"With the proof in hand, I will call the banners," the Warden of the North declared. "And I myself will drag Roose Bolton to the headsman's block, so the entire North can see the price of treason."
The firewood crackled in the solar's hearth, breaking the weight of the sentence. Roose Bolton's fate was sealed, hanging on the proof my network of shadows would bring to light in the snow.
"That settles the problem at the Dreadfort," I said, leaning my hip against the edge of the oak table. "But the North needs to be strong for when the tensions in the South boil over. How is the acceptance of Icefyre and Frostspirit?"
"Trade is flowing better than expected," Rickard replied. The Lord of Winterfell uncrossed his arms and poured another sip of our spirit. "The gold from the sales sustains the construction without draining House Stark's coffers. Moat Cailin is already completely rebuilt, and the walls of Benjen's keep at Sea Dragon Point are rising fast."
"It's good to know my brothers will have solid stone roofs and ready defenses," I commented, looking at the routes marked on the map spread beneath the silver cups.
Rickard set his drink on the wood. His gray eyes measured my posture.
"The blonde girl and the giant who used to march in your vanguard were not in the Great Hall today," Rickard pointed out.
"Astrid and Sigurd stayed behind," I explained, keeping a pragmatic tone. "They are unifying the Free Folk tribes and the giants in the mountains beyond the Wall. We met ancient beings in those lands of ice, father. The Children of the Forest still walk there, and they promised to fight by our side in the wars to come."
Rickard didn't widen his eyes. My father's expression hardened, processing Old Nan's legends taking military shape right in front of us.
Three quick, irregular knocks sounded on the oak door.
The heavy wood opened before Rickard could give the order. A guard shoved half his body into the solar, his face pale and his hand trembling on the pommel of his belted sword.
"My lord," the guard stuttered, shrinking his shoulders. "The animals... they..."
The man was pushed aside. Fenrir invaded the solar, his thick claws scratching the Persian rug. Hela glided right behind, completely ignoring the terrified soldier by the doorframe.
"You may return to your post," Rickard ordered the guard. His deep, absolute voice pushed the soldier back into the corridor, making him shut the door in a hurry.
Fenrir sniffed the edge of the table and sat on his hind legs, fixing his red eyes on the Lord of Winterfell. Hela curled her slender body around my black leather boot.
"They hear and understand much more than their appearance suggests," I said, reaching out to stroke the dark fur on the back of the direwolf's neck. "In the hall, the commotion was too great for calm introductions. But this is Fenrir. And the shadowcat is Hela."
Rickard took a step forward. He evaluated the size of Fenrir's jaw and the sharp gleam in the beast's crimson irises.
"The blood of the First Men has always been accompanied by monsters in the snow," Rickard murmured.
My father turned his back to the beasts and walked to the window. The yard below was already plunging into the cold shadows of the winter night.
"We have much worse problems than direwolves roaming the castle corridors, Arthur," Rickard confessed. Exhaustion marked his voice. "Your brother Brandon doesn't know how to keep his pants closed."
I crossed my arms, waiting for the details of the damage.
Rickard opened the bottom drawer of the desk and pulled out a parchment bearing the Ryswell seal. The edges were crumpled from use, as if he had already opened and closed it many times.
"I've received furious letters over the past moons," he continued, leaving the document on the table. "Brandon has lain with Barbrey Ryswell. Rodrik Ryswell demands I make amends by marrying the two immediately."
I ran my thumb over the line of the Neck drawn on the map and let out a breath through my nose.
"A classic political problem," I muttered, without hiding my irritation. "Brandon managed to turn a bed into two threatened borders."
"Which destroys the alliance I built with the South," Rickard retorted, slamming his hand against the stone wall. "I promised your brother to Catelyn Tully. Hoster Tully is the Lord Paramount of the Trident. The Ryswells are one of our strongest bannermen in the North. Brandon's wolf blood has cornered us. If he marries Barbrey, he offends the Tullys. If he marries Catelyn, he turns House Ryswell into a powerful internal enemy."
I rubbed my chin, evaluating the map on the oak table. The fire crackled loudly in the hearth.
"The North must always come first," I declared. "We need the Ryswells loyal and close, especially if we are going to call the banners against the Dreadfort soon. If you force Brandon to drop Barbrey to march South, you will plant resentment in our defenses and in your own heir. Let Brandon claim the girl."
"And the Lord of Riverrun?" Rickard questioned, narrowing his dark eyes. "Hoster Tully is a man far too proud. He doesn't forgive public slights. I need a way to buy that forgiveness."
