Since this is posted minutes after the first chapter, I don't have much else to say. I hope you enjoy, and Follow, Favourite and Review.

Plus, a reminder to vote for a pairing.

And that I'll post ancient language translations at the bottom of the page when they are needed.


Along with countless others of anywhere near high standing from the local area, Eragon stood; awaiting the arrival of the king.

It showed the value Eddard saw in Eragon, and the friendship they shared, that he was stood behind the Lord and Lady of the house; with Jon immediately to his right. A few minutes after Eragon's heightened hearing caught the approaching company, Lady Stark voiced a concern.

"Where's Arya?" Catelyn asked her husband. Neither he, nor Sansa, knew where the younger female Stark was, and this raised concern with her mother and father; it would not do for one of their children to be missing when the King and Queen arrived. It was a shame that the boyish girl shared a name with Eragon's dead love, but it had not hurt since he had first been introduced, and that was only because of the shock.

It was fortunate, therefore, that the young girl arrived soon after, a helmet sitting on her head that was promptly removed by her father.

As the thundering of horses came closer, the crowd, almost as one, straightened up and waited to follow their Lord's lead. This lead came as the King's carriage; a huge thing built to be as comfortable as possible for the royal family. On the side, there was a the King's sigil; a stag, and there were many people following behind on horseback. One soldier, in particular, stood out to Eragon. A very large man, dressed wholly in black sat atop a horse large enough to support him. His size, however, is not what caught the magic-user's eye. The man's helm was in the shape of a dog's head, poised to bite. Why would the man choose that for a helm?

However, this question fell away from his mind as the carriage pulled up, and the horses were afforded time to rest; something they truly craved after pulling the cottage-sized structure for five days; having swapped been out halfway to Winterfell. Off a horse next to the carriage, stepped a man, that obviously had only been riding for the past mile or so, who could only be the king. He was... not what Eragon expected.

Tales were told and songs were sung even now of the glorious figure on the battlefield, in the fight against the Targaryen tyrants, and they spoke of a man as strong as an ox; swinging his war-hammer in mighty blows that felled an enemy with each strike. They gave the image of an infallible man who could, at a moments notice, take up the hammer one again, and this reassured those who supported Robert Baratheon and deterred those who would wish to overthrow the king. If they saw this man, they might rethink that policy.

He was extremely fat. Fat enough that Eragon, who had met the Lords of Alagaesia who were so assured of their power that they could just sit around and be selfish, knew he was not a good king. It made it all the more clear that Jon Arren, the previous Hand of the King, had ruled in his stead, and that Lord Stark was about to be asked to take the dead man's place. A good choice the king had made, too.

Eragon, along with Lord Stark and everyone else, dropped to one knee as the man approached the Lord. The man strode towards his old friend with confidence that came with power, and stopped a few feet away from Ned. Clearing his throat and motioning for his old friend to rise, Robert looked Eddard up and down.

"You got fat." He grunted at the Warden of the North. That was unexpected, and Eragon respected the fact that Eddard simply gave a nod to the King's own large belly in response. With a pair of booming laughs, the two embraced. "Ah! It's good to see you again! 9 years! Nine! Where've you been?!"

"Guarding the North for you, Your Grace." Ned returned, with a smirk. The King shook his head and moved on to the rest of the Stark family.

"Cat!" Robert exclaimed, embracing Lady Stark happily. Next to Catelyn was their youngest son; Rickon, who's hair the Baratheon King ruffled. Moving back along the line, he found the eldest child of Eddard, and stuck out his hand.

"You must be Rob." He remarked, as he nodded his approval of Ned's heir and shook hands. Next, he looked at Sansa. "My, you're a pretty one. And what's your name?" The latter directed at Sansa's younger sister.

"Arya." The girl responded. The man nodded, and moved on.

"Ah, show us your muscles!" The king said to Bran, who happily obliged.

"Ned!" The fat man exclaimed, as his wife, who admittedly lived up to what was said about her; that she was a beautiful woman, specifically, stepped out of the carriage and approached, giving Ned her hand to kiss. "Take me to your crypt, I want to show my respects!" He seemed to shout everything, Eragon noticed.

"We've been riding for a month, my love," Cercei reminded him. "Surely the dead can wait." Her husband ignored her.

"Ned." Robert nodded, and walked away. With an apologetic look directed at the Queen, and a slight bow, Eddard followed after him.

