The chill of dawn clung to Winterfell's stones, heavy with the stillness of parting. By nightfall the king would ride south again, and with him half the noise and splendor that had filled the castle like a fever. What remained would be silence, and grief too heavy for words.
Arthur climbed the winding steps of the Great Keep alone, his hand brushing the rough-hewn wall as he went. Each turn of the stair took him further from the clang of the yard, until the world below seemed a distant echo. Here the air grew thick with the smell of smoke and herbs. Bran's chamber had been moved higher, apart from the life of the castle, as though distance might ease the wound.
He pushed open the oaken door and found Lady Catelyn by the bed. She sat at the boy's bedside, her fingers laced through Bran's small hand. Her face was pale and drawn, lined deep as though twenty years had been carved upon it in a fortnight.
Bran lay silent beneath her watch, his chest rising with the slow, shallow rhythm of one lost to dreams. He looked smaller somehow, shrunken into the bedclothes. It twisted something deep inside Arthur's chest.
Lady Catelyn's eyes lifted at last. They were rimmed red with sleeplessness.
"Arthur?" she asked, her voice raw with sleeplessness.
"Aye, my lady," he said softly, stepping nearer. "I have come to take my leave of you, and of Bran."
She gave the faintest of nods, her hand tightening on her son's as she turned back to the bed.
Arthur moved to Bran's side and sank to one knee. He looked upon the boy for a moment before speaking. "Hello, Bran," he murmured. "I have a gift for you."
From his neck, Arthur unclasped the chain he wore, a plain silver seven-pointed star. Holding it a moment in his palm, he set it gently against Bran's chest. "This was my father's," he said, voice low, steady. "They say it guarded him from his enemies. Let it guard you now, in this fight with dreams."
Arthur bent and kissed his brow. "Keep fighting, little winged wolf. The gods are not done with you yet."
When Arthur rose, Lady Catelyn was weeping quietly, tears sliding unheeded down her cheeks.
"My lady," he said, low and earnest, "know that my sword and my service remain yours. If there is aught you or your house should need, you need only ask."
Her eyes found his, cold and colorless as the stones about them, yet burning with the fury grief lends the living. Her words came sharp and bitter, "Just send the bastard away."
Arthur stiffened at the words, the weight of them like a blow. Yet he only inclined his head, bowing with all the solemnity he could muster. "By your leave, my lady."
To see Lady Catelyn so undone, her beauty withered by grief, her kindness hollowed into bitterness. Though he could not fault her for this, Grief is a cruel companion.
Still, he despised the way she set her wounds upon Jon, as though the boy were the mold for every ill in her world. Jon bore chains he had never forged, sins stamped upon him before he first drew breath.
And Arthur, though it pierced him, could do naught but watch while his dearest friend carried the weight of a crime that was never his.
The courtyard of Winterfell was alive with motion when Arthur descended the steps from the keep. Hooves clattered on the flagstones, grooms and retainers called to one another as they loaded carts and tightened saddles, and banners flapped faintly in the crisp northern air. The king's departure had turned Winterfell restless.
Arthur's eyes found the Starks at once. Lord Eddard stood apart, stern and still, the pillar about which all the rest moved. Sansa was at his side, composed beyond her years, each gesture studied, graceful, the little lady her mother had raised her to be. Arya shifted restlessly on his other hand, fierce in her impatience, her energy straining against the stillness of farewells. Jon lingered near Benjen Stark, quiet in his watch, as though already half a shadow of the Wall he longed for.
And Robb. Already, the boy Arthur had known was fading. In his place stood the makings of a young lord, moving through the press with a voice that carried, shaping order out of chaos. Robb's gaze caught his own at last, and the lordling's face broke into a grin.
"Finally! You finish dressing up," he called across the yard.
Arthur smirked as he crossed to him. "Of course. I'm not a savage like you."
Robb snorted, ready with his retort, but before the words came, Arya darted forward, Jon at her heels. Her voice rang sharp as a blade, bright enough to draw glances from nearby men.
"You have to come to King's Landing soon, otherwise I might kill Sansa."
Arthur laughed, loud enough to draw a few glances. He crouched slightly to meet the little girl's fierce eyes. "Peace, peace, little wolf," he said, smiling despite himself. "I'll come south soon enough, else the Red Keep might burn down under your mischief."
Arya grinned, fierce and wild, satisfied with her victory.
Jon came forward then, slower, quieter. His face was pale, his grey eyes carrying the weight of things he never voiced. "You saw Bran?" he asked.
Arthur's smile gentled. He gave a small nod. "Aye," he said softly. "He looks stronger. The physicians say he may wake soon."
Jon said nothing, but the line of his shoulders eased.
Arya's face lit with unguarded hope, "Really? Can he come to King's Landing with us then?"
Arthur's heart twisted as he looked at her. He knelt to her level once more, voice low and gentle. "I'm sorry, little wolf. Bran must stay here a while longer. When he regains his strength, I have no doubt he will follow."
Robb's composure faltered. His lips pressed into a thin line, "But… he'll never walk again."
The words hung heavy between them.
Arthur rose and placed a steady hand on Robb's shoulder. "There are worse fates, Robb," he said quietly, "At least he remains with us. Let us give thanks to the gods for that, and not despair."
Jon dipped his head, his voice quiet but firm. "Farewell, Arthur."
A warmