[POV Rhaegar Targaryen (280 AC)]
The afternoon sun was already losing its strength in the windows of the crown prince's solar. Rhaegar Targaryen looked at the dark steel blade on the oak table.
"A free outrider named Corin," Rhaegar muttered, running his thumb over the silver crossguard. "A poorly told lie. The boy did not find Visenya's sword frozen in the ice by chance."
Oberyn Martell shrugged, swirling the silver cup in his hand before stretching his legs out under the table.
"The lie served his purpose," the Dornishman commented. "He returned the relic, rubbed the court's pride in the dirt, and still left your father foaming with rage. I'll drink to that alone."
Elia Martell looked away from the hearth and adjusted the sleeves of her orange dress.
"Aerys nearly had his head taken off in the yard," Elia cut in. Her low voice smothered the lightness in the room. "When the king saw that blue blade on the Northerner's belt, what little sense he had left vanished. If Lord Varys hadn't identified the steel as the lost sword of the Rogares in time, the White Cloaks would have executed the boy right there."
Ashara Dayne remained leaning against the window, watching the yards below with crossed arms.
"I don't think the king's fury was the only thing the bastard of Winterfell awakened today," Elia continued. A discreet smile tugged at the corner of the princess's mouth as she looked at her friend. "Has anyone seen the lilac silk ribbon my lady-in-waiting wore on her sleeve?"
The late afternoon light disguised the color that rose in Ashara's cheeks. She did not turn her face from the window.
"The North is very cold, Elia," Ashara replied naturally. "The boy needed a reminder that the South has a softer touch."
Oberyn let out a short laugh and tapped the base of his cup on his knee.
"The boy is nearly two meters tall, has the face of a Valyrian prince, and walks with a direwolf," he listed, shaking his head. "I tried to buy the loyalty of his mercenaries yesterday at the feast. I got a direct 'no' right to my face. I liked that bastard."
Ser Arthur Dayne kept his posture straight near the door, arms crossed over the white breastplate of the Kingsguard. He did not laugh.
"He doesn't need soft reminders to survive, Ashara," the knight warned. His grave voice instantly drained the amusement from the room. "The boy is lethal."
"You fought to exhaustion in the yard, Ser Arthur," Rhaegar said, raising his eyes from the sword on the table. "His speed surprised everyone."
Dayne let out a breath through his nose and uncrossed his arms.
"He didn't draw with me," the knight declared, looking firmly at the prince.
Oberyn's smile vanished. Elia stopped adjusting her dress.
"What do you mean?" Rhaegar straightened his back in the chair.
"He found three openings in my guard," Dayne explained, closing his gloved hand. "I attacked with everything I had, and he kept pace without losing his breathing rhythm. In every one of them, he could have ended the fight before I recovered my footing."
"And he pulled back?" Oberyn asked, narrowing his dark eyes.
"He prolonged the fight on purpose," Dayne answered. "He tested my limits and waited for you to interrupt the duel, my prince. His skill is among the best I have ever faced."
Rhaegar lowered his head slowly. His violet eyes fixed on the silver dragon of Dark Sister, and his shoulders lost some of their rigidity.
"My father is destroying the realm from the inside out," Rhaegar murmured. Exhaustion marked the prince's voice, stripped of any courtly polish. "Aerys sees enemies where there are none and ignores what is being forged in the snow. That boy refused our gold and faced two of the best men in this keep without showing fear."
He lifted his face. His gaze met the Dornish and his most loyal knight.
"We cannot leave the North isolated. Not now," Rhaegar stated.
[POV Arthur Snow (280 AC)]
The smell of salt and rotting fish was left behind along with Davos Seaworth's ship in the harbor. Before we departed King's Landing, he had agreed to transport our cargo in exchange for payment per voyage and the freedom to choose his own crew. The sea crossing saved moons of marching and returned us to the cold lands of the North before the water turned to ice.
The biting wind swept the giant granite walls of Winterfell. The thick wheels of the wagons stopped in the outer yard, their wooden axles creaking under the weight. Davos jumped from the rear wagon, his boots sinking into the fresh snow, and extended his calloused hands to help Marya down. Dale followed shortly after, hidden among the thick furs and clinging to his mother's skirt as he measured the height of the gray towers.
In the center of the yard, the members of the Kingswood Brotherhood rubbed their arms, shivering in worn clothes that barely served to block the Northern ice. Ulmer and Fletcher Dick stared at the colossal walls in absolute silence. None of them carried weapons. Everything had been left in the ashes of the South as proof of the band's death.
"Belzakar, Morghaz," I called, adjusting my leather belt. "Take these six to the baths in the east wing. Get hot water, food, and clean clothes. Keep them all out of sight of the servants and other lords until I come speak with them."
Simon Toyne rubbed his bare hands to ward off the cold and agreed with a mute nod.
