The Stark Shadow

Open your eyes, Talion. 

Open your eyes! 

Talion awoke with a sharp intake of breath, his body rigid as he sat upright in the snow. Around him, a forest loomed, silent and immense. Towering, skeletal trees stretched their branches high, each one burdened with the weight of winter's snow. 

His breath came in shallow gasps, visible in the frosty air. His last memories burned vividly in his mind—Celebrimbor's betrayal, Eltariel's acceptance of the ring, and Shelob's cryptic intervention. He reached for his sword out of instinct, his fingers brushing the cold hilt of Acharn. 

The voice still echoed faintly in his ears. 

The pale light of day filtered through the trees, painting long, fragmented shadows on the snow. As Talion rose, the shadows coiled around his head, forming the distinct horned helm that marked him. The helm's appearance was seamless, a part of him manifesting from the darkness itself. 

He turned slowly, taking in his surroundings. To his left, an immense wall of ice rose impossibly high, its crystalline surface catching the pale sunlight. To his right, the dark silhouette of a castle pierced the horizon, its towering spires dominating the frozen landscape. The sight of the castle tugged at something deep within him, an invisible thread pulling him forward. 

He began to walk. 

The snow crunched beneath his boots as hours passed. The wind was biting, though he barely noticed its sting. The castle grew larger, revealing itself as a massive stronghold. Its blackened stone walls, weathered by time, stood defiant against the winter. Smoke curled from chimneys scattered across the towers, and a single red tree was visible within, vibrant against the desolation. 

When he reached the gates, guards stationed on the walls peered down at him. They wore thick cloaks against the cold, their breath visible in the air. Their hands gripped spears tightly, and their expressions betrayed both caution and unease. 

One stepped forward, his voice cutting through the silence. "Halt! Who goes there?" 

Talion stopped and raised his hands, the motion slow and deliberate. His horned helm obscured his face, the shadows swirling faintly around its edges as though it were alive. 

Before he could speak, the gates groaned open. 

A man strode forward, his fur-lined cloak marking him as a figure of authority. His square jaw and curly brown hair framed a face lined with both confidence and caution. Behind him, a young boy peered out, his shaggy hair falling over a freckled face that brimmed with curiosity. 

The man stopped a few paces away, his hand resting on the hilt of a sword. "Who are you? And why have you come to Winterfell?" 

The shadows receded from Talion's face, his helm dissolving into nothingness to reveal his features. His piercing gaze met the man's. 

"I am Talion," he said. "I awoke in the forest beyond. I began walking and found myself here. I seek refuge, if you will allow it." 

The man's eyes narrowed, scanning Talion's dark armor and the imposing sword strapped to his back. The black plates overlapped like scales, faintly gleaming with an unnatural sheen. His presence radiated a quiet, otherworldly power. 

"I am Rodrik Cassel, Master-at-Arms of Winterfell," the man said finally. "You may enter, but know this—while you rest within these walls, you will keep your weapons sheathed and cause no harm." 

Talion inclined his head. "You have my word." 

Rodrik motioned to the guards, who stepped aside to let Talion pass. As he moved through the gates, the young boy lingered, his wide eyes tracking Talion's every step. 

"What is he?" the boy whispered to Rodrik. 

Rodrik shook his head. "That's what we'll find out." 

Talion cast one last glance over his shoulder at the icy wall in the distance before the gates shut behind him with a heavy thud.