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Author's Note:
Hi everyone,
I wanted to clarify that I've made a small but important correction to Chapter 13, specifically in the final part of Benjen's scene. During the editing process, I mistakenly used an AI-generated draft that included a misinterpretation of the tone and intent for that moment. That version was not the final one I intended to share.
The current version now reflects the correct vision and maintains the subtle, grounded mystery I originally aimed for.
I'm truly sorry for the confusion and appreciate your understanding and continued support.
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POV: Arthur Snow
Location: Winterfell – Great Hall
The banners of the North hung heavy with snowmelt. The Great Hall of Winterfell, warmed by fire and crowded with fur-cloaked lords, thrummed with tension.
It was the first such meeting in years—called not by war, but by whispers.
Lord Rickard Stark sat at the head of the table, Ice resting at his back like a shadow. Around him: the bannermen of the North. House Cerwyn. House Tallhart. House Dustin. House Umber. House Mormont. And newer names—minor lords from the mountain clans and western hills. All had come not for feasts, but fear.
The hall buzzed low. Words passed like flint beneath stone.
Arthur Snow stood to the side behind Rickard's seat, in plain dark wool, his sword sheathed and staff resting against the wall. He wasn't dressed like a knight—but every man in the hall had heard the stories. And every man watched him closely.
Lord Medger Cerwyn leaned forward. "Three castles raided in the past month. Three. And the Watch sends word of a leader gathering wildling clans like crows to a corpse."
"The King Beyond the Wall," growled Galbart Glover.
Jorah Mormont, not yet exiled, stroked his beard. "We've had 'kings' among the free folk before. They come and go."
"This one does not go," said Rodrik Cassel. "He sends scouts south and burns what he cannot steal. The Watch found two of their own flayed. And still warm."
A chill touched the firelight.
Lady Maege Mormont rose. "And what of the South? I hear rumors darker still. The Mad King burns his own lords. Dragonfire may not rise again, but wildfire waits."
The lords murmured.
Arthur's eyes swept the table. He watched hands, eyes, the pour of wine.
Lord Rickard raised his voice. "Speak plainly. Do you believe the realm slides toward rebellion?"
A long silence. Then, from the back, an older voice.
"We do."
All turned.
Lord Morgan Flint stepped forward. Grizzled, cloaked in patchy wolf pelts. One of those who had written to Rickard weeks ago—warning of chaos in the south and rising instability.
"The Stormlands eye the North with marriage. The Vale watches with silence. The Riverlands boil. And now, wildlings unite. You cannot tell me this is all coincidence."
He pointed a gloved hand toward Arthur.
"And then there's the boy. Even the Citadel whispers of strange things in the North."
Arthur did not flinch.
Rickard's eyes flicked toward him. Then to the wine cups passed around the table.
His brows twitched.
Arthur stepped forward quietly.
He stopped at the nearest table, where three lesser lords were reaching for their goblets.
He stared at the cups.
Then grabbed one.
He raised it to his nose.
Paused.
Then poured it onto the stone floor.
The wine sizzled. The stone blackened.
Gasps broke the room's tension.
Arthur turned to Rickard. "Poison."
In seconds, swords rang out. Guards moved. Panic surged.
Arthur spun toward the wine steward—a man pale and trembling.
"Stop him!" shouted Rodrik.
But the man had already seized a blade from his belt and lunged toward Rickard.
He didn't get far.
Arthur moved like a shadow—Phantom Tread carried him across the hall. His palm struck the steward's wrist—Wind Serpent Fang—and the blade dropped.
A twist. A snap. The man fell.
Guards dragged him off, spitting blood, muttering incoherent words.
Silence followed.
Arthur stood in the center of the hall, cloak settling around him, the poisoned goblet still steaming on the floor.
Rickard looked at him—not just with thanks, but calculation.
"We are not only surrounded by enemies beyond the Wall," Rickard said coldly. "They sit among our ranks."
Morgan Flint's voice was grave. "If the Citadel knows… then so does the South."
Jorah spoke. "They fear what they cannot chain."
Arthur returned to the side of the dais. Reaper remained sheathed.
But the room looked at him differently now.
Not as a blacksmith's bastard.
Not as a curious boy.
But as the North's blade—cold, quiet, and suddenly very real.
Later That Night – Rickard's Solar
"I owe you my life," Rickard said quietly, cup of mead untouched in his hands. "And perhaps the North owes you more than that."
Arthur stood in silence.
"I meant it when I said your second task was complete," Rickard continued. "But this—this proves something else."
Arthur nodded. "Someone is watching us. Closely."
"They tried to silence this hall," Rickard said, voice hard. "They failed."
He looked at Arthur long and slow.
"They won't try once next time. They'll try ten times."
Arthur looked to the fire.
"Then let them."