The ninth year of summer had stretched long across the realm.
On the first day of April, in the 298th year since Aegon's Conquest, King Robert Baratheon prepared to enter the gates of loyal Winterfell.
Lord Eddard Stark, Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell, who was as a brother to the King in all but blood, had spent days ensuring every detail was attended to with Northern diligence.
Ceremonies had been arranged, servants instructed, delicacies prepared, and banquets planned—all to demonstrate Winterfell's steadfast loyalty and sincere welcome.
Though Jon Snow, the bastard of Winterfell, would not be permitted to stand in the first row alongside the trueborn Stark children, he was nevertheless required to attend the welcoming ceremony with Theon Greyjoy and the household.
Time was waning swiftly.
Jon stood alone in his modest chambers, kneeling to offer final reassurances to his direwolf.
"Ghost," he murmured, running his fingers through the beast's thick white fur, "be good and remain here. 'Tis but half a day, and when I return, I'll bring you fresh venison. Can you understand?"
He was certain the wolf comprehended every word.
Ghost, his fur as white as the deepest winter snow, blinked blood-red eyes that seemed far too knowing for a mere animal. The direwolf remained characteristically silent, watching Jon with ancient wisdom.
Good boy, Jon thought with quiet pride, allowing himself a rare smile.
He left the chamber alone, pulling the heavy door closed behind him.
The moment he stepped beyond the warmth of his quarters—where hot spring water flowed through the very walls and a fire burned in the hearth—the cold of the North enveloped him like an unwelcome embrace. Jon tightened the heavy leather cloak about his shoulders, grateful for its weight.
Wild-spirited Arya appeared suddenly, dashing toward him with all the energy of her nine years.
"Jon!" she called, excitement rendering her breathless as she tugged at his sleeve. "Come quickly! There are so many singers arriving at the East Gate!"
Jon ruffled her dark hair affectionately, so like his own.
Among Lord Stark's children, Arya alone showed him unconditional acceptance, never once treating him differently for the circumstances of his birth.
Bran and Robb were kind as well, yet Jon could not help but feel the shadow of his bastardy fall between them, particularly when matters of inheritance and legacy arose.
Jon tried never to dwell on thoughts of his future. Robb would inherit Winterfell and all its ancient holdings. Bran might serve his elder brother or receive lands of his own. But what path remained for Jon Snow, the bastard with no rightful claim to name or property?
He allowed Arya to pull him toward the East Gate, where a crowd had begun to gather.
Theon Greyjoy leaned against a stone wall, his thin face wearing its customary smirk.
"Snow," he called, voice dripping with mockery, "a friendly reminder—don't stand in the wrong position later. We baseborn folk belong in the rear."
Jon refused to dignify such shallow provocations with a response.
Theon was called the Stark ward, yet in truth, he remained a hostage taken to ensure House Greyjoy's continued obedience. His status in Winterfell was, if anything, more precarious than Jon's own—which perhaps explained the poisonous nature of his character.
Jon focused his attention instead on the musicians crowding the area inside and outside the East Gate.
Arya's excitement had not been misplaced. Nearly one hundred performers stood gathered with their instruments—lutes, drums, horns, strings, and many Jon could not name. Their presence seemed conspicuous among the more somber preparations.
Jon's curiosity deepened.
His father's arrangements for the royal welcome had been meticulously planned, yet he had heard nothing of a musical performance of such scale. Could this be at the King's command?
"Arya," came a reproachful voice, "have you been wallowing in the stables again? Gods be good, you're wearing that filthy old helmet, and there's dirt beneath your fingernails. The King will arrive within the hour—couldn't you at least pretend to be a proper lady?"
Sansa, Lord Stark's eldest daughter, approached with graceful steps. She wore an elegant gown of blue-grey wool, finely embroidered around the neck and sleeves with direwolves running among winter roses. Even her tone of admonishment carried a certain courtesy.
Drawing nearer, she offered Jon a proper smile, yet he detected the subtle reserve behind her politeness. How could it be otherwise? A highborn maiden dreaming of princes and knights would naturally maintain distance from a bastard half-brother, regardless of shared blood.
Lady Catelyn glanced in their direction from where she stood with Lord Stark, and Jon immediately averted his gaze.
Catelyn Tully had given Lord Eddard three sons and two daughters, building a legitimate family only to see her husband return from war with another woman's child. Her pain was understandable.
Jon had tried countless times to comprehend and accept Lady Catelyn's coldness toward him.
Yet whenever he found himself beneath her gaze, those ice-blue eyes filled with such undisguised contempt made him acutely aware of his place—or rather, his lack of one.
Robb approached their small gathering, his Tully-red hair catching the weak northern sunlight.
Though he had inherited his mother's coloring—the auburn hair and blue eyes of Riverrun—Jon knew his half-brother was Ned Stark's son in all the ways that truly mattered: steadfast in honor, loyal to family, and unwavering in his sense of justice.
