Arthur woke to the sound of crows cawing in the rookery tower, their harsh cries carrying through the morning air. The wind slipped through the shutters, thin and cold, so unlike the heavy, salt-wet warmth of the Harbor. He lay still for a moment, letting the silence of Winterfell's stone seep into him. It was a silence he had missed, one that was quite familiar to him.
The night before came to him in pieces. The firelight of the Smoking Log, the roar of Robb's laughter, Jon's quiet half-smiles that spoke more than words, Theon Greyjoy's smirk that never seemed to touch his eyes. They had drunk deep, all of them, and for a time, Arthur felt a boy among brothers again. Yet even with the taste of ale on his tongue, part of him had remained wary of Theon. Always distant. A pity, he thought, had the boy been born of the North, he might have been a truer friend.
When they parted, Arthur's feet had carried him through the familiar walls to the godswood, as they had done thousands of times before. He had half-expected the place to be empty, and half-hoped it would be. Yet there beneath the weirwood, pale bark and red leaves shifting like a thousand whispered prayers, he had found Lord Eddard Stark sitting in silence.
Arthur could still see him there, solemn as ever, his grey eyes fixed upon the heart tree's scarlet face. In lord Stark's hall, he had learned honor; in his godswood, he learned to pray. He loved the man, stern, yes, but with a quiet kindness that had almost filled the hollows of his own late father. Almost.
Arthur pushed the thoughts aside before it could root too deep. Melancholy had no place in the day ahead. He swung his legs from the bed, the flagstones biting cold against his feet, and dressed quickly. The sword-belt was a familiar weight when he buckled it tight.
There was much to do before nightfall. King Robert's progress had brought half the north tumbling into Winterfell, it seemed. Lords from every corner had ridden hard to be here, each eager to pay homage to the king and bring up their grievances. The day would bring smiles, courtesies, and schemes in equal measure.
Arthur pulled his cloak over his shoulders and fastened it with a silver clasp wrought in the shape of a trident. He took a long breath, steadying himself. It felt strange, waking in Winterfell again, not as a fostered boy but as the heir of White Harbor, strange indeed.
Arthur left his chamber to find the ever-familiar bulk of Ser Donnel Locke waiting outside, his sworn shield planted like a stone tower before the door. Donnel's broad frame and weathered face would have made him look fearsome enough, were it not for the grin tugging at his lips.
"I hear you had your fill of merriment last night," Donnel said, his tone dry yet laced with amusement. "Half of Wintertown's been buzzing about the songs you sang at the Smoking Log. Some swear they'll never hear them songs the same way again."
Arthur groaned, "Seven hells, Donnel, don't start. It was all Robb's fault. He wouldn't let me be."
"Of course not," Donnel chuckled, eyes glinting like embers in shadow. "Still, I'm glad of it. I've not seen you laugh so freely in years." He clapped Arthur's shoulder, gentler than his size suggested. "You deserve it."
Despite himself, Arthur felt a smile creeping across his face. They started down the corridor together toward the great hall, their steps echoing against the stone. "You followed me again, didn't you?" he asked.
Donnel smirked, "Of course, I did. It's my duty to protect you."
Arthur gave a soft laugh. "It was only the Log, Donnel. No assassin's lurking in the shadows of that tavern, I promise you."
But at that, Donnel's face hardened, his mirth vanishing as quick as a snuffed candle. "Don't tell me how to do my duty, Arthur. You may not care for your own safety, but others still do."
Arthur sighed, the weight of the words pressing on him. "You're right. I know I've been reckless before. I'll mind myself better."
Donnel's reply came softer, "I'll always worry, Arthur. Reckless or not."
Donnel was no kin of his, yet Arthur could scarce recall a day when the man had not been at his side. From the cradle, to the yard, to the salt-stained decks of the Mermaid's Tears, Ser Donnel Locke had been there. Between Donnel and Lord Stark, Arthur had never been left without a guide, without some hand to steady him. And he was grateful for that, more than words could carry.
