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The courtyard had become a organized chaos of departure. Horses were being saddled, provisions loaded, farewells exchanged. The northern lords who'd traveled to Winterfell for the assembly were preparing to return to their holdings—though many would return soon with candidates for training.
Lord Karstark stood with his son Torrhen near the stables, the young heir's belongings already transferred to quarters within Winterfell proper.
"Remember who you are," Karstark said, gripping his son's shoulder. "You're a Karstark first, always. This training—these capabilities—they're tools to serve our house and the North. Don't lose sight of that."
"I won't, Father," Torrhen promised, though his eyes kept drifting toward where Arthur stood speaking with Lord Manderly. The eagerness was still there, barely contained.
Karstark sighed, then pulled his son into a brief embrace. "Make me proud. And more importantly, make yourself worthy of what you're about to learn."
"I will," Torrhen said firmly.
As Karstark mounted his horse, he caught sight of Lord Rickard standing on the steps of the great hall and guided his mount closer.
"Lord Rickard," he called out. "A word before I depart?"
Rickard descended the steps, Brandon following a pace behind. "Of course, Lord Karstark."
"I wanted to say—" Karstark paused, choosing his words carefully. "What you've built here, what that boy has helped you create... it's remarkable. Truly. When I first heard the stories, I thought them exaggerated. But after seeing the demonstrations, participating in the Council formation..." He shook his head in genuine admiration. "You've found yourself a magnificent retainer, Lord Rickard. Arthur Snow may be baseborn, but he's got the mind of a maester and the vision of a lord. The North is fortunate to have him."
"The North is fortunate," Rickard agreed, "but so is Arthur. He needed a place where his talents could flourish without southern prejudices limiting him. We gave him that opportunity. Everything that's followed has been the result of his own capability."
"Well, you've made the right choice in supporting him," Karstark said. He turned to Brandon. "And you, Lord Brandon—you'll have quite the inheritance to manage. A North that's stronger, more unified, and more capable than it's been in living memory. That's both opportunity and responsibility."
"I'm aware, my lord," Brandon replied. "And I'm grateful for your house's support. When Torrhen completes his training, Karhold will have a warrior worthy of your legacy."
"See that he does," Karstark said, though his tone was more hopeful than demanding. With final nods to both Starks, he wheeled his horse and led his retinue toward the gates.
Similar scenes played out across the courtyard—Lord Manderly offering last assurances about trade arrangements, Lady Mormont confirming when she'd send her cousin's son, Lord Flint discussing defensive improvements for his coastal holdings. One by one, the northern lords departed, their horses clattering across the bridge and disappearing into the gathering dusk.
Torrhen Karstark watched his father's party until they vanished from sight, then turned to find Arthur approaching.
"Nervous?" Arthur asked.
"Excited," Torrhen corrected, then admitted, "and yes, a little nervous. I've trained with swords before, learned tactics and history. But this—cultivation, as you call it—it's completely unknown."
"That's what makes it worth learning," Arthur said. "Tomorrow we'll begin with the basics. For now, get settled in your quarters, have a good meal, and rest. The work ahead will require everything you have."
"I'm ready," Torrhen said with the confidence of youth.
Arthur smiled slightly. "We'll see. Most people think they're ready until the training actually begins. But you've got the passion, at least. That's a start."
---
From a window high in the Guest House, young Benjen Stark watched the departures with quiet attention. He'd been observing throughout the day—the way lords spoke to each other, the alliances being formed, the careful dance of politics that surrounded everything Arthur and his father built.
It was fascinating, seeing how power actually worked rather than just hearing about it in lessons. Maester Walys taught him about history and governance, but this was real—lords making decisions that would shape the North for years to come.
The courtyard was nearly empty now, just a few servants clearing away the last preparations. Benjen yawned, suddenly aware of how long the day had been. He should probably head to bed—
The world lurched.
Suddenly he wasn't standing by the window anymore. He was... somewhere else. Everywhere else. The images came too fast to process:
Fire. Green fire that burned wrong, hungry and cold despite its heat.
Spears—thousands of them, held by men in strange armor.
Horses screaming, their eyes wild with terror.
A lion made of gold, roaring silently.
Dragons—not one but three, their scales shimmering like starlight.
A crowned stag with antlers that seemed to pierce the sky.