"The Crown Prince has composed a new piece of music to present to the King," Robb explained to his younger siblings, solving the mystery of the musicians' presence. "The first performance is to be here at Winterfell, which is why they've traveled ahead of the main procession."
He turned to his sisters with particular emphasis. "I'm told the Prince has brought a massive lion as his mount. When they arrive, compose yourselves appropriately. We'll not have the North appear provincial or easily awed."
Arya's face lit with undisguised fascination. "I'm not afraid! What does a giant lion look like? Has anyone ever ridden one before?"
Sansa clasped her hands before her, eyes filled with romantic anticipation. "I've heard Prince Joffrey's hair shines like beaten gold in the sunlight..."
Jon found himself longing for the simple companionship of Ghost. His direwolf asked nothing of him, demanded no particular behavior, harbored no complex expectations. Would that today's ceremony might conclude swiftly, he thought.
More people gathered at the East Gate as the appointed hour drew near.
Bran scrambled down from his perch atop the broken tower and ran to his father's side, breathlessly announcing that the royal party had been sighted on the horizon.
The final preparations were hastily completed, and Jon took his place among the household, straightening his posture to await the King's arrival.
A profound stillness fell over Winterfell.
Jon had never witnessed the ancient stronghold in such a state of ceremonial readiness.
Hundreds of Northern soldiers stood in formation, clad in boiled leather and mail, divided into two lines flanking the approach to the King's Road. Dozens of massive banners—the crowned stag of Baratheon alongside the direwolf of Stark—hung from the walls and battlements, snapping in the chill breeze.
The entire Stark family stood assembled in the courtyard. Behind them, arranged by rank and station, waited the knights, minor nobles, and servants of the household, their expressions solemn with anticipation.
The musicians made final adjustments to their instruments, positioning themselves strategically throughout the courtyard.
Jon found himself infected by the ceremonial atmosphere, his curiosity mounting. What manner of man was this king who had fought alongside his father to overthrow the Targaryens?
The distant thunder of hoofbeats grew steadily closer.
Without warning, cellos, violas, and violins began to play in perfect unison, their melody unexpectedly subtle and refined. The music washed over the assembled crowd, building tension rather than releasing it.
Jon thought it strangely beautiful, more sophisticated than the rough ballads sung in Winterfell's great hall, yet somehow not quite fitting for the arrival of a warrior king.
He noticed that many of the musicians held their instruments at ready but had not yet begun to play, as though awaiting some signal.
Then came the vanguard—hundreds of knights in polished armor that caught the northern light, gleaming gold, silver, and white as they advanced along the King's Road. Two imposing figures in snowy white cloaks flanked a broad-shouldered man whose girth suggested years of excess.
The moment King Robert Baratheon crossed the threshold of the East Gate, all those assembled dropped to one knee in unified reverence.
Precisely then, the first movement of "The King's Arrival" reached its conclusion.
What followed was a thunderous explosion of sound—countless drums and horns resounding throughout Winterfell's ancient stones, the sudden volume and intensity startling birds from the towers.
Jon felt his heart leap in his chest, an unexpected surge of heat coursing through his body. All around him, others responded with similar visceral reactions—backs straightening, eyes widening, breath catching.
The earlier melodic passage had been merely prelude, Jon realized. Like Winterfell's preparations, it had built steadily toward this moment of culmination—The King's Arrival in all its glory.
Knights continued to pour through the gate like a river of steel, seemingly endless in their procession.
Countless banners bearing the Baratheon stag and Lannister lion rippled overhead, a forest of silk and pride.
The drums maintained their relentless rhythm, growing ever more insistent, driving the blood faster in every vein.
Suddenly, a flash of gold captured Jon's attention with such force that he nearly broke protocol by raising his head too high.
Many in the crowd could not suppress soft gasps of astonishment.
Jon's gaze fixed upon a sight beyond imagining—a lion of impossible size, more than twice as large as the direwolf mother they had found dead in the snow. Its tawny coat gleamed like metal in the sunlight, muscles rippling beneath the surface with each powerful stride.
Truly a beast of legend made flesh, Jon thought, awestruck despite himself.
Atop this magnificent creature sat a figure resplendent in crimson and gold—tall for his age, broad-shouldered, with hair that seemed spun from sunlight itself. The youth's face bore a smile both charming and confident, befitting one born to rule.
As the Crown Prince passed, his eyes briefly met Jon's. Something in that glance—a fleeting expression Jon could not decipher—made the bastard of Winterfell feel momentarily seen in a way he had never experienced before.
Jon knew without doubt that he beheld Joffrey Baratheon, the future King of the Seven Kingdoms.
And for reasons he could not articulate, a shiver that had nothing to do with the northern cold slipped down his spine.
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