Together, they crossed the courtyards of Winterfell. The morning was brisk, the stones rimed faintly with frost, though it was only autumn. Smoke drifted from the towers and kitchens, the smell of baking bread mingling with the tang of steel from the forges. Retainers bustled to and fro, grooms leading horses, cooks calling orders, guards shifting in their posts. The King's arrival had doubled the keep's usual life.
The great hall loomed before them, its heavy oaken doors flung wide. Arthur passed beneath the carved lintel and into a space he had known since boyhood. Even half-filled, the hall was vast. At the far end, the high rafters hung with the Stark direwolves, right above the dais with the seat of the Stark Kings of old which, lay empty still. Already, the long stone tables thrummed with murmur and clattering cups of northern lords and Robert's retinue. The hall could seat five hundred with ease, and soon enough it would.
Arthur made his way to the table where the allies of White Harbor had gathered. He greeted them with the solemnity due their stations yet tempered with warmth and courtesy. Their alliance was not merely of coin and contracts, but of kinship forged through long winters and longer memories. Arthur lowered himself onto the bench, while behind him, Donnel had taken a place at a smaller table with the other sworn shields and household knights, leaving the lords to their counsel.
Lord Cerwyn was first to inquire after his grandfather. "And how fares Lord Wyman?" his voice mild, "It has been some moons since I last rode south to White Harbor."
Arthur smiled faintly. "He fares as well as a man of his appetites might. Our maester grumbles, yet he still dines heartily and rules justly, all the same."
That drew a low chuckle from Helman Tallhart. "A blessing, then. Half his feasts would have slain a weaker man years ago."
Arthur inclined his head. "It will take more than lamprey pies and venison pasties to lay my grandsire low. He means to sit the Merman's Chair until the Stranger himself grows tired of waiting."
Laughter rumbled about the table at that, though it died quick when Lady Maege Mormont leaned forward, squat and broad as a bear, "Enough of this," she said with a scowl, blunt as a mace. "Men waste half their lives with greetings that matter not. The harbor rises well in Bear Island, and a small shabby town besides, yet it shall not stand without your quarried blocks. You promised them, Manderly. I'll not have my harbor delayed for want of rocks."
Arthur knew better than to take her gruffness for slight and replied with solemnity, "Your words are heard, my lady. The stone will reach your harbor within the fortnight, if the winds are kind."
Maege gave a grunt that might have been approval, though with her, it was hard to say.
Galbart Glover leaned forward next, his face grave, yet courteous as ever. "When stone flows so freely, Arthur, then let some reach Deepwood as well. The motte grows stronger each season, yet our walls crave more weight if they are to outlast the storms."
Arthur nodded without hesitation. "You shall have it, my lord, worry not. The quarries in the mountains are yielding well. Lord Wull has assured us of it, and his clansmen labor day and night."
Lord Glover inclined his head, his steady eyes filled with quiet gratitude. As Cerwyn was about to begin speaking again, the great oaken doors creaked wide, and the sound of bootheels carried into the hall. More lords entered then, The jovial Halys Hornwood came first, narrow-eyed and ruddy-cheeked, a man bound to their house by trade and blood through his wife, Donnela, cousin to Lord Wyman.
Then came, Rickard Karstark, tall and proud, face set in stern disdain as though carved of stone. Rodrik Ryswell, his sharp eyes measuring everyone. And the pale lord, Roose Bolton, mild of manners, yet cunning and cold. Together, they formed an old and proud faction of the Northern houses.
Helman Tallhart raised a hand in welcome. "Halys, here! Come sit, old friend. The fire is warmer."
But Halys did not so much as glance their way. His gaze slid past Tallhart's call, and instead, he bent his steps toward the proud lords. The sight of Hornwood sliding into their company was a slap in the face.
Arthur said nothing, though the muscle in his jaw tightened. The Karstarks had ever despised his house. To them, the fat Manderlys were no true Northmen, but greenlanders and faithless foreigners, unworthy of the land granted them. They whispered that it should have been theirs by right, their due as blood of the Wolf. What they hated more now was that Manderly power had grown greater than theirs.
The Boltons were worse, of course. Old blood-feuds ran deep. The Manderlys had stood beside the Stark Kings when the Boltons rose and the Greystarks rebelled a thousand years past. Their reward had been lands the Boltons had once coveted. Land disputes festered like old wounds that never healed.