Roses blooming and withering in the same breath.
Sea creatures rising from dark waters, tentacles writhing.
Men whose faces he couldn't quite see, standing in a circle. Important men. Dangerous men.
And then he was looking down—they were all there, all of it, standing on a palm. A massive hand that held kingdoms and dragons and wars like toys.
His hand. He was standing there too, tiny and insignificant among the rest.
Fear gripped him. He tried to look up, to see whose hand held them all—
An eye opened. Blazing. Ancient. Knowing everything and revealing nothing.
The eye saw him.
Benjen gasped and jerked backward, his shoulder hitting the window frame hard enough to bruise. He was back in Winterfell, back in his body, heart pounding so hard it hurt.
Just a dream. It had to be just a dream.
But it hadn't felt like a dream. It felt like... like looking through a door that shouldn't be opened. Like seeing something true that mortals weren't meant to witness.
His hands were shaking.
Arthur. He needed to find Arthur.
---
Arthur was reviewing training schedules with Lyanna and Sarra when Benjen burst into the solar, his young face pale and his eyes too wide.
"Benjen?" Lyanna stood immediately, concern evident. "What's wrong?"
"I—I saw—" Benjen struggled for words, his breath coming too fast. "There was fire and dragons and an eye that saw me and—"
"Slow down," Arthur said calmly, moving to guide Benjen to a chair. "Sit. Breathe. Then tell me what happened."
Benjen sat, drawing in shaky breaths until his heart stopped racing quite so frantically. Then, haltingly, he described the vision—everything he'd seen, the impossible images layered one atop another, the sensation of standing on a giant's palm, and finally the eye that had looked at him.
"It felt real," he finished quietly. "Not like a dream. Real."
Arthur and Lyanna exchanged glances. Sarra had gone very still, her expression unreadable.
"The greenseer abilities," Lyanna murmured. "They're getting stronger."
"What does it mean?" Benjen asked, looking to Arthur. "What did I see?"
Arthur was quiet for a long moment, studying the boy. Benjen had been developing these abilities for months now—the connection to the old gods, the enhanced perception, the occasional flashes of insight that went beyond normal observation. But this was different. This was a true vision, fragmented and symbolic but carrying weight.
"I don't know exactly what you saw," Arthur said honestly. "Greensight doesn't work like normal seeing—it shows you symbols, possibilities, truths that aren't tied to single moments in time. The images you described... they could be past, present, or future. They could be literal or metaphorical. Or both."
"But the eye," Benjen pressed. "What was the eye?"
"Something old," Sarra said quietly. "Something that sees more than we do. The old gods, perhaps. Or something beyond even them."
Benjen's fear hadn't lessened. If anything, knowing that Arthur and Sarra took his vision seriously made it worse. "Am I... am I in danger?"
"No," Arthur said firmly, meeting the boy's eyes with absolute certainty. "You're safe, Benjen. Nothing is going to happen to you. Not while I'm here."
"But the vision—"
"Was just that. A vision. Something your abilities showed you, not a threat to you personally." Arthur's voice carried conviction, and some of the tension bled out of Benjen's shoulders. "Greensight can be frightening, especially when you're still learning to control it. But it's not dangerous. It's a gift, even if it doesn't always feel like one."
"What should I do?" Benjen asked. "If it happens again?"
"Remember what you see, write it down if you can, and tell me," Arthur replied. "But don't fear it. The old gods are showing you things for a reason. Whether we understand that reason now or later doesn't matter—what matters is that you trust they're not trying to harm you."
Lyanna moved to sit beside her youngest brother, putting an arm around his shoulders. "Arthur's right. You're safe. And whatever these visions mean, we'll figure it out together."
Benjen nodded slowly, accepting their reassurance even if the fear hadn't completely faded. "Okay. I... I'm tired. Can I go to bed?"
"Of course," Arthur said. "And Benjen? Try not to worry. Whatever you saw, whatever it means—you're protected here. The visions might be overwhelming, but they can't hurt you. Remember that."
"I will," Benjen promised. He stood, gave his sister a brief hug, and left the solar with footsteps that seemed heavier than they should for someone his age.
Once the door closed, Sarra spoke quietly. "That wasn't just greensight. That was something more."