I tapped my fingertip on the lines drawn around the Neck on the parchment.
My finger stopped over Moat Cailin. I kept it there for a few seconds, until Rickard followed the gesture.
"Offer Ned in Brandon's place," I suggested, looking up at my father.
Rickard furrowed his deeply wrinkled brow.
"Ned is not the heir to Winterfell," my father countered, walking back to the table. "Hoster wants his daughter sitting in the main seat of the North. He will see this switch as a double insult."
"Ned will be the Lord of Moat Cailin," I argued, holding eye contact with Rickard. "The fortress will continue to belong to the North, and the banners of House Stark will remain flying on those walls. He will control the only land gateway into our lands. A fortified Moat Cailin with full coffers is worth almost as much as a paramount castle in the Riverlands. Send a lot of gold from our reserves along with the proposal. Promise exclusive trade ties of Icefyre with the Tully ports and reinforce the prestige of this union. Hoster will lose the possibility of seeing his daughter as Lady of Winterfell, but he will still be able to present her as the consort of the second most important fortress in the North."
Rickard stopped pacing. Silence returned to the solar, broken only by Fenrir's heavy breathing on the rug. The Lord of Winterfell looked at the map on the oak table, calculating the weights of gold, army, and House Tully's pride in his own mind.
I rested both hands on the edge of the table, leaning slightly over the parchment.
"You told me once," I said, breaking the silence. "That Hoster sent a letter offering Catelyn Tully to Brandon. And you said it was too early. But Walys never stopped pushing for it."
Rickard looked up. His gray eyes met mine. The rigidity of my father's jaw confirmed the memory.
"I hadn't agreed by that time," Rickard admitted, his voice carrying a contained, old resentment. He gripped his thick fingers on the edge of the table. "But after you left with the orphans, Hoster kept sending letters demanding the betrothal. Since I didn't answer with the confirmation he wanted, he started cutting the grain the North purchased. He made lame excuses about weather and transport, holding back our food."
I clenched my jaw. The fire cracked in the hearth. I branded the information into my mind right then. Hoster Tully had blackmailed the survival of the North to force the marriage. The Lord of Riverrun used my people's hunger as a political tool.
"One more reason to break the original arrangement," I stated, my voice coming out colder than the air outside. "The Citadel wanted the heir to Winterfell tied to the Trident. And the Lord of Riverrun blackmailed your people out of ambition. Handing over Ned in his place undoes the web Walys spun and punishes Hoster's audacity."
Rickard evaluated my reasoning. The pure coldness of a strategist overtook the Lord of Winterfell's face.
"Hoster will foam with rage when he reads the letter and sees the heir was swapped," Rickard pointed out, picking up his silver cup again. "But when the chests of gold from our sales start crossing Riverrun's gates, and he realizes the position his daughter will hold as Lady Consort of an impenetrable fortress, the anger will lose its strength. The fish swallows the bait if it's fat enough."
"Pride screams, but steel and silver silence any lord," I confirmed, pulling my shoulders back and adjusting Truth's scabbard.
Rickard downed the rest of his drink. He slammed the empty silver onto the table's wood with a hollow, definitive sound.
"Brandon marries Barbrey Ryswell," Rickard decreed. The weight of his voice made the maneuver official. "We keep our swords and our bannermen loyal and united in here. I will write to Hoster Tully myself tomorrow at dawn, offering Eddard and the position of Lady Consort of Moat Cailin."
My father walked around the oak table and stopped a pace away from me.
"The proposal for the Southern alliance is settled," Rickard said, his voice slightly softening the urgency of the previous tone. "But you just arrived from the Southern roads and the ship voyage was taxing. The North charges a high price on tired bones. Rest for a while within our walls before marching to the Dreadfort lands."
"I intend to," I replied, crossing my arms again. "But I have the east wing problem to deal with first. I need to get the Brotherhood out of our keep before the bannermen start asking questions."
"We have a Stark hunting cabin hidden in the densest parts of the Wolfswood," Rickard suggested, tilting his chin slightly toward the dark window. "No one but our family knows the trail. Quarter these outlaws there until you finalize the test you planned."
I pushed the cup away and nodded once.
"Thank you, father," I replied. "The cabin will keep them away from the bannermen's questions until I decide what to do with them."
Rickard rested both hands flat on the table's oak, evaluating the worn leather of my breastplate.
