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POV: Arthur Snow
Location: Winterfell – Lord's Tower, Later the Wolfsblood Ridge
Arthur stood in Rickard Stark's solar.
Rickard Stark stood at the hearth, his hands behind his back. Arthur faced him across the map table, which was bare save for a pitcher of melted snowwater and a roll of old northern charts.
Neither men spoke for a while.
Then Rickard asked, "Why not stay here?"
Arthur looked past him, toward the frosted glass. "Because Winterfell already has a master."
Rickard turned. "You're not a threat to me."
"I'm not meant to be," Arthur said. "But I won't grow behind your walls."
Rickard studied him a long time.
Finally, he nodded. "There's a ridge. Thirty miles west of here. Wolfsblood Ridge. Old land. Never settled for long. Bad earth, but good position. Defensible. Remote. Near river and stone."
"That's the one."
Rickard gave a breath like a sigh. "Of course it is."
By midday, Arthur had taken Garron and Thom to scout the ridge—leaving the others to settle in Winterfell's guest quarters.
Vaeren stayed behind in the rookery, pestering Maester Walys over ink composition.
Redna vanished into the tunnels with suspicious ease.
Sarra stood alone near the old practice yard, sharpening her blades against whetstone in long, practiced strokes. Her eyes weren't on the steel—but on the rhythm. Calm. Controlled.
Lyanna approached from the shadow of the corridor, arms crossed, watching for a long time before speaking.
"You always look like you're about to fight something."
Sarra didn't glance up. "That's because you have to be ready for anything."
Lyanna stepped closer, boots crunching on cold stone.
"You don't belong here," she said—not as accusation, but observation.
Sarra finally looked up.
"Neither do you."
That quiet hit harder than a retort.
They stared at each other.
Sarra was taller. Leaner. Callused where Lyanna was not. Her face was unadorned, hair wind-swept and tied back with twine. A wild beauty, Lyanna realized. Not just in looks, but in how little she seemed to care who noticed her.
That unsettled something.
Lyanna forced a breath through her nose.
"You and Arthur—"
"We fight. He listens. That's it."
Lyanna didn't blink. "You're close."
Sarra tilted her head, expression unreadable. "He chose to bring me. That's all I need."
"And if he hadn't?"
"Then I'd have followed anyway."
That admission hit harder than steel.
Lyanna crossed her arms tighter, lips pressed.
Sarra stood slowly, sheathing the blade.
"You afraid of me?" she asked, voice low.
"No," Lyanna said.
"You should be," Sarra replied—not as a threat, but a simple truth.
She walked past her then, brushing the corner of Lyanna's cloak with her shoulder.
Not in disrespect.
Just presence.
Lyanna stayed behind, hand resting on the hilt at her belt, jaw tight.
She didn't hate Sarra.
But she feared what she represented.
A version of herself who had never been raised in walls.
That night, Arthur found Lyanna alone in the godswood.
She stood near the weirwood with her gloves in one hand, staring up at the twisted branches like they might answer her thoughts.
"You don't belong inside walls anymore," she said, before he even spoke.
Arthur approached slowly. "You don't either."
She turned to him—same sharp eyes, older now. Quieter. But not softer.
"You left me behind."
"I didn't know where I was going," he said.
"And now you do?"
"I know where I want to go."
Lyanna nodded slowly, then stepped closer until they stood face-to-face.
"I don't want to be a lady married to some southern oath," she said. "I don't want to be remembered because of who I was born to."
Arthur met her eyes. "You want to fight."
"I want to matter," she said.
They stood in silence.
Then she added, more quietly, "And I trust you not to let me become small."
Arthur's jaw tensed.
He didn't answer right away.
But when he turned toward the path out of the godswood, he only said:
"Then walk with me."
Lyanna didn't nod.
She didn't smile.
She simply followed.
By week's end, Arthur stood at the base of Wolfsblood Ridge.
The ground was frozen and unyielding, packed hard by winter's weight. The hill faced east, catching the first light of dawn. There was wind here, sharp but steady, and sky enough for something lasting—not just tents or timber, but a foundation.
Garron shifted behind him, wiping his brow. "You sure this ground isn't cursed?"
"It's not cursed," Sarra muttered, arms crossed, scanning the ridge. "It's just empty. Like we were before he found us."
Redna leaned against a rock, rolling her eyes. "Philosophy from a lunatic. Brilliant."
Thom crouched, measuring the slope's incline, muttering about firebreaks. "One spark, and this ridge will go up in flames."
Vaeren scratched lines in the dirt with a charred stick, muttering about sulfur seams and granite. "Could fit a storage vault here. If I don't blow myself up first."
Maelen stood at the cliff's edge, silent, eyes shut against the wind.
Arthur surveyed the land, his breath clouding in the cold.
The hill was jagged and bare, wind howling through the stone like something old and restless. An unclaimed place. Perfect.
He paused, eyes fixed on the horizon beyond the ridge. "I'll show you something no Northern lord has ever grasped—a way to build strength beyond anyone in this world."
The group fell silent.
Even Maelen, who had barely stirred for the last hour, opened his eyes, watching.
Then—
A voice came from behind them. Not loud. Not uncertain. Just present.
"I will join you."
They turned.
Lyanna Stark stood at the path's edge, dressed for travel, boots dusted with road dirt. Her cloak was dark fur over riding leathers, a long blade strapped across her back. Her hair was tied back—not courtly, but tight, like a fighter's.
She said nothing more.
Arthur looked at her for a long moment, then gave a single nod. "Walk with us."
That was it.
Garron let out a low whistle. "You brought a Stark."
"Stark brought herself," Redna said, crossing her arms, her eyes glinting with interest. "Which is worse."
Sarra said nothing, but she shifted her stance, eyes narrowing as she studied the new presence among them.
Thom offered a quiet nod. "We're getting stranger by the day."
Vaeren didn't look up from the crude sketch he was carving in the snow. "As long as she doesn't touch my vials, I'm content."
Lyanna stepped forward without waiting for approval. She passed Sarra without a glance, brushed past Redna, and came to stand just behind Arthur.
No declaration. No oath.
Arthur didn't look back.
But he said again, for all of them: "Tomorrow, we begin."