"I know," Arthur replied, his expression troubled. "The symbols he described—dragons, stags, lions, roses—those are the great houses. The green fire could be wildfire. The sea creatures might be the Greyjoys. And the eye..."
"The eye that sees everything," Lyanna finished. "What does that mean?"
"I don't know," Arthur admitted. "But it suggests that whatever's coming, it's bigger than just the North. Bigger than the Council or cultivation or any of our immediate plans."
"Should we be worried?" Sarra asked.
Arthur was quiet for a moment, then shook his head. "Worried, no. Prepared, yes. But that's what we're already doing—building strength, creating systems, ensuring the North can face whatever comes. Benjen's vision doesn't change that. If anything, it confirms we're on the right path."
"And if it's a warning?" Lyanna pressed.
"Then we'll heed it when the time comes," Arthur replied. "For now, we focus on what we can control. The Council. The training. The preparations. Everything else will reveal itself when it's ready."
---
*Storm's End, the Stormlands*
Lord Steffon Baratheon stood in the castle's courtyard, watching his men prepare for departure. Three hundred mounted knights, twice that many men-at-arms, supply wagons sufficient for a month's journey—the full escort befitting a royal progress through the southern kingdoms.
His youngest son Stannis stood beside him, thirteen years old and already showing the stern disposition that would define him. The boy watched the preparations with careful attention, absorbing every detail.
"You understand your responsibilities while I'm gone?" Steffon asked.
"Yes, Father," Stannis replied, his voice steady despite his youth. "Maintain the castle garrison, oversee the household accounts, respond to any correspondence from bannermen, and defer major decisions to Maester Cressen's counsel."
"Good." Steffon placed a firm hand on his son's shoulder. "I know it's a heavy burden for someone your age, but you've shown the judgment required. Storm's End will be safe in your hands—and look after Renly as well. He'll need your guidance, as only a brother can give."
"What about Robert?" Stannis asked.
"Robert will come down from the Eyrie in a few days," Steffon said. "Once I send the raven, he'll ride to Storm's End and join the royal party on their return north."
"He's eager to prove himself," Stannis observed neutrally.
"He is," Steffon agreed. "And he will be. Your brother has great potential, Stannis—he only needs time to temper his strength with wisdom."
Stannis nodded silently.
"Look after things here," Steffon said, changing the subject. "And Stannis—if correspondence comes from the North, from Lord Stark, send a raven to me immediately. Don't wait, don't try to handle it yourself. That matter requires careful attention."
"The betrothal proposal," Stannis said. It wasn't a question.
"Yes. Lord Stark's silence has been... prolonged. When he finally responds, I need to know immediately so I can manage Robert's reaction appropriately."
"You think Lord Stark will refuse," Stannis observed, that same neutral tone that somehow conveyed understanding beyond his years.
Steffon looked at his middle son—reliable, dutiful, already showing the kind of judgment that would make him a capable lord if he ever inherited. "I think the North is changing in ways we don't fully understand. And I think those changes may make old alliance less relevant than they once were."
He didn't add what he was truly thinking—that Rickard Stark's silence was answer enough, and that Robert's hopes of marrying Lyanna Stark were all but nonexistent.
"I'll watch for correspondence," Stannis promised. "And Father—be careful in Dorne. Prince Doran is subtle, and the Dornish have a talent for poison—in words as much as in wine."
"I will be," Steffon assured him. He pulled his son into a brief embrace. "Take care of Storm's End. I'll return within two months."
The courtyard was finally ready, horses saddled, men assembled, supplies loaded. Steffon mounted his destrier and looked back once more at his castle, his youngest son standing straight-backed and serious in the courtyard.
Storm's End would be fine. Stannis would ensure it.
It was the journey ahead—and what Robert might do when he finally learned the truth about the Stark betrothal—that worried Steffon most.
He gave the signal, and three hundred mounted knights began the long ride south toward Dorne, toward the royal progress, toward whatever complications awaited them there.
Behind them, Stannis Baratheon watched until the last rider disappeared from view, then turned and walked back into Storm's End with the careful, measured steps of someone who already understood that duty mattered more than glory.
The castle would be maintained. The accounts would be managed. The correspondence would be monitored.
And when the inevitable refusal came from Winterfell, Stannis would do exactly what his father had instructed—send word immediately, and let someone else deal with Robert's rage.
That, at least, was not his responsibility.
Not yet.