Harwyn, the Smiling Knight, ran his tongue over his exposed gums. The disfigured man shivered in the wind, but the manic smile remained etched on his face.
"Hidden again, boss?" Harwyn hissed, air leaking through his yellowed teeth. "I thought after I nearly ripped out that harbor guard's throat in White Harbor, I'd earned the right to drink the wine in your main hall."
"You nearly got us hanged before we even set foot on the Kingsroad, Harwyn," Wenda cut in. The archer pulled her tattered cloak tighter around her shoulders, teeth chattering. "Shut your mouth and walk toward the fire."
"Do as the archer says. Walk," I ordered.
The former Unsullied led the group through the shadows of the wall, disappearing toward the old quarters. Davos guided Marya over to Kevin and Perseus, who were unloading the saddles from our horses.
I walked toward the massive oak and iron doors of the Great Hall. Fenrir trotted at my side, his black fur covering his gigantic body as his red eyes tracked every movement in the yard. Hela glided over the ice without making a single sound.
Two guards with the direwolf embroidered on their chests crossed their spears at the entrance. The guard on the right squinted against the falling snow, recognizing my face and the sapphire on the pommel of the sword at my hip. He opened his mouth to announce the arrival.
I raised my left hand, asking for silence.
"Not a word," I murmured, stopping one step from the spears. "I want it to be a surprise."
The guard smiled, lowering the iron shaft, and pushed open the heavy wood without drawing attention.
[POV Rickard Stark (280 AC)]
The heat from the four great hearths filled the air of the Great Hall with the smell of burning pine and roasted meat. I sat in the high-backed chair on the main dais, twirling the silver cup between my thick fingers.
The murmur of conversations echoed off the stone walls. Lord Dustin slammed his horn mug onto the oak table, laughing at some story from the road. Beside him, his son William Dustin joined in the laughter, downing the rest of his dark ale. Brandon occupied the space between the two. My heir's loud voice dominated the table as he narrated the details of the journey back to the North. The Wolf's Blood ran wild in the boy's veins.
Nearby, Lyanna tossed pieces of bread to the hunting hounds on the floor, restlessness marking the girl's every movement on the wooden bench. Benjen watched his sister's fidgeting with wide gray eyes, eating in silence.
I turned my face to the left. Lyarra rested her hands on her blue wool dress, her serene and calm face contrasting with her children's chaos.
A sharp, cold wind suddenly cut through the hall, making the torch flames flicker on the walls.
The great oak doors at the back of the hall were open.
A direwolf pup, with fur black as coal, entered the room. A dark beast accompanied him, the yellow eyes of a shadowcat glowing beneath the smoke of the hearths.
I tightened my fingers on the arm of the wooden chair. The breath caught in my throat.
He crossed the threshold of the hall.
It had only been two years away from Winterfell, but time had sculpted a complete warrior. Arthur was already approaching two meters, and the scratched black leather armor tightened around shoulders that had broadened far from home. His half-black and half-white hair fell loose, revealing a short beard over a firm jawline.
But it was the face that made my stomach drop. The clean features. The heterochromia of the deep violet eye next to the winter gray. Jaenara was there, etched into those pure Valyrian features, mixed with the heavy severity of our blood.
Lyarra held her breath beside me. My wife stood up slowly, her hands covering her mouth. Her gray eyes filled with tears as she took her first step off the dais.
Lyanna's wooden cup rolled across the table and fell to the stone floor with a clatter.
"Arthur!" Lyanna's voice tore through the hall. The girl leapt from the bench, ignoring the dogs and the lords, and sprinted down the center aisle. Her gray dress crumpled as she threw her arms around his torso.
Benjen ran right behind her, crashing into his older brother's hip with force.
Arthur lowered his arms and hugged them both, resting his chin on Lyanna's dark hair.
Brandon froze mid-laugh. The horn cup slipped from the heir's fingers, spilling ale onto the table. Brandon pushed the bench back with a rough kick.
"By the gods," Brandon roared. The shock lasted only as long as it took him to kick the bench back. Then he marched toward the door, nudged Benjen aside with his forearm, and grabbed Arthur in a violent embrace. "The wolf has returned!"
I rested both hands on the oak table and stood up.
I descended the steps of the main dais in hard, slow strides. The entire hall fell silent. Lord Dustin and the other nobles watched the scene, their mugs motionless in their hands.
Brandon, Lyanna, and Benjen made room when I got close.
Arthur lifted his face. The violet and the gray eye met mine. His rigid warrior's posture gave way by a fraction of a centimeter.
The tightness in my chest made my breath short. I swallowed the lump in my throat before speaking.
"Welcome home, son," I said, my voice coming out deeper and thicker than usual.
I extended my arm and pulled his large body against mine. I squeezed the fabric of his dark cloak with my old fingers, feeling the solidity of my son after so many years of silent war away from his pack. Arthur returned the embrace firmly, his large hand gripping my shoulder.
