Support me on patreon.com/c/Striker2025
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Rickard set down the letter from House Umber and rubbed his eyes. The afternoon light slanting through his solar's windows did nothing to relieve the headache building behind his temples.
"You need rest, my lord," Maester Luwin observed.
"I need thirty hours in a day and the ability to see the future." Rickard picked up the next letter, scanned it, set it aside. "Lord Bolton sends his regrets. Claims pressing matters at the Dreadfort prevent his attendance."
"He's waiting to see which way the other houses lean before committing himself."
"Obviously. Though I can't entirely blame him—he's survived this long by being careful." Rickard made a notation beside Bolton's name. "What concerns me more is what he's being careful about. Is he wary of Arthur's innovations, or wary of opposing them? Those are very different problems."
Luwin shifted through his own stack of correspondence. "Lord Manderly confirms attendance with a substantial retinue. He specifically mentions bringing several scholars interested in the 'northern innovations.'"
"Of course he does. Wyman sees trade opportunities." Rickard felt a slight smile tug at his mouth despite his fatigue. "White Harbor's prosperity depends on accurately assessing new developments. He's not coming to object—he's coming to position himself advantageously."
"Lord Umber's response is more... concerning." Luwin handed over the letter.
Rickard read it twice, his headache intensifying. Umber wrote of strange occurrences near the Wall, of increasing wildling activity, of rangers reporting things that made no sense. The letter was carefully worded, but between the lines, Rickard could read fear—real fear, from a man not easily frightened.
"He's asking Arthur to assess threats from beyond the Wall."
"Yes, my lord."
Rickard set the letter down carefully. The Wall. For as long as he could remember, it had simply been there—ancient, immutable, maintained by the Night's Watch to keep wildlings from raiding south. But there were older stories, stories his father had told him that his father's father had passed down through generations. Stories about why the Wall was truly built, what it truly guarded against.
"Add it to the assembly agenda," he said quietly. "If Arthur's techniques can help defend against supernatural threats, the Wall should be our first priority."
"You believe Lord Umber's reports?"
Rickard considered the question, thought about what he'd seen Arthur accomplish, the capabilities that shouldn't exist according to everything maesters taught. "I believe something is happening that conventional wisdom cannot explain. Whether it matches the old stories..." He shook his head. "I'm not prepared to make such claims publicly. But privately? I'm no longer willing to dismiss any possibility."
The door opened without a knock—only his children would presume so—and Brandon entered. He moved carefully, like someone whose body had been pushed beyond its limits, but there was something different in his expression.
"Father. Arthur asked me to tell you the foundation work is progressing. I should be ready to demonstrate basic techniques at the assembly."
"How do you feel?"
Brandon considered the question with uncharacteristic thoughtfulness. "Like every muscle in my body is being rebuilt from the inside out. But also stronger and more capable than I've ever been." He paused. "Arthur says another month and I'll be ready to channel power that's truly mine rather than borrowed. I'm starting to understand what he means by that."
"And Benjen?"
Something shifted in Brandon's face—pride, Rickard realized with surprise, not resentment. "Developing differently but just as impressively. His greenseeing abilities are extraordinary. He can maintain awareness through multiple animal perspectives simultaneously now. The visions are still unclear, but they're becoming more frequent, more detailed." Brandon met his father's eyes. "We're becoming what the North needs us to be, just along different paths."
After Brandon left, Rickard turned to Luwin. "My sons are being transformed into something beyond normal nobility."
"Yes, my lord."
"The entire North is changing, developing capabilities that will make us either far stronger or a target for every ambitious power in the realm."
"Or both," Luwin said quietly.
Rickard looked out his window toward where the sun was setting over Winterfell's ancient walls. Below, in the training yard, he could see figures moving through practice forms. How many of them were ordinary men and women? How many were becoming something more?
"The game of thrones continues in the south," he said. "But here in the North, we're preparing for something older and more fundamental than political rivalries." He turned back to his desk, to the stack of letters that represented houses trying to understand a North that was changing faster than they could track. "The question is whether we can manage this carefully enough to survive what's coming—both from the threats we're preparing for and from those who'll see our preparations as threats themselves."
Luwin said nothing, which was answer enough.
---
Far to the south in Oldtown, Archmaester Marwyn sat in a chamber that officially didn't exist, reviewing reports with three colleagues who officially weren't there.
"White Harbor's trade volumes have increased forty percent in six months." The eldest maester—Walton, though names were rarely used in these meetings—set down figures that had been acquired through channels the Citadel would publicly disavow. "More significantly, the pattern of increase suggests it's not just volume but type of trade. They're importing raw materials and exporting finished goods at unprecedented rates."
"Someone's creating something," another maester said. "Manufacturing on a scale that requires either massive labor investment or significant efficiency innovations."
"Or both." Walton shuffled papers. "Refugees from across the North are relocating to territories under Stark influence. Population shifts don't happen naturally at these rates people are being drawn by something concrete. Opportunity. Advancement. Things they can't find elsewhere."
Marwyn watched his colleagues process the information, saw the moment when understanding crystallized into concern. Good. They should be concerned.
"Southern lords are beginning to ask questions," Walton continued. "Why is the North prospering? What innovations have they developed? More importantly—why don't we know?"
The silence that followed was heavy.
