Chapter 33

In the midyear of 55 AC, the steady rhythm of hammer striking steel echoed through the forge in Winterfell. A young man with a determined look in his eyes, was hard at work, shaping his armor.

The orphan he had adopted, a boy named Jon, worked beside him, diligently preparing the leather hides they had hunted from wolves in the Wolfswood. The boy's small hands skillfully stretched and treated the leather, readying it for use in Androw's armor. Together, they smeared the finished armor with animal grease and lit it aflame, the intense heat transforming the steel into a sleek, blackened finish. Androw's face lit up with a rare smile as he admired their handiwork, proud of the armor they had crafted for the upcoming tourney.

As he worked, Androw was aware of a pair of curious eyes watching him. Lady Alarra Stark, a young girl with a keen interest in the mysterious and strong man working in the forge. Her presence was not lost on Androw, but he pretended to be absorbed in his task, hammering away with a focus that belied his awareness of her.

It had been four months since Androw had found refuge in Winterfell after wandering the North for three months. During those months, Androw had evaded the relentless pursuit of Albin Massey's hounds. Despite numerous encounters, he had managed to survive, largely due to the overconfidence of his pursuers. It was clear that the king had a vested interest in capturing him alive, a decision that Androw found both puzzling and amusing.

Which he only understood later as the King wished to find him unharmed before his family turned against him. Androw, having recognized the young King's desperation and weakness, had felt a certain disdain for the entire situation. The King's efforts to rectify his mistake seemed pathetic to Androw, who preferred to keep a low profile until the tourney.

His wandering had brought him many experiences—helping local folks, hunting bandits, and surviving off wild animals. One significant encounter had been with wildlings who attempted to loot him and his horse. Their poisoned arrows had been ineffective, and the wildlings had met their end at his hands. It was on the same day that, by coincidence or fate, he had crossed paths with the Lord of Winterfell. This encounter had led him to work in the castle forge, where he now honed his skills and hide. Now, the time had come for him to make a return, either to stir things up or to simply assert his presence—depending on how the King would behave.

As Androw stepped outside the forge, he made a deliberate effort to ignore Alarra, focusing instead on the bustling activity around him. Alarra, however, was determined. She ran to intercept him, standing directly in his path. Her presence was assertive.

Androw stopped, his gaze meeting hers with a hint of amusement. He addressed her with a friendly smile, though he noted the displeased look on her face.

"Lady Stark," he said, "to what do I owe the pleasure?"

Alarra's expression was a mix of curiosity and irritation. "I overheard a conversation between you and my father," she began, her voice tinged with concern. "You're leaving Winterfell. Why?"

Androw's smile faded slightly, but he maintained a composed demeanor. "I'm simply looking forward to the tourney in King's Landing," he said smoothly. "It's an opportunity to sell some of the armor and swords I've been working on. Who knows? I might find some fortune there."

Alarra's eyes narrowed as she scrutinized him. "That sounds rather suspicious.".

Before Androw could respond, the young orphan from the forge emerged, drenched in sweat but visibly proud of his work. He approached Androw with a hopeful look, showing off the leather work for armour he had been preparing.

Androw's expression softened into a genuine smile. "Good work, lad," he said, patting the boy on the shoulder. "Now go back and finish the rest. We're almost done."

The orphan nodded enthusiastically and returned to the forge, eager to complete his tasks. As Androw watched him go, he heard Alarra's voice again, laced with disapproval.

"You're cruel," she said, her tone indicating her displeasure. "That boy should be enjoying his childhood, not working tirelessly in a forge."

Androw turned back to her, a hint of awkwardness in his smile. "He's here by choice," he commented. 

At that moment Alarra's brother called out to her from the distance, she glanced back with a hint of reluctance. "I have to go," she said, turning to leave. "My brother needs me."

Androw watched her retreating figure with a faint smile. He couldn't help but think about how her curiosity had brought her back to the forge time and again. It had all started with a rather offhanded storytelling session where he had tried to amuse Jon, using a mix of embellished tales and humor to motivate him.

It was during that session that Alarra had wandered by, intrigued by the strange man telling tales of far-off lands and forgotten heroes. Her curiosity had sparked a series of visits, where she would come to listen to his stories, often peppering him with stupid questions.

Androw chuckled softly to himself, recalling the many conversations he'd had with her. His thoughts then shifted to the lad working diligently in the forge, determined to make his "new dad" proud. He couldn't help but feel a sense of pride for the boy who had come so far from the frightened child he had found in the forest. The lad, orphaned and lost, had clung to Androw with a sense of dependence and trust, seeing him as a father figure despite knowing little about his past. Androw had become his protector and mentor.

Then Androw's gaze shifted back to the armor and shield he had been preparing. The shield bore the mark of his future sigil—a majestic flying dragon, reminiscent of the iconic logo from the Skyrim. He traced his fingers gently over the engraved design as he whispered, "Baal.".

Meanwhile, far from Winterfell, Baal lay in a hidden cave nestled within the rugged mountain ranges of Skagos. The dragon stirred, his eyes opening to the familiar call. The cave, cluttered with the bones of savages and unicorn goat. With a mighty roar that echoed through the mountains, Baal unfurled his massive wings and took to the sky, leaving behind the desolate place.

[

In the upcoming chapters, you might find a few things strange. I will explain the reasons behind them at that time. For more chapters, visit my Patreon.

link: patreon.com/AmouxCreationX

]