As that space was vacated, Cercei's eyes fell upon a Lord she had not met before. One who had even more regal features than her family was famous for. Though there was something about him that made him... different. She couldn't put her finger on it, but he gave the impression that he would not be content with the gold her family had in abundance. Nor anything, for that matter.

Her gaze was torn away from the noble, angular face of the unnamed Lord as a curious voice rang through the silence.

"Where's the Imp?" Arya asked of her sister; inspiring Sansa's ire and a less-than-friendly look from the Queen.

Striding back to the carriage, Cersei addressed Arya's question to her twin brother, and sent Jaime Lannister him to find her whoring brother.

Eragon ran a hand over his freshly shaven face, and sighed as the two parties; one from the North, the other South, went in to the castle, to find the comfort and warmth it promised. The magic user, however, decided this was the best time to train; soon the yards would be overrun by Lannisters and other Southern Lords, wishing to show off their skills and not having a tourney available for this purpose.


Inside his room, later that day, Eragon murmured a word he had spoken so many times before. Several times tonight, in fact.

"Hvass," He ran his finger along the length of the knife in his hand, and it grew sharp. That was all of them. He had a dozen knives; not that they were needed, for the simple reason that he did not believe one could have too many weapons. You could carry too many, of course, as any were cumbersome, but Eragon had been in the situation plenty of times before where he lost his primary weapon, and a second, or third, would come in handy.

Standing, he observed his reflection, in the mirror he had fashioned for himself; mainly for scrying, but not solely. During his time as a Rider, he was always active; training or fighting; healing or killing, it did not matter. Magic took its toll on him, as always, but Eragon was very glad that he had not fallen in to the trap of being too reliant on it. It was a wonderful advantage, and an important part of him, but nobody would let one arm grow too weak to punch while training the other extensively. Well, nobody intelligent.

This activity had always kept him in the lean shape he had had for so many years, and with an increase in strength, of course, came an increase in muscle. By the time he had finished growing; the time to his last growth spurt lengthened by his becoming a Rider, Eragon was an inch or two over 6 foot; a satisfying height, and had the broadness corresponding to this. This, altogether, gave him a warriors build, that would not betray the time he spent as a scholar, like all of his order. However, unlike the huge, brutish soldiers that existed in this world, his strength could be easily hidden with one of the heavy cloaks that he frequently wore for comfort in the cold North; aquired because of necessity, before one of his travels beyond the Wall. This, when combined with the regal build of his face and Aren, which still sat on his left hand, was the reason others so often assumed he was weak.

The bow that was ever present; one that he had sung from a tree himself as he had not been carrying his prised bow at the time he came to this world, was not all that helpful in discouraging the Lords and Knights; unless it was in battle, people looked down on archers. Not that Eragon was discouraged by this; not only was it something that reminded Eragon of his own world, but he had, before living in Winterfell, had to hunt or starve. There were very few plants, let alone edible ones, that grew this far North.

Slowly, and methodically, Eragon slipped two of his knives in to two sheaths; resting on the back of the Belt of Beloth the Wise, and buckled his Brightsteel blade on to his left hip, before adjusting his tunic and the coat resting over the top of it; a fine leather, as was the fashion in Westeros. Well, in the North.

He had been asked to attend the blasted feast. The King would be there. He and everyone else supposedly worthy of the honour of his Grace's time. Whether or not Eragon considered himself one of Robert's subjects, it wouldn't do to risk upsetting the king of these lands.

"Tss." The frustrated Rider strode to the door, and took a relaxing breath before heading down to the courtyard connecting his quarters to the main dining hall. He wasn't likely to enjoy the raucous feast.


Gloved fingers, the leather covering the Gedwey Ignasia that Eragon passed off as a strange shaped scar; one with an interesting back story, drummed against the table as a drunk Lord next to him droned on, regaling him with what was likely meant to be a thrilling tale. Finally growing too sick of the man to continue, and knowing that the man, as drunk as he was, passing out would be far from suspicious, Eragon laid his right palm flat; ensuring no light would escape, on the table and brought up the magic, as was second nature to him.

'Slytha.' He thought.

The man slumped, and his head thumped against the table. The snores assured those around him that he was asleep, not dead.

