Chapter 3: The Oath
The great hall of Winterfell was a testament to the enduring strength of the North. Its high ceilings and thick stone walls seemed to hold the weight of countless winters and stories within them. A massive hearth blazed at one end, its firelight casting flickering shadows that danced across the ancient tapestries hanging on the walls. The air smelled of smoke and pine, and a quiet stillness settled over the room despite the crowd gathered within.
Talion followed Eddard into the hall, his boots echoing softly on the flagstones. His dark armor glinted faintly in the firelight, the jagged plates catching and bending the light in ways that made the material seem alive. The faint wisps of shadow trailing his form drew quiet murmurs from those gathered, their whispers carrying unease and curiosity.
At the far end of the hall, on a raised dais, sat Rickard Stark, Lord of Winterfell. His chair, carved with intricate direwolf designs, seemed to command the room as much as the man himself. Rickard was tall and broad-shouldered, his graying hair tied back neatly, emphasizing the sharp lines of his face. His expression was calm but stern, his piercing blue eyes unyielding as they fixed on Talion.
To Rickard's right sat Brandon Stark, his eldest son. Brandon leaned forward slightly in his seat, his sharp features betraying a critical, almost suspicious gaze. Eddard, meanwhile, stood beside Talion, his quiet presence offering a measure of support.
Rickard's voice broke the silence, deep and measured. "You seek refuge and offer aid," he began, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Tell me, Talion, what skills you bring—and why House Stark should trust you."
Talion stepped forward, his armor gleaming faintly in the firelight. The shadows that had formed his horned helm dissolved into thin air, revealing his face—scarred, weathered, and solemn. His gaze met Rickard's without flinching, the weight of his past carried in his eyes.
"My lord," Talion began, his voice steady, each word carefully chosen. "I am Talion, once a captain, now a ranger. I come from a land far from this one, where shadows stretch long and deep. I have fought battles against darkness itself—against foes that do not belong to the realm of men. My armor and weapons are forged in that fight, crafted from the essence of those shadows."
He gestured to his jagged sword. "My journey began at the Black Gate of Gondor, where I served to protect my family—my wife, Ioreth, and my son, Dirhael—from the evil that sought to consume our world. When the forces of Sauron attacked, I lost them both. I lost my life."
A hush fell over the hall as Talion's voice lowered, resonating with quiet intensity.
"But death did not release me from my duty. I was bound to a wraith, cursed to walk between life and death until vengeance could be achieved. The weapons I carry have felled unspeakable evils the Tower, the Hammer, and the Black Hand—servants of the darkness that destroyed my family. Now, my path has brought me here, to your land. I offer my sword, my knowledge, and my loyalty to House Stark."
Rickard's eyes bore into Talion, unyielding and searching. For a moment, the hall was silent except for the faint crackle of the fire. Then, whispers began to ripple through the crowd.
"Gondor? Sauron?" someone murmured. "What madness does he speak of?"
Brandon's brow furrowed, his skeptical gaze moving from his father to Talion. "Darkness, shadows, wraiths... None of this makes sense," he said under his breath, though his voice carried just enough to be heard.
Talion glanced at the gathered crowd. Their faces were a mixture of doubt, curiosity, and unease. It was clear to him now—this was not Middle-earth. The names and struggles he spoke of held no meaning in this land. Taking a slow breath, he adjusted his approach.
"I understand your doubts," he said, his voice calm but firm. "This land is new to me, just as I am to you. But my purpose remains unchanged. I seek to honor those I've lost by continuing the fight against evil, wherever it may rise. I have no motive beyond that—to fight for what is right and protect those who cannot protect themselves."
Rickard leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. "Your words are noble," he said finally. "But nobility can be a mask for deceit. What do you gain from pledging your sword to House Stark?"
Talion's gaze softened, a flicker of pain crossing his features. "I gain purpose," he said simply. "I know what it is to lose everything. To be left with no joy, no meaning. I wish to find that again, and in doing so, to offer what I can to those who will accept it."
Rickard exchanged a glance with Brandon, who studied Talion a moment longer before giving a small, reluctant nod. Rickard then turned to Eddard, whose earnest expression betrayed his belief in the stranger standing beside him.
Finally, Rickard rose from his seat, his presence commanding the attention of the entire hall. "Very well, Talion. If my son believes you worthy of our trust, then I shall give you a chance. House Stark is a home to those who are honorable, and I see a kind of honor in you."
He extended his hand, his voice carrying weight. "But know this—honor in words means nothing without action. Serve House Stark faithfully, and you will find refuge here. Betray us, and there will be no place in this world where you can hide."
Talion stepped forward and knelt on one knee, his sword laid before him. The runes along its blade shimmered faintly in the firelight. "I pledge my loyalty to House Stark," he said, his voice steady and resolute. "To serve, to protect, and to fight against your enemies."
Rickard nodded. "Rise, Talion of Gondor, ranger of the unknown lands. Winterfell will be your home, and House Stark your family—so long as you honor your word."
Talion rose, and as he did, the shadows reformed around his head, the helm returning to its place as if it had never left. The gathered crowd watched in silence, a mix of awe and unease at the sight.
Eddard stepped forward, his solemn demeanor giving way to a faint smile. "Come," he said, placing a hand on Talion's shoulder. "I'll show you more of Winterfell."
As Talion followed him out of the hall, he glanced back at Rickard, who watched him with an unreadable expression. The flickering firelight cast long shadows, and Talion felt the weight of his oath settle over him. His journey was far from over, but for the first time in years, he had taken a step toward something more.