Chapter 2: Shadows Gather (Part 1/4)
The cold in Winterfell had grown sharper, biting deeper with each passing day. Outside, the grey skies hung low, heavy with the promise of snow. The howling wind that swept through the ancient trees of the godswood echoed like distant whispers of warnings—a chorus only Eddric seemed to hear clearly.
Sitting by the hearth in his chamber, Eddric traced the edges of a worn map spread across the wooden table. The ink had faded over time, but the lines and symbols—castles, battlefields, and ancient forests—remained etched in his memory. His fingers lingered on the places where he knew blood would soon be spilled, where betrayal would take root, and where the fragile peace would shatter.
He was ten years old. But inside, he carried the weight of decades, of knowledge no child should bear.
The room was dim, lit only by flickering flames that threw dancing shadows across the stone walls. Outside, muffled footsteps and distant voices drifted up the hall—footsteps of men whose lives were about to be caught in the great turning of the wheel.
Eddric's thoughts raced. He could feel the tension in the air, a storm gathering beneath the surface of Winterfell. The lords and ladies were unaware of the coming chaos, blind to the threads of fate weaving toward them. Only he knew.
He recalled the words whispered to him by Maester Luwin during a rare moment alone. "The future is never certain," the old man had said softly, his eyes clouded with both wisdom and sorrow. "Even those who try to shape it find the paths shifting beneath their feet."
Eddric had nodded, though inside he clenched his fists. He could not afford uncertainty. Not now.
---
The courtyard was alive with movement as Jon Snow sparred with a wooden sword against Ser Rodrik Cassel. Jon's strikes were fierce but unrefined, his breath heavy in the cold air. Eddric watched from the side, feeling a pang of envy. The bastard carried a burden of his own, but he fought with raw heart.
"Let me try," Eddric called out softly, stepping forward.
Ser Rodrik's eyes narrowed, but he nodded. "Very well, lad. Show me what you've got."
Eddric took the sword in hand, balancing its weight carefully. He moved with a grace born not of strength but of foresight—knowing the smallest misstep could mean death someday. His strikes were measured, precise, a dance between defense and attack.
Jon circled him, surprised by the boy's skill. "You've been hiding something."
Eddric smiled faintly. "Perhaps."
Their duel was interrupted by the sharp call of a messenger. A raven had arrived. The weight of the news that came with it pressed down immediately—letters from King's Landing, reports of unrest, murmurs of treachery, whispers that could unravel kingdoms.
-
That night, Eddric found himself walking the shadowed halls of Winterfell, the flicker of torchlight barely cutting through the darkness. The castle felt different—alive, restless, as if it too knew what was coming.
He paused outside the great hall, hearing the low murmur of voices. Ned Stark sat at the high table, flanked by Robb and Catelyn. Their faces were tight with worry, eyes scanning letters and messengers' reports.
Eddric's heart clenched. He wanted to speak, to warn them, but the words tangled in his throat. How could a child explain the tides of doom approaching, the wolves that were ready to pounce?
Instead, he stayed silent, watching.
-
Days passed, and the snows deepened. The harsh winter was more than weather—it was a reminder, a symbol of the cold truths waiting in the shadows. Each night, Eddric dreamed of fire and ice—dragons circling the skies, armies clashing beneath frozen moons, and a darkness spreading like a shadow across the land.
His dreams left him with an ache in his chest, a longing to act before it was too late.
He sought out Arya in the godswood one afternoon. The girl was fierce and wild-eyed, her small sword swinging with reckless abandon at a tree stump.
"Why do you fight so?" Eddric asked quietly, stepping beside her.
Arya paused, wiping sweat from her brow. "Because I have to be ready. The world's not kind to girls who don't fight."
Eddric nodded. "There's more coming than you know."
Arya looked at him, curiosity flickering in her gaze. "What do you mean?"
He hesitated. Could he trust her with even a fraction of the truth? She was sharp, brave, but still a child.
"Winter's coming," he said simply.
Her expression hardened. "We'll be ready."
---
The days grew shorter, the nights colder. The shadow of the coming war stretched over every corner of Winterfell, thickening with each passing moment.
And Eddric felt the crushing weight of knowing. The weight of being different. The burden of foresight.
He was a boy in a world that did not yet understand the storm, but soon would. And when it came, the future would be forever changed.
---