No longer needing to stay at the table, Eragon stood ,with a smirk, and moved on. He'd been here for an hour now, and was fairly sure that he could justify leaving by this point in time. It would be best, however, to let Lord Stark know before he left; it would be rude not to.

With that in mind, Eragon began to navigate through the maze of intoxicated men, looking to brag, and the drunken women; looking to dance or fuck. As he did so, he felt a hand grip his arm, and turned to face one of the few sober men in the room.

"Ser Jaime," Eragon bowed his head to the golden haired knight.

"Huh; I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage," Jaime remarked. "You know my name, but no-one has told me yours. If you were wearing a sigil, of course, that may be another matter."

"I doubt that, Ser. I would be very shocked if you had seen my house's mark." He smiled, in poor humour. "It long since fell from grace, and I am the last of my family. Nor do I have any land to my name."

"Oh? And what is your name?" The Kingslayer asked the mysterious man.

"Eragon, of the fallen house Rider."

"And how did you come to be in the service of Lord Stark?"

"I encountered him while delivering the King's justice to a deserter of the Night's Watch. Of course, I was unsure what it was he was doing and, so, wished to check nothing... unlawful was occurring." Eragon responded. "Of course, Lord Stark virtually oozes honour. I had nothing else to spend my time doing, so I work for the Stark household."

"Doing?" The Kings-guard wondered aloud.

"Hmm. Nothing specific. A member of his guard, officially, but he seems to trust more to me than that." Eragon shrugged, making sure not to reveal too much.

"Interesting. I hope to meet you in combat some day. In a tourney, perhaps. Are you a Ser?"

"That depends on whether my Lord has broached the subject with the King yet. He seems hell bent to give me that honour."

"Hmm. That is good to know." The blonde walked away, and Eragon continued on his way; heading for the Lord of Winterfell.

"Lord Stark," Eragon began. "I hope you're enjoying the feast."

"And what do you think the chances of that are?" The broad Lord chuckled. "I despise these celebrations as much as you, but I am required to stay here for the entire meal. I have half a mind to force you to stay with me; misery loves company, after all." Ned grinned at his, in his mind, younger friend.

"Ah. That would be a harsh punishment for any slight, My Lord." Eragon returned the expression. "But you know me well. May I be excused?"

"Fine. Go, and leave me here." Eddard smirked, waving Eragon away. As the brown haired human-elf hybrid turned, the man spoke again. "Ah. But first, would you do me the favour of taking Arya with you? If I know my daughter, she's about five minutes from making a scene." The girl had begun fidgeting quite incessantly, and Eragon was sure that the Lord was correct.

"Of course."

Arya was very light, as was made evident to any and all watching as Eragon scooped her up, and placed her down on the ground; earning a small squeak of surprise from the girl, who had been mashing her vegetables in to a paste, before she glanced up and saw just who had removed her from her seat.

"C'mon, Little Lady. It's about time you retire; we don't want you to learn to emulate these Lords and Lady's do we? You're badly behaved enough as it is."

"Aw, I was about to start a food fight with Sansa." The girl complained.

"A food fight requires both parties to be flinging things," He ruffled the child's hair, and continued. "While you would have partook with the greatest enthusiasm, your sister would not have been so willing. She's much more ladylike, like that."

"Hmph. I know that." Eragon, once again, received a soliloquy from Arya explaining all the bad that came from her lessons from 'the old hag', as the Stark children called her teacher.


It showed, quite well, the faith Lord Stark had in Eragon, that he was letting his guard choose whether to stay here, with Lady Catelyn and his sons, or to accompany him and the girls down to King's landing.

Eragon was almost disappointed to say how easy it was for him to decide. Here in the North, it was obvious that there would be trouble. There always was, sadly, but it would be typical trouble. Chances are, it would be nothing too difficult for the Starks, who would stay here, to manage. In the event that they were endangered, Catelyn and Rob could call on the remaining advisors of Ned for assistance.

In King's Landing, however, there were many many dangers for Ned and, more importantly for both Ned and Eragon, Arya, Sansa and, if he chose to come, Bran. In fact Catelyn's wrath, if Eragon was to stay and risk endangering her husband and children, was enough to make up the Rider's mind. Both Stark parents were well aware of the fact that Eragon was, undoubtedly, the most capable warrior in their employ. And Eragon, admittedly, felt rather unappreciated at this point in time. Why did he need to be following an alarmingly intoxicated King as he and his party went hunting.