[POV Arthur Snow (280 AC)]
I released my father's embrace. His scent of burning pine and worn leather had always been the mark of Winterfell. I took a half-step back, making room for Lyarra.
She didn't say a word. She merely raised her arms and wrapped them around my neck, pulling my face to her shoulder. The smell of lavender and clean wool filled my lungs. I closed my eyes for a second and hugged her back tightly.
"You took a long time," Lyarra whispered against my jaw.
"I missed you every day," I replied. My voice cracked on the last word. "It's so good to be home, mother."
When she pulled away, her pale hands cupped my face. Lyarra broke into a wide smile, her gray eyes shining with the light of the hearths.
Brandon clapped his heavy hand on my left shoulder. The heir to Winterfell was holding two horn mugs overflowing with dark ale.
"I thought the warm wine of the South would soften you up for good, brother," Brandon laughed, offering one of the mugs my way. "Or that the maidens would keep you tangled in those silks forever."
"They certainly tried," I returned the smile, taking the ale.
Lyanna squeezed under her older brother's arm. The girl's gray eyes swept the space behind me, searching for familiar faces in my retinue. Her brow furrowed.
"Where are Astrid and Rhoslyn?" Lyanna demanded, crossing her arms and ignoring any courtesy. "I thought they were coming with you."
"They are settling some urgent matters in the South for now, Lya," I explained. "They should return soon."
Benjen took the opening and approached the circle, his eyes wide with curiosity.
"And Sigurd? Eldric didn't come either?" the boy asked, craning his neck to try and find the giant among my men.
"They're doing some important work for me on the roads," I replied, ruffling his dark hair. "They send their regards."
Behind me, Kevin, Perseus, Morghaz, and Belzakar stepped forward on the hall's limestone. The four gave short, firm bows to Rickard and Lyarra, greeting my family with the respect forged from years in camps and battlefields.
"It is an honor to return to the halls of Winterfell, my lord, my lady," Perseus declared, keeping his posture absolutely straight, while the men of Astapor nodded silently. Kevin offered a respectful smile, but much looser than his companions.
Right behind the warriors, Davos stood still. The smuggler squeezed Marya's hand, who held little Dale to her chest. The woman's eyes were wide at the smoke, the noise, and the intimidating presence of the Northern lords.
"Father, mother," I called, pointing to the family bundled in bear furs. "This is Davos, his wife Marya, and their son Dale. They crossed the open sea to bring us back. They have come to live in the North under our protection."
Rickard assessed Davos's family. The Lord of Winterfell took a step forward, his deep voice filling the space between us.
"Men who prove their worth in the storms always have a place in the North, Davos," Rickard declared. "Winterfell's hospitality is yours from this day forth. The bread, the salt, and the warmth of the North protect you."
Lyarra watched the frightened woman and the boy clinging to her skirt. My mother inclined her head in a welcoming gesture.
"Come closer to the fire, Marya," Lyarra called, her voice soft. "A servant will take you and Dale to warmed chambers as soon as you finish eating."
Marya let out a relieved sigh and squeezed Davos's arm before following Lyarra.
The feast continued boisterously. Roasted meat and warm bread filled the oak table, and the lords banged their mugs celebrating the return of the swords of Winterfell. I preferred to hold my tongue about the people hidden in the baths, saving the truth for a private moment away from so many ears.
During the meal, I watched Davos get pulled closer to the main table. Rickard asked two short questions about the routes out of White Harbor. In less than half an hour, the two were discussing the currents of the Narrow Sea and coastal trade. My father recognized the smuggler's usefulness, but refused to trust him with any position without first knowing his work. Davos would begin by escorting the shipments of Icefyre and Frostspirit between White Harbor and the Southern ports. When he confessed he could not read the cargo ledgers, Rickard ordered Maester Luwin to teach him. The sailor would sit at the same study table as Benjen until he mastered letters and basic sums.
Two hours later, when the wine had already felled half the guests, Rickard rose from his lord's chair. He shot me a quick glance toward the side door and walked out.
I left my mug on the table and followed his trail.
My father's solar preserved the heavy silence of the keep. Rickard stood with his back to me, stoking the embers of the hearth with an iron bar.
"I saw your men in the yard," he said. The scrape of iron against stone marked the end of the sentence. He rested the poker on its base and turned to face me, crossing his arms. "But my wall guards are not blind, Arthur. Morghaz and Belzakar escorted half a dozen people in rags straight to the east wing. People who brought no weapons, no supplies, and not our colors. Who are they?"
I adjusted the strap of Truth's scabbard at my hip.
