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POV: Arthur Snow
Location: Winterfell – The Main Courtyard
The gates opened before Arthur spoke a word.
The watchman at the tower simply saw his face and shouted down, and the portcullis rose slow and groaning—metal teeth dragging up from the snow-packed stone.
Winterfell hadn't changed.
But the air around it had.
Arthur walked through first. Behind him, his companions trickled in like stray pieces of broken legend.
Sarra, quiet and watchful, eyes scanning every tower.
Garron, grunting as he adjusted the hammer on his shoulder, already complaining about the lack of windbreaks.
Thom, keeping to the edge, gaze flicking over the training yard like he could already see where injuries would happen.
Redna, sauntering like a cat that had wandered too far into a nobleman's room.
Vaeren, muttering about heat distribution in Northern kitchens and how inefficient the chimneys looked.
And Maelen, last as always, walking as though he was entering a tomb he'd seen in his dreams a hundred times.
The Stark family waited in the yard—not flanked by guards, not seated on high.
Lord Rickard, firm-eyed and measured, stood with arms folded.
To his right, Brandon stood straight-backed, taller than before, wearing the subtle tension of a man too young for the roles ahead of him.
Ned, quieter than his brother, watched Arthur the way a dog watches thunder—curious, tense, respectful.
And Benjen, eyes wide, tried not to grin.
Lyanna stood furthest forward.
She hadn't moved. Not a step.
Arthur stopped a few feet away and bowed.
Rickard spoke first.
"You left a retainer."
Arthur met his gaze. "And return with something else."
Rickard's eyes scanned him again—this time not for weapons, but for change.
"You left Winterfell as a boy of eleven," he said quietly. "Now you stand before me nearly thirteen—and not as a boy."
Arthur didn't reply.
He didn't need to.
The weight of time—four seasons passed, a blade forged, battles survived, people gathered—answered for him.
He looked to the side. "Maester Walys."
The old man stepped forward, half-bald, wrapped in thick grey robes. He studied the group with clear, clinical distaste—especially Maelen, who stood perfectly still and returned the gaze without blinking.
Maester Walys frowned. "This man… he's not recorded in any recent orders. Who is he?"
Maelen's voice cut through the courtyard, calm and low.
"I am no longer part of any order."
"And what are you now?" Walys pressed.
Maelen tilted his head. "A witness."
The maester stepped back as though he'd been answered with something sharp.
Rickard looked to Harwin, the Master-at-Arms, who stood just off the side of the courtyard, arms crossed.
The old sword instructor grunted once. "You planning to arm this whole circus, boy?"
Arthur replied without hesitation. "Not unless you give me reason to."
Harwin snorted. "Fair."
Harwin, the Master-at-Arms, approached with heavy steps, arms crossed beneath his cloak. He walked past Sarra with a grunt of approval, gave Garron a single glance and a nod—the nod one warrior gives another, even if neither speaks of it.
Then he stopped in front of Vaeren.
Long pause.
He sniffed once, eyes narrowing.
"And What in the seven hells are you?" he asked—not angrily, but warily, like someone who'd once watched a stable burn down from a single unattended candle.
Vaeren looked up from his cluttered satchel of scrolls and flasks, smile unfazed. "A catastrophe," he said, "waiting to be refined."
Harwin didn't smile.
He crouched slightly, squinting closer—not at Vaeren's face, but at his belt, where a tiny copper vial rattled inside a scorched leather pouch.
"You smell like failed glasswork and fireroot," Harwin muttered. "You mix things without knowing if they'll work."
"I test," Vaeren corrected lightly. "I never guess. Well—rarely."
Harwin stood back, expression unreadable.
"I've seen men who talk like you," he said. "Two of them wore black for burning tents. One went blind trying to prove the sea could be distilled."
He turned to Arthur.
"If this one cooks his thoughts too hot and blows half our men into a crater, don't say I didn't warn you."
Arthur didn't answer.
Vaeren, without offense, replied smoothly, "Then it's good I don't serve half-men."
Harwin gave him one last look.
Harwin muttered something about "damned lunatic," then turned his attention to the rest of the group, circling back like a man inspecting a formation he didn't sign off on.
He stopped in front of Thom, who stood still, hands behind his back, eyes level.
"You don't carry steel."
"I carry stitching needles," Thom replied calmly.
"You a healer?"
"I'm a realist. I don't waste blades on wounds that can't be closed."
Harwin squinted at him. "You talk like a maester."
"I left the Citadel."
"Was that your choice?"
"Yes."
Harwin gave a grunt—neither approving nor critical—then moved on.
He reached Redna, who stood just far enough from the group to suggest she wasn't with them... until you noticed she hadn't blinked since they entered the courtyard.
"You look like someone who's stolen something from me."
Redna smiled slowly. "I probably have."
Harwin raised a brow. "You armed?"
"No."
"Liar."
Redna pulled a tiny blade from her boot, held it out hilt-first.
Harwin didn't take it. He simply said, "If I find you in the wrong room after dark, I won't ask questions."
"You wouldn't catch me."
He didn't smile. "I wouldn't have to."
He moved on.
And stopped in front of Maelen.
Of them all, this one gave Harwin pause—not because he was dangerous, but because he wasn't anything else.
No blade. No threat.
Just... stillness.
"What are you supposed to be?" Harwin asked.
Maelen looked past him. "I am the breath between the candle and the flame."
Harwin stared at him.
Then turned to Arthur.
"You're assembling a group of lunatics and madmen."
Arthur nodded. "The kind that get things done."
Rickard turned back to Arthur.
"You've changed."
Arthur nodded. "The world is changing. I've only kept pace."
Benjen stepped forward. "You look stronger."
Arthur ruffled the boy's hair briefly. "You've grown."
"I've been training," Benjen said proudly. "Ned too."
Ned gave a half-smile. "Not like him."
Brandon eyed Garron's hammer and said under his breath, "Gods help us if this is what passes for allies."
Garron heard it. And grinned.
"Don't worry, lad. I don't bite. Often."
Rickard held up a hand. "Enough."
Then he turned to Lyanna.
"Say something."
She looked at Arthur like she had back at the gates.
Not as a lord's daughter.
Not as someone owed answers.
Just as someone trying to measure a storm.
"You didn't write," she said.
"No," Arthur agreed.
"Why?"
"Because words couldn't carry it."
Lyanna remained silent.
That silence spoke more than any letter ever could.
Later, in the great hall, Rickard summoned Arthur privately. The fire crackled. Only Maester Walys stood nearby, still visibly unsettled.
"Do you mean to keep them here?" Rickard asked.
"For now. They need rest. Structure."
"And after?"
Arthur looked into the fire.
"I want to make something lasting. A group that can stand where the kingdoms fail."
Rickard said nothing for a long time.
Then: "If you build it on my land, you'll owe me more than blood."
Arthur nodded once.
"I already do."