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POV: Arthur Snow
Location: Winterfell – Great Courtyard and Great Hall
Winterfell stood tall in the snow, banners still and frozen, firelight flickering through narrow windows as the gates creaked open.
Arthur rode through without raising his hand.
The riders behind him were quiet, cloaks torn and boots stained in salt and blood, but none looked down. They rode as one unit, the weight of the western coast behind them. Smoke no longer rose from the Rills, and that meant something here.
Guards along the walls saluted without speaking.
In the courtyard, Ser Rodrik waited with arms crossed, steel armor polished and expression unreadable. Behind him stood Garen, hammer at his side, and a group of younger squires who stopped their drills the moment they saw Arthur dismount.
Benjen Stark rushed out from the keep first, cloak flapping behind him.
"I saw the ravens," he said. "They said you fought three ships!"
Arthur nodded. "Four."
Benjen grinned and looked at the riders. "Did you burn them?"
"No. Left them to crawl home."
Rodrik stepped forward. "Lord Rickard waits."
Arthur gave a brief nod and followed the Master-at-Arms through the stone halls. His boots echoed through the corridor as servants scattered ahead of him like leaves on wind. Some looked at him longer than they should have. Not with fear—but with something older.
Recognition.
He had left a retainer.
He was returning something else.
In the Great Hall, the fire blazed tall. Banners of the direwolf hung heavy above the dais. The lords were already assembled. Cerwyn. Tallhart. Mormont. Dustin. Glover. Even Barbrey stood near the back, her arms folded, sharp eyes tracking every face.
Roose Bolton sat to the left of the hearth, pale as smoke. Brandon Stark leaned against a column, arms crossed, chewing on a sliver of pine as if bored.
Rickard sat at the high seat, Ice behind him like a third spine.
When Arthur entered, the hall quieted.
He did not announce himself.
He walked forward alone and stopped five paces from the dais.
Rickard rose. "You left to strike. You returned with no dead, and smoke silenced. Speak."
Arthur kept his voice level. "Three villages saved. One lost before we reached it. Forty rode out. Forty return. Captives freed. Raiders driven back to sea."
"And the captain?"
Arthur met Rickard's eyes. "Left alive. Broken. He'll carry the story farther than a corpse."
A murmur passed through the lords. Roose's lip curled slightly.
Barbrey Dustin spoke next. "And the blade?" Her gaze dropped to the wrapped sword at his back. "They say it cuts like Valyrian steel."
Arthur didn't flinch. "They say many things."
He said nothing more.
Rickard studied him for a long moment, then raised his hand.
"Let it be known—Arthur Snow rode first and returned with all his men. Winterfell honors its wolves, blood-born or not."
He nodded once.
"From this day, he sits at this table."
Brandon's jaw tightened. Roose's eyes narrowed. Glover smirked behind his mug.
Lyanna stepped forward then, from her father's side.
Her voice was clear. "He should not stand alone."
She took a step down the dais and stood beside Arthur. "If you say the North is stronger united, then show it."
Rickard said nothing—but he did not stop her.
Arthur glanced at her, but she did not look at him.
Benjen clapped from somewhere in the back.
Later, as the hall cleared and the lords drank and muttered behind cloaks and cups, Arthur stood near the window, watching snow fall onto the godswood.
Lyanna approached, her steps quiet.
"You didn't let them see," she said. "Even when you could've."
"They don't need to see it," he answered. "That's what makes it real."
She paused beside him. "You frighten them. Even father."
"I know."
"But you didn't frighten the girl you saved."
Arthur didn't answer.
"I saw her," Lyanna said. "She's here. Garen brought her in."
Arthur looked out the window. "Sometimes fear is the only thing left after mercy."
She watched him for a moment. "You ever afraid of yourself?"
He didn't speak for a long time.
Then: "Yes."
She nodded. "Good. That means you're still fighting."
She turned and left him there, alone in the falling snow.
He stood by the glass until the fire behind him dimmed and the world outside faded into gray.