"The Northern lords have been singing your praises," the Lord of Winterfell commented, a slight trace of pride breaking his austere face. "The name of your Wolfpack is the main topic at every table. They call you the Demon Wolf."
"We just did our job on the roads."
"The brutality of your troop has also been circulating in the shadows," Rickard continued, his gaze hardening. "Ravens brought reports from the Stony Shore. They said our patrols found two Ironborn captains with their lungs ripped out through their backs and spread like wings. The sailors call it a Blood Eagle."
The fire crackled in the hearth.
"He was already defeated, Arthur," Rickard said, keeping both hands resting on the table. "Why subject him to that?"
"Because words convince some men. Swords convince others," I said, slowly running my thumb along the rim of the silver cup. "Men like that do not fear laws written on parchment, nor threats made from a distant hall. They need something they can see. Something they'll remember when their ships spot our shores."
Rickard twirled the empty cup between his fingers. The metal scraped softly against the wood as he watched me.
"So you made an example of him," he said, narrowing his eyes.
I ran my thumb over the cold edge of the silver and kept my voice level.
"I made him a message," I replied.
"A message written in blood," my father countered.
"If I had killed him with a clean cut, I would have eliminated one raider," I explained. "What I left on that tree might stop a hundred others from landing."
Rickard stepped away from the table. His shadow crossed the map and covered the Stony Shore for an instant.
"And you call that justice?" he asked, without raising his voice.
"Cruelty without purpose is savagery," I answered, looking up to meet his eyes. "Cruelty that prevents a war is a weapon."
"A weapon can also wound the one wielding it," Rickard warned.
"Perhaps," I admitted, clenching my jaw. "But when the next captain from the Iron Islands looks at the Stony Shore, I want him to remember what happened to the last man who came here to violate our women and burn our villages."
Rickard remained by the window. Outside, a gust blew snow against the glass, and he watched the flakes for a moment before turning his face back to me.
"Do you believe fear will protect the North?" he asked.
"Not alone," I stated. "But there are men who will never respect our mercy. Those need to fear our consequences."
Rickard softened his gaze and smiled slightly. The deep wrinkles on my father's forehead yielded, replaced by the cold pride the North demanded.
"The ancient Kings of Winter would be pleased with your answer," Rickard declared. He uncrossed his arms and picked up the empty silver cup from the table. "Enjoy the warmth of our hearths for now, Arthur. The North will demand your breath very soon."
The snow covered and uncovered the main yard several times over the following weeks. Winterfell was bustling. Bannermen from all over the North drank our dark ale at night and tested their own blood in the training yard in the morning.
During my free hours, I spoke with most of the lords hosted within our walls, listening to the needs of the routes and strengthening the ties built on the road. I crossed the Great Hall, dodging Lyanna's hunting hounds. Lord Umber and Rickard Karstark were discussing the price of timber near the central hearth. Willam Dustin, heir to Barrowton and a close friend of Brandon's, was emptying his horn mug next to my brother at the large oak tables. Willam had a fast and dirty fighting style that I had tested in the yard days before.
"The Demon Wolf prefers the shadows even in his own castle," Willam provoked, raising his foaming mug my way.
"The noise you and my brother make drives anyone away, Willam," I replied, taking an empty silver cup from a servant's tray.
Brandon let out a hoarse laugh and slapped his heavy hand on Willam's shoulder. My older brother turned his neck and pulled a girl by the arm with intimacy, bringing her into the center of the circle. Her dark hair and haughty posture betrayed her noble lineage.
"Arthur, this is Barbrey, of House Ryswell," Brandon introduced, his usual wild smile tearing across his face. "The woman I chose."
Barbrey Ryswell evaluated the worn leather of my breastplate and stopped her eyes on my differing irises. Ambition and cunning shone clearly in the girl's posture. She did not step back nor show fear.
"It is an honor to finally meet the blade that cleared our roads, Arthur Snow," Barbrey said, bowing her head slightly in respect.
"The honor is mine, Lady Barbrey," I replied, raising the cup in a polite greeting. "The North will be much stronger with your presence here and with our alliance sealed."
The days rushed by. Rickard received Riverrun's answer shortly after. The parchment did not bring closed agreements, only the notice that Hoster Tully's wounded pride demanded more than ink on paper. The Lord of the Trident had dispatched his own brother, Brynden Tully, the Blackfish, to ride North and treat the broken betrothal personally.
Forty days passed until the wall sentries spotted the leaping trout on the banners coming up the Kingsroad.