"I told the Iron Throne that the Kingswood Brotherhood was dead," I explained, keeping my tone flat and unadorned. "The Crown has the burnt bones of old outriders and their rusted swords left in the Southern mud as physical proof of the slaughter. Those six hidden in our east wing are Simon Toyne, the Smiling Knight, Wenda, Fletcher Dick, Ulmer, and Big Belly Ben. The true leadership of the Brotherhood."
Rickard stood motionless for a moment. Then he slammed his open palm against the table. The silver cup tipped over, spilling the dark drink across the wood.
"You brought the Smiling Knight to the same castle where your siblings sleep," his voice came out low, heavy. "You brought six of Aerys Targaryen's most wanted men into Winterfell."
"I brought tools the South cannot track," I countered immediately. "They left their weapons and old identities behind. They know ambushes, infiltration, and paths a common patrol would never tread."
My father ran a hand through his beard and paced twice between the table and the hearth. When he returned, he righted the cup, poured two short measures of the dark liquor from our still, and slid one toward me.
"The Smiling Knight is a lunatic," Rickard pointed out, taking a sip of Ice-Fire. "I know the stories. How do you guarantee his leash?"
"Their alternative was the noose and the pyromancers' fire." I took the silver cup. "I took the ropes off their necks. They march for me because I offered a purpose, and I demand loyalty in exchange for their survival."
Rickard assessed my posture. He twirled the silver between his thick fingers.
"Where do you intend to hide them?" he asked.
"I'll have to figure that out," I replied, leaning my hip against the edge of the oak table. "I want to get them out of Winterfell as quickly as possible. I have a few tasks for them to carry out in the snow, as a test of loyalty and survival."
Rickard set his cup on the table.
"And what truly happened in the South?" the Lord of Winterfell asked, his voice dropping to the tone of a man handling politics behind closed doors. "The ravens report a sumptuous feast and your escort being received by the heir."
"Aerys Targaryen has lost what was left of his mind, father," I stated, the memory of the sand-covered yard returning clearly. "The king saw my mother's Valyrian blade belted at my hip and lost it. He screamed about sorcery, paranoia, and House Rogare conspiracies. Our luck was Rhaegar Targaryen."
"The crown prince."
"Himself. The relationship between him and his father is broken for good," I explained. "I placed Dark Sister into Rhaegar's hands during the wedding feast. The prince wants to compensate the North for its return. I fought Rhaegar in the training yard and then crossed blades with Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. Rhaegar offered friendship, but demanded I get my men out of the capital before nightfall because Aerys's threats were real."
Rickard let his breath out slowly. The shadow of the fire marked the furrows on his brow.
"The South is close to breaking," my father murmured. "Aerys's madness is pushing every great house against the others."
"At least the journey yielded the right contacts," I pointed out, finishing the rest of my cup. "House Dayne showed sincere respect. And the Sword of the Morning's sister, Ashara, ensured my time in the South wouldn't be forgotten."
The corner of Rickard's mouth turned up for an instant before falling back into place.
"But the real threat isn't on the Iron Throne right now, father," I declared, shifting the gravity of my tone. "It's in our own backyard."
Rickard focused his dark eyes directly on me.
"Eldric left our shadows operating inside the walls of the Dreadfort," I continued. "Old Bolton died in a very suspicious manner, and his son, Roose, has taken the lord's seat."
"Roose Bolton has always been a cold, quiet man."
"He is worse than that," I revealed, tightening my fingers on the empty silver cup. "The reports from our spies confirm it. Roose is practicing the First Night in isolated villages, dragging brides away in the dead of night. And worse: Eldric's men saw the flayed remains of peasants in the deepest dungeons of the Dreadfort."
The muscles in Rickard's jaw tightened. His right hand closed into a fist at his side.
"Jaehaerys's law banned the First Night from the entire continent," Rickard growled low. "And the blade of the Starks banned flaying a thousand years ago."
"There's more," I stated. "Those bandit camps my troop cleared off the Northern roads in recent years. Roose funded their creation. He unleashed that scum to bleed our trade routes and test our patience."
Silence reigned in the solar. The hearth cracked loudly.
"Roose is the only living heir of his blood," I concluded, locking eyes with my father. "I want authorization to go there, investigate, and rip this root from the ground. Ending the line of the Red Kings is an ultimate guarantee of safety for House Stark."
Rickard walked to the map of the North spread out on the table and rested two fingers on the Dreadfort. His eyes traced the Bolton lands and the neighboring houses before returning to me.
"You cannot invade the Dreadfort and slit a high lord's throat as if he were some common outrider," my father decreed, his voice cutting and controlled. "The North needs law, Arthur, not just blades. You have my authorization to investigate, but be extremely subtle. Infiltrate, gather, and confirm. Any definitive proof you find, bring it to my eyes first."
Rickard crossed his arms over his chest.
"With the proof in hand, I will call the banners," the Warden of the North stated. "And I myself will drag Roose Bolton to the headsman's block, for the entire North to see the price of treason."