa, a jewelry box inlaid with ivory roses.For Arya, a slender blade—Needle's twin.For Rickon, a cloak lined with shadowcat fur.For Jon, a sword so sharp it whispered when drawn.
Bran's eyes widened. "Can this see beyond the Wall?"
Lucien crouched to his level. "With the right eyes, perhaps."
Arya narrowed her gaze. "Why's a Lannister reading about the Night's Watch?"
"Because," Lucien said softly, "Winter is coming."
A hush fell. Even the wind stilled.
Then Ned Stark spoke. "We'll talk inside. You've ridden far."
In the Stark solar, with the fire popping between them like a restless spirit, Lucien cut straight to the bone.
"Someone tried to kill me on the road."
Ned's eyes darkened. "Your enemies—"
"—are ours now." Lucien leaned forward. "I've fed the North through my taverns and given your smallfolk work. And in return? I'm attacked." He tossed a dagger onto the table—Valyrian steel, its hilt wrapped in Lysene silk.Littlefinger's favorite export.
Ned exhaled. "You want us to pretend hostility."
"I want spies to report that the Starks tolerate Lannisters. Nothing more." Lucien smirked. "A wise man once told me: 'What we don't know is what kills us.'"
Ned's fist clenched. "Chaos."
"Chaos," Lucien agreed. And the man who sells it.
Robert's arrival shook Winterfell to its foundations. The king's laughter boomed, his grip left bruises, his gaze lingering a moment too long on Sansa.
Lucien watched from the shadows.
Cersei's lips thinned. Jaime's fingers drummed his sword. Tyrion, sharp-eyed, sidled up to Jon Snow.
And then—Bran.
The boy climbed too high. Saw too much.
Jaime's voice dripped with irony: "The things I do for love."
The shove. The scream. The silence.
Lucien's hand twitched toward his dagger—too late.
Winterfell's walls had just gained another ghost.
Later, in the freezing yard, Jon Snow trained alone, his swings growing ragged with fury.
Lucien leaned against the wall. "Anger is a poor shield."
Jon whirled. "What do you care?"
"I don't." Lucien tossed him a wineskin. "But the Night's Watch needs men who can think. Not just bleed."
Jon drank, his throat working. "Tyrion said the same."
"The Imp's clever." Lucien's smile didn't reach his eyes. "But he's wrong about one thing. The Wall isn't an end. It's a beginning."
Jon frowned. "What does that mean?"
Lucien turned away. "Ask me when you've seen what waits beyond it."
[HIATUS NOTICE] Pausing for Plot Perfection
*"Dearest readers,
After careful thought, I've decided to place the novel on hiatus to restructure the upcoming arc and the past one. This story means everything to me, and I want to do justice with your support.
Suggestions to make the story better are highly appreciated