Roose's pale gaze cut across the hall, cold and dangerous. Arthur held it for a heartbeat before looking away. His thoughts went to Domeric, the boy who might have mended such rifts. A good lad, quiet, courteous, skilled in harp and horse alike. A pity he had sickened so suddenly.
Too sudden, Arthur's physician said, whom he had sent from the academy to treat the boy. But lord Bolton had denied him entry, and a year later Domeric lay in the ground. Foul play, their spies had whispered. Roose Bolton's face betrayed nothing, but Arthur knew a serpent when he saw one. And the Ryswells, well, that wound was fresher still.
Lady Maege broke the silence first, her voice a growl. "Ungrateful leech," she spat, watching Halys Hornwood bend his ear to Karstark. "He feeds on your trade, fattens on your coin, and then breaks bread with snakes."
Lord Tallhart muttered his agreement, "To break bread with the Bolton and Karstark is one thing. To turn his back on friends, another entirely."
Galbart Glover frowned. "It is ill done."
Lord Cerwyn leaned forward, his face troubled. "Aye, and worse still. The matter I was about to bring is his doing. Hornwood's men have begun raising claims to a holdfast upon my lands, near the White Knife. He says it is his right, yet it is my soil, not his. And if he does not heel, there will be quarrels soon enough."
The hall's noise seemed distant now, dulled beneath the weight of old hatreds and fresh betrayals. Halys Hornwood's choice of company was no accident. Arthur folded his hands upon the table, his voice measured, "Patience, my lord Cerwyn. Quarrels are easy to start and harder to mend."
Helman Tallhart gave a solemn nod. "Well spoken, Arthur. A rash tongue serves no man. And we do not yet know Halys's purpose here. He may have some other business with those lords."
"Damn his intentions," Lady Maege Mormont snapped, her fist striking the table hard enough to rattle the cups. "That sly fox smiles as he steals. He'd sell an old friend for a sack of grain if it came with a title besides."
Arthur allowed her fire to burn, but also laid his words down softly, "It is all right, my lady. Lord Hornwood will answer for this, one way or another. But not here, not now. Let them think us unbothered."
Galbart Glover inclined his head. "Aye, there is wisdom in that. They would love nothing better than to see discord in our faces. We mustn't appear vulnerable."
Helman Tallhart leaned forward, his heavy brow furrowed. "Still, we cannot sit idle. If Hornwood seeks to lay claim upon Cerwyn lands, then Lord Stark must know."
At that, Lord Cerwyn shifted uneasily, worry etched into the lines of his face. His voice came low, almost a whisper. "Hornwood's strength already outmatches mine, and with Boltons and Ryswells beside him, it would be no fight I could win."
Arthur's reply was steady, "I pray that it doesn't, yet, if it comes to steel, Lord Cerwyn, know this, White Harbor's strength and my sword will stand beside you. On my word as a Manderly."
"Mine as well," Helman Tallhart declared, striking the table with his fist.
"And mine," said Galbart Glover, his voice firm.
Maege Mormont bared her teeth in something near a smile. "We bears have long memories. We do not forget who our friends are. If those curs seek to set fire on us, they will find the flames turned back upon them."
The weight in Cerwyn's eyes seemed to ease, if only a little.
Arthur spoke calm but firm. "There will be no fire, if I can help it. I will speak to Lord Eddard in quiet counsel. He will know how to still this storm before it breaks." He rose then, smoothing the sleeve of his doublet. "For now, let us part with smiles. Let the others see us strong. That will gall them more than any threat of arms."
The company broke apart at last. Tallhart, Cerwyn, and Lady Maege swept from the hall together, Maege still muttering curses beneath her breath. Arthur lingered, motioning to Galbart Glover, who fell in step beside him as they crossed the hall toward the cluster of prouder lords.
Arthur dipped his head in greeting, his smile practiced and genial. "My lords," he said smoothly, "it does my heart good to see you all in health. May the gods above keep you so."
Rickard Karstark answered first, his voice as rough as river gravel. "Master Glover. Ser Manderly." He gave no more than that, his shoulders squared, his pride filling the hall about him like a second banner.
