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POV: Rickard Stark
Location: Winterfell, Lord's Solar
The snow had fallen light through the night, blanketing the stone courtyards of Winterfell in white silence. By morning, the revelry of the feast felt like a distant dream—mead-soaked laughter replaced by the weight of quiet decisions.
Rickard Stark stood before the hearth, hands clasped behind his back. The fire crackled low, and yet he barely felt its warmth. Behind him, the last of the northern lords were gathered once more—Manderly, Dustin, Glover, Cerwyn, Tallhart, Hornwood, and Lord Bolton, his expression unreadable.
"Let us speak plain," Rickard said without turning. "We all saw what nearly came to pass."
"A poisoned Warden would've shattered the North," Galbart Glover said grimly. "Whoever sent that letter did not mean to scare us. They meant to burn us."
"And would've succeeded," Lord Cerwyn muttered, "had it not been for that boy."
"The bastard," Roose Bolton added, his tone cold but not mocking. "Arthur Snow."
Rickard finally turned. "Is there anyone here who still doubts his loyalty?"
No one spoke.
Lord William Dustin exchanged a look with his wife. Barbrey's gaze lingered on the flames, as though the fire might whisper some hidden truth to her.
Rickard continued, "He's no lord's son. But he's fought for this house. Saved it twice over, and asked for nothing."
"A rare coin," Wyman Manderly rumbled. "But rare coins shine brightest when pressed."
"He's dangerous," Roose said quietly. "Dangerous and unknown."
Rickard stepped forward. "So is every sword left unwatched. Better a blade in your hand than one behind your back."
A thoughtful silence settled over the chamber.
"I don't trust him," Barbrey finally said. "But I trust what he's done."
Rickard nodded. "That must be enough. For now."
He returned to his high seat and sat, folding his hands before him.
"Then let it be known. Arthur Snow will remain at Winterfell as a sworn retainer—but under my protection, and my scrutiny."
"A test, then," Glover said.
Rickard nodded once. "A test. He's proven himself twice. I want to see how he holds the weight of the North's gaze. If he stumbles, I'll know it."
Roose Bolton didn't speak again. But his silence felt heavier than words.
POV: Arthur Snow
Location: The Training Yard, Later That Day
The snow had packed firm beneath his boots. Arthur moved through his drills with deliberate grace, Reaper in hand, its edge sheathed in leather. He did not swing it hard—this was not battle. Only breath, motion, and quiet.
He felt the eyes before he heard the voice.
"You don't sleep, do you?" Brandon Stark called from the fence.
"I sleep when I'm not training."
"And you train when you're not bleeding." Brandon grinned. "Reckon the Old Gods are getting jealous."
Arthur gave a faint smile. "Or tired of being blamed."
Ned joined his brother, quieter. "Our father's summoned you after noon."
"I expected he might."
"And you'll go?"
"I serve the Starks. That hasn't changed."
Ned looked at him carefully. "It may, though."
Arthur paused. "If it does, it won't be by my hand."
Brandon tilted his head. "You ever think of teaching someone what you know? Swordplay's one thing. But that… thing you do. That stillness in your stance. The way you feel like stone before you even move."
Arthur didn't answer right away.
Then, slowly: "I might. If they're careful. And ready."
Brandon laughed. "Careful? That's not in Lyanna's blood."
Arthur smiled at that, faint and genuine. "No. It's not."
POV: Rickard Stark
Location: Winterfell Godswood, Dusk
Rickard stood beneath the ancient heart tree, his breath misting before him. The red leaves shivered faintly in the wind.
Arthur knelt in the snow beside him.
"I know what the lords say," Rickard said without looking at him.
"They have reason to be wary."
"Yes. And I have reason to test you."
Arthur waited.
"I'll not ask where your strength comes from—not yet. But I'll not ignore it either. There's a storm coming, boy. And I'd rather have the storm at my gate than riding against it."
Rickard turned, looking down at him.
"I'll give you land. A small holding near the White Knife. Men to command. A banner of your own."
Arthur's brow furrowed. "You would make me a lord?"
"I would make you a vassal. A banner sworn to Winterfell. You've earned more than a forge. And the North is watching."
Arthur lowered his head. "Then I will not shame your faith."
Rickard studied him for a long time, then nodded.
"Then rise, Arthur of the North. You've more to prove yet."