"This Arthur Snow," the third maester said finally. "We've gathered what information we can. established connection with House Stark through circumstances that remain unclear. But his actual capabilities, his techniques, his ultimate objectives?" He spread his hands. "Unknown. And that ignorance is becoming a problem."
"It's more than a problem," Walton corrected. "For the first time in generations, significant development is occurring completely outside our oversight. We didn't authorize it. We don't control it. We can't even verify what's actually happening beyond observing the secondary effects."
Marwyn leaned back in his chair, letting the others talk. He'd seen this coming months ago, had tried to warn the Conclave that suppression might not be the appropriate response. They hadn't listened then. They wouldn't listen now.
"The Citadel has spent centuries ensuring that knowledge flows through us," another maester said, his voice carrying the weight of institutional conviction. "We advise lords, guide their decisions through the information we choose to provide. That's not about power—it's about stability. Unregulated advancement leads to chaos. The Doom of Valyria happened because they pushed too far, too fast, without proper controls."
"And now someone demonstrates that development can occur without us," Walton said. "If other regions begin to question why they need maesters when the North thrives without our guidance..."
He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.
Marwyn finally spoke. "What's the Conclave's decision?"
"Alliance with House Hightower. Lord Leyton shares our concerns about unchecked northern expansion—for his own reasons, but the alignment of interests is sufficient." Walton's expression was carved stone. "Together we can pressure the Crown. Frame it as potential instability, as dangers of unregulated growth, as threats to the realm's traditional balance of power."
"You're talking about suppressing advancement because it threatens institutional power," Marwyn said flatly.
"We're talking about preserving the structure that prevents chaos." Walton's voice carried finality. "Someone must ensure knowledge is used wisely, that power remains balanced. The Citadel has maintained stability for generations precisely because we refuse to let any single individual or region operate outside the framework of understanding we've built."
"And if Arthur Snow is developing capabilities the realm actually needs? If these innovations could benefit everyone?"
"Then they can be adopted later, under proper oversight and control. Once we've established that such developments must flow through appropriate channels." Walton began gathering papers. "The issue isn't whether his work has merit. The issue is that it exists independently of the system that has kept the realm stable. That precedent cannot be allowed to stand."
After the others left, Marwyn sat alone in the dim chamber, thinking about the reports that continued to arrive from the North. Trade volumes and population shifts, yes. But also the things the Conclave chose to ignore—the mentions of capabilities that seemed impossible, of techniques that shouldn't work according to accepted natural philosophy, of developments that suggested something fundamental was changing.
The Citadel had spent so long insisting that magic died with the dragons that they couldn't recognize its return even when evidence accumulated before them. Or perhaps they recognized it and feared it even more because of that recognition.
Either way, the decision was made. The Conclave would move against the North, not because they understood the situation, but precisely because they didn't—and could not tolerate anything beyond their control.
Marwyn gathered his own papers and extinguished the lamp. In the darkness, he thought about the Wall, about the old stories, about the possibility that the realm might need exactly the sort of innovations the Conclave was determined to suppress.
But institutions had their own momentum, their own logic. The Citadel would act according to its nature, protecting its position even if that protection endangered the realm itself.
And there was nothing one archmaester could do to stop it.
---
In White Harbor's merchant quarter, three men who very much were not merchants sat in a tavern corner, their conversation masked by the surrounding noise of sailors and traders.
"The northern prosperity exceeds natural patterns." Kael spoke in the cant of their distant homeland, confident that no one in this provincial city would understand. "Trade volumes that should take decades appearing in months. Our employer will want explanations."
"Everything can be discovered." Voren traced patterns on the table that might have been casual gestures or might have been the somatic components of a minor scrying spell. "We simply need better access. The Hollow Vale is too well protected for direct observation, but there are always weaknesses. People to bribe, people to seduce, people desperate enough to sell information."
"Assuming the information can be sold." The third man—Malesh—was the eldest and most cautious. "The reports are too fragmentary to draw conclusions, but what we do know suggests this Arthur Snow changes his followers at fundamental levels. That kind of loyalty can't be easily bought."
"Then we acquire someone before they're changed," Voren said. "Intercept an applicant, replace them with one of ours, infiltrate from within."
"If we can pass their screening process. If our agent can withstand whatever techniques they employ. If the deception isn't detected immediately." Malesh sipped his ale, his eyes constantly scanning the room with the wariness of someone who'd survived a long time in dangerous work. "We're dealing with something that operates outside our usual frameworks. The usual approaches may not work."
A serving maid refilled their cups, her movements efficient and forgettable. None of the three paid her any attention, which was a mistake—but one that people trained in certain eastern disciplines often made. They'd learned to detect magical awareness and physical surveillance, but ordinary intelligence gathering still caught them off guard.
The woman whose name wasn't actually Maris moved through the tavern, remembering every word she'd heard, every gesture she'd observed. Redna had recruited her specifically for her unremarkable appearance, her forgettable face, her ability to be present without being noticed.
Three foreign agents discussing infiltration of the Hollow Vale. This was information that needed to reach Winterfell immediately.
She finished her rounds, left the tavern through the kitchen exit, and hurried into the night. Behind her, the three men continued their discussion, unaware that their carefully masked conversation had been compromised by someone they'd never even considered as a threat.