My father's solar smelled of burning pine. Rickard occupied the high-backed chair. Brandon paced back and forth near the closed window, restless and tense. I leaned my hip against the edge of the oak table and crossed my arms over my chest.
The heavy wooden door opened. Brynden Tully entered. The Blackfish wore dark scale armor beneath a cloak stained with the fresh mud of the Neck. A Winterfell servant stepped forward instantly, offering a wooden bowl with dark bread and coarse salt.
Brynden tore off a piece of the crust, dipped it in the salt, and chewed in silence. Guest right was sealed. He dismissed the servant with a short nod. The knight's sharp blue eyes swept the room in fractions of a second. He registered Rickard's cold presence and Brandon's impatience. When Brynden's sight stopped on my armor and Truth's sapphire at my hip, his shoulders tensed. The presence of a bastard in a high-level realm negotiation broke all Southern rules and demanded questioning.
Brynden opened his mouth. His eyes dropped to Truth's sapphire and passed over the marks on my leather armor. The question died before reaching his lips. The Blackfish pulled out his chair without commenting on my presence.
"Sit, Ser Brynden," Rickard ordered, pointing to the empty chair across the table.
The Blackfish pulled the seat and settled his rigid body.
"The alteration of the betrothal came from Winterfell, and I publicly take full responsibility," Rickard declared immediately, cutting off any complaint before Brynden could draw a breath. The Warden of the North kept his hands flat on the oak. "No fault, blame, or dishonor will be attributed to Catelyn Tully. The change will be announced as an internal and exclusive decision of House Stark. I will declare that Catelyn remains considered a worthy match for my sons and that Brandon's substitution for Eddard did not stem from any shortcoming of the young woman."
Brynden narrowed his blue eyes, listening to my father without interrupting.
"Catelyn will be released from her commitment to Brandon and betrothed to Eddard Stark, Lord of Moat Cailin," Rickard continued. "After the wedding, she will be the Lady Consort of Moat Cailin. Eddard's eldest legitimate son will inherit the domain, followed by his brothers and sisters according to the Northern laws of succession."
"Moat Cailin, its lands, incomes, tolls, garrison, officers, and decisions will remain under the exclusive authority of Eddard Stark and his legitimate heirs, the future Lords of the Moat," I dictated the heavy rules, keeping my posture straight against the table's edge. "House Tully will not have the right to appoint officers, station troops, collect taxes, or interfere in the governance of the domain."
The Blackfish turned his face toward me. His hand closed slowly over the arm of the chair.
"You offer a daughter of Riverrun to your own family and, in the same sentence, make it clear she will have no voice over the house where she will live," Brynden said. "Hoster will hear this as an attempt to buy his silence."
"I am separating marriage from rulership," I replied. "Catelyn will have position, wealth, protection, and authority within her own home as Eddard's wife. Riverrun will not receive the keys to the Neck, nor the right to give orders to the men who defend it."
"And did Eddard consent?" Brynden asked.
Rickard held the knight's gaze.
"He will be consulted before any formal oath. I will not bind two youths by ink while one of them doesn't even know all the terms."
Brynden tapped his thumb once on the wood of his chair.
"And Catelyn's honor? The entire Trident will know that Brandon preferred another woman."
"That is why the responsibility will be mine," Rickard answered. "The announcement will come from Winterfell. Brandon will claim Barbrey before any man can insinuate Catelyn was abandoned for a lack of virtue or worth."
The river knight cast another look my way, still hard, but now calculating the true limits of the offer.
"Catelyn's dowry will be returned in full," Rickard resumed, pulling the knight's attention back. "Furthermore, Winterfell will pay House Tully a compensation of twenty-five thousand gold dragons for breaking the original commitment and for the political damage caused to Catelyn's position."
"Twenty-five thousand buys ships, walls, and men for years," Brynden noted. "It might also look like the price you've attached to my niece's humiliation."
"It is reparation between Houses," Rickard said. "Catelyn is not for sale. The writ of grant for Moat Cailin will register the succession rights of her children, and one copy will remain in Riverrun, another in Winterfell, and a third under the guard of the Moat's maester."
Brynden's eyebrows shot up instantly. The sum was an astonishing fortune, brutal by the standards Southern lords usually calculated for the riches of the ice. Brandon stopped pacing near the window, his eyes wide at the volume of our own house's gold being put on the table all at once, but he kept his mouth shut under Rickard's authority.
"Ten thousand dragons will be delivered when the new betrothal is formalized," my father detailed. "The remaining fifteen thousand will be paid after the wedding, in coin or goods of equivalent value, as agreed between Riverrun and Winterfell."