Rodrik Ryswell and Halys Hornwood were warmer, their smiles flowing easier. Hornwood grinned as if pleased with some private jest. "How fares Lord Wyman?" he asked, tone light as if he knew the answer mattered little.
Arthur returned the smile, "His strength endures, my lord. He sends his regards."
Rodrik Ryswell inclined his head. "We shall pray for his continued health. The North is stronger with him in it."
And then Roose Bolton spoke, his voice soft as silk, scarcely more than a whisper, yet the hall stilled to hear him. "It pleases me to see you in good humor as well. These are turbulent days. We are all mourning the passing of Lord Arryn. Such a loss!" His pale eyes fixed on Arthur, unblinking, unsettling.
Arthur dipped his head. "Aye, a grievous loss. Lord Arryn was a beacon of nobility, a hand that ruled with wisdom and honor. And…" He let his words slow, "I offer you condolences for yours as well, my lord. Domeric was a dear friend to me. A finer horseman, or a kinder heart, I have seldom known. His passing leaves a wound upon the North."
Bolton inclined his head a hair's breadth. "You are kind. My son… will be missed." Polite words, spoken with all the weight of mourning, yet Arthur heard none. No grief stirred in those pale eyes, only emptiness, as if Roose spoke of a hound gone lame rather than a son in the ground.
They did not linger longer than courtesy required. With practiced bows and cordial words, Arthur and Galbart Glover withdrew, their retainers falling in behind them. Once beyond earshot, Galbart exhaled through his nose. "They are plotting something. You saw it in their faces, as plain as I."
"Perhaps. But we cannot be certain, not yet. Caution is our ally." Arthur replied softly as they stepped into the chill of the courtyard.
Glover nodded, grim as stone. "Aye. We'll speak more tonight. At the feast."
They parted with clasped arms and quiet farewells.
"Well," Donnel muttered, his mouth twisting in wry amusement, "that was a dramatic turn of events."
Arthur allowed a small smile. "It was that."
"So, where to now?" Donnel asked, as if half-dreading the answer.
Arthur's grin bloomed at last, "The library."
Donnel groaned, throwing his head back. "Gods. All right. But I'll not read a single damned book this time."
"Of course not, ser," Arthur said, his grin widening, and together they turned toward the quiet solace of Winterfell's library.
The library tower smelled of vellum, dust, and the faint tang of old ink. A thousand voices slept here, bound in leather and stacked high as battlements. Arthur sat in the noonlight that filtered through the narrow windows, a book heavy in his hands: Lives of Four Kings by Grand Maester Kaeth. He had read it thrice before, and yet each time he found some new measure of fascination in the folly and wisdom of those long-dead rulers.
Kaeth's quill had been sharp, his judgment harsh yet keen. But what Arthur rued most was what Kaeth had not written, Viserys the second, whose reign was short, yet whose hand had guided three kings. A better ruler than his predecessors, and a better servant still. Arthur had purchased the rare illuminated copy of the book, written in Kaeth's own hand, for the Academy in White Harbor. A book every noble should read, he thought. For our follies are never new. We repeat them, again and again.
At the next table, Donnel was hunched over another tome. The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms, penned by Grand Maester Malleon. A tome as massive as it was joyless. Arthur had told him to read up on the northern houses, but in truth, it had been a jest wrapped in a command. Donnel had grumbled when Arthur set the volume before him, yet as always, he did not refuse.
Arthur smirked to himself as he turned to another page. From the corner of his eye, he could see Donnel slumped lower and lower, until his head sagged forward with a soft thunk. He rose quietly, sliding Kaeth's book back into its place. Arthur saw that Donnel had not made it past the Boltons before sleep claimed him whole.
A pang of guilt touched him, as Donnel's mouth opened slightly in his sleep, his hands still resting on the table as if even in dreams he must guard Arthur. And yet here he was again, tricking him into slumber with tedious words. Arthur had done it before, with cups of wine, with sleeping draughts hidden in honey, with heavy tomes like this one. All so that he might slip away unseen.
Arthur's chest tightened. I am sorry, old friend. But there are things even you cannot know. Things no one must ever know. Or so he told himself.