The Stark Shadow

The days following Talion's vision were marked by an unsettling weight that he carried in silence. Outwardly, he continued as he always had—overseeing the training of the Stark children, offering quiet advice to those who sought it—but within him, a storm churned. The image of the Night King at the forge was seared into his mind. The unnatural flames, the glowing symbols on the ring, the creature brought to life—every detail was vivid, unshakable, as if the vision had reached beyond a mere dream and pierced into reality. 

Talion roamed the halls of Winterfell with an edge to his step, his eyes more watchful than ever. He studied the faces of the southern guests still lingering after the tournament, gauging their words and actions for any sign of deceit. Tywin Lannister's calculating stare, Mace Tyrell's genial smiles—both veiled intentions Talion could only guess at. Yet, even their schemes felt like petty games compared to the threat he had witnessed. His unease wasn't rooted in politics or ambitions; it was the primal dread of recognizing a shadow he thought he'd left behind. 

He kept the vision to himself. How could the people of Winterfell understand? To them, the Night King and his wights were legends whispered to frighten children, nothing more. To speak of Sauron, to suggest that his malice had stretched its tendrils into this land, would be to invite doubt and dismissal. The Starks were pragmatic, grounded in the reality of survival against the harsh North, but their world was one of men and steel, not of dark forges and ancient evils. 

Still, Talion could not escape the memory of the vision. Each night, as he closed his eyes, it returned—vivid and cold. 

Since that night, Talion had found himself pacing the battlements of Winterfell, scanning the cold horizon for any sign of approaching darkness. He knew it was futile—the vision was a warning, not a reality yet manifest—but the weight of its implications bore down on him. He had seen firsthand what Sauron's influence could do to men, to nations. He had fought against the corruption that spread like wildfire, turning loyalty to treachery, strength to fear. The parallels between his past and the North's present were impossible to ignore. 

The divisions within the realm troubled him deeply. The petty rivalries between lords, the dismissive attitudes of the southern guests toward the North's harsh ways—all of it reminded him of the complacency that had doomed Gondor in its moments of greatest peril. Tywin Lannister's probing questions about Winterfell's defenses, Mace Tyrell's soft-spoken diplomacy—it all felt like distractions from the true threat. Talion feared that by the time these lords and ladies realized what was at stake, it would already be too late. 

He turned his focus inward, channeling his restlessness into action. He trained Eddard, Benjen, and Lyanna with renewed intensity, pushing them harder than before. Each strike of their swords, each step of their footwork, he demanded perfection—not out of cruelty, but out of necessity. They had to be ready for what was coming, even if they did not yet know it. 

Yet, the weight of his silence grew heavier. Rickard Stark noticed his withdrawal, his quiet glances filled with unspoken questions. Brandon's resentment simmered, his suspicion of Talion's methods more vocal with each passing day. Even Eddard, ever observant, asked Talion once, "Is something troubling you?" 

Talion had only shaken his head. "Focus on your stance, Ned. Worrying about me won't prepare you for a blade at your throat." 

But at night, when the training grounds were silent and the fires in the great hall had burned low, Talion would find himself staring into the flames, the image of the Night King and his icy forge playing over and over in his mind. The question burned within him Was the vision a warning of what was to come, or had the shadow of Mordor already reached this world? 

Talion tightened his grip on his sword. He had made a vow once, long ago, to stand against the darkness, to be a shield for the living against the encroaching shadow. That vow remained, unbroken. Whatever lay ahead, he would be ready. 

For now, though, he could only wait—and watch.