"By accepting the agreement, Hoster Tully will renounce any claim or demand linked to the former commitment between Catelyn and Brandon," I stated directly.
"And when both couples have children?" Brynden questioned, leaning his torso forward and fixing his sight on Rickard once more.
"Both families may discuss a possible union between their descendants," Rickard conceded coldly, blocking the advance. "This possibility will not be considered a matrimonial promise. It will depend strictly on the age, the circumstances, and the will of those involved in the future."
Silence reigned in the solar. The fire cracked loudly in the stone hearth.
Brynden Tully let the air out slowly through his teeth and leaned back in his chair.
"On my way here, I crossed the lands of the Neck," Brynden revealed. His tone of voice lost the defensive tension of a collector and assumed the respect of a war veteran. "I saw the state the Moat is in now."
Rickard did not alter his stone mask.
"I grew up hearing the legends of when the Moat was the shield of the old Kingdom of the North, and how it repelled the Andal attacks all on its own," the Blackfish confessed, shaking his head in a restrained manner. "When I saw the imposing sight of those black walls rebuilt befitting the legend, I was surprised. Now it is a house worthy of being called the most important fortress in the North after Winterfell, after all, it is indeed the shield of the North."
Brynden crossed his arms over his scale breastplate, exuding a genuine respect for the military structure raised on our borders.
"It was never surprising that armies stalled and bled to death there," Brynden concluded, facing Rickard and then me. "But now, with the renovations you've made, I believe the place is much more difficult and deadly than before. Moat Cailin's impenetrable defenses and the gold would silence any lord's refusal."
The knight uncrossed his arms and rested his palms on the edge of the oak table.
"I haven't accepted anything on Hoster's behalf yet," Brynden declared. "I will take him the exact terms, including the absence of Tully authority over the Moat, the registered succession, and the public form of the announcement. My brother's blood runs too hot for him to discover any condition after giving his word. I ask permission to use your maester and send a raven to Riverrun this very day."
"You have my permission, Ser Brynden," Rickard agreed, placing both hands on the table to stand up. "The alliance favors us and the terms are immutable. I will go to the tower to ask Luwin to prepare the fastest bird in our rookery."
Rickard walked around the table and left the solar. Brandon followed right behind my father, snorting some low complaint about the Ryswells before disappearing into the stone corridor.
I was left alone with the Blackfish. I walked to the oak sideboard, grabbed the silver pitcher, and filled two cups with our dark ale. I crossed the room and offered one to the Riverlands knight.
Brynden took the silver, evaluating the scratched plates of my armor.
"For a bastard, you dictate the rules at your father's table with astonishing ease," Brynden pointed out, taking his first sip of the bitter ale.
"The North demands practical results, Ser Brynden," I replied, pulling out a chair and sitting across from him. "My father taught me early on that a surname doesn't hold a sword hilt or raise the walls of a moat."
Brynden let out a short laugh through his nose. His stiff, diplomatic posture yielded a bit beneath the scale armor.
"Hoster would have a fit if he heard such insolence inside Riverrun," the Tully confessed, leaning his back against the wood and relaxing his tired shoulders. The knight's sharp gaze drifted down to the dark scabbard at my hip. "The entire Trident hears your stories. They say the Demon Wolf tore Visenya Targaryen's blade from the jaws of death and decorated the trees of the Stony Shore with the lungs of Ironborn. I thought it was a tavern song."
"I prefer to leave the songs to the bards," I said, twirling the cup in my hand. "But the island raiders needed a physical warning on our beaches. I merely assembled the structure of the message."
The Blackfish gave a lingering nod of recognition, evaluating the cold pragmatism of the answer.
"I fought alongside your father in the Stepstones," Brynden recalled, his voice completely losing its polite courtly tone and gaining the rustic camaraderie of a war veteran. "Rickard fought with absolute ice in his veins, always calm in the midst of slaughter. I see much more of him in you than in the official heir who just huffed out of here."
"Brandon has the Wolf's Blood running too pure in his body," I pondered, taking a sip of the darkened ale. "It makes him agonizingly restless in closed rooms with maps. But he hits hard when he needs to in the sand."
The afternoon wore on as we moved stones, cups, and a dull knife over the map, marking chokepoints, crossings, and frail points in the Southern infantry lines. When the firewood in the hearth surrendered to red embers, Brynden finished his ale and tapped the rim of his cup against mine. The silver chimed a single time in the empty solar.