"So! Lad! I'm told your family's name's gone to shit in the past, that's a shame!" Robert exclaimed, directing this at Eragon. "What was the name again, Ned?!"

"Rider, your Grace."

"Rider, hmm. I feel like I've heard that name before..." The King trailed off, thinking on the origin of that thought. "Eragon Rider... where'd you get that name, boy?"

"It came from one of my ancestors, your Grace." Eragon answered. "I'm not sure who, exactly, but I think it was quite a common name for my family members to have. One of my father's cousins bore the same name as me."

"Ah! That must be who it is, then. My own father told me of a man called Eragon before, though he never said his family name was Rider; I assumed he was simply a talented horseman." Robert chuckled. "Your father's cousin saved my father from being skewered when I was only a child. Did nought but delay the inevitable, but my family owes yours a debt, it seems!"

"I assure you, my Grace, my relative would not have held you to that, and I am no more inclined to presume to ask of something. I heard of his saving a Lord with a stag sigil, as well, but my namesake was only there by happen-stance. Had he left your father and his men, Eragon would not have been spared the same fate as they; one of the raiders killed his horse and he was stranded there." Eragon shook his head. "If anything, my family owes yours a debt; he would not have made it to the city had your father not provided him with another horse and shown him the way."

"Bah! That's not how I heard it!" Robert dismissed Eragon's dodging, and called over to Ned. "That Eragon man took down a dozen men by himself, Ned! Sounded like an amazin' sight to see; putting down skilled fighters like that like dogs, and on their own turf, too!" The man grinned, as he imagined the sight; or, more likely, himself in Eragon's place.

"Oh? It sounds like you and your namesake have something in common, Eragon." He turned to the king, and explained the statement. "You would love to see Eragon, here, fight, Robert. As skilled a fighter as I've ever seen." The man grinned at the king; a grin that wouldn't last much longer. "He's saved my neck a couple of times, for sure."

"Oh? Why didn't you just lead with that, Ned?! The tourneys could use some new talent to knock my brother-in-law of his high fucking horse!" Robert boomed out a laugh at his own statement, and clapped a hand on Eragon's shoulder next to him. "Aye, Lad! I'll give you some titles when we get back to the Rat's nest of a capital. Just promise me a good show at the Hand's tourney!"

"Of course, your Grace." Eragon grinned at the prospect, and chuckled along with Lords Stark and Baratheon. "Eh? Um, My Lords, were we expecting someone else?" The entire party was accounted for, by the magic user's reckoning, so why was a rider approaching at such speeds?

"No. Why do you ask?" Ned responded, before the sound of galloping reached the rest of the hunters. "Who is that?" The unnamed messenger reached Eddard, and pulled his horse to a sudden stop.

"My Lord- I've been ordered by your Lady wife to give this to you as soon as possible." He panted out, holding a scroll out to the Lord of Winterfell.

Ned, with a worried expression, tore the note open and, alarmingly to those present, took off at a sprint towards their tethered horses. Eragon had never seen him run so fast.

Fortunately, the panicked Lord had dropped the note upon finishing it, and Eragon quickly scooped it up to check whether he was needed. He breathed out a curse, before turning to the king once again.

"Your Grace, I'm sorry to say that Lord Stark is needed back at Winterfell. There... has been an accident. His son, Brandon Stark, has apparently fallen from one of the towers. They are not sure whether he will make it." The look of shock, and outrage, on the King's face made it clear to Eragon that the hunt was, thankfully, over, and so he spoke again. "I can show you back to the castle, if I may." Despite his desire to rush back himself, knowing that not only could he reach Winterfell before any horse in the land, but that his skills at healing would also be a great help, this would be a far from wise course of action. Besides, the Maester here was very skilled, and could almost certainly, at worst, delay the inevitable until Eragon returned.

"Of course, of course. Lead the way." Robert's brow dipped in to a frown, and he quickly strode in the direction his oldest friend had taken moments before.

As they mounted the horses, Eragon's mind reached out to the agitated steeds.

'Ganga fram, eom Winterfell.' The horses happily hastened to obey.


Hvass- Sharpen

Slytha- Sleep

Ganga fram, eom Winterfell- Go forward, to Winterfell.


Not much else to say, except to ask you to Review to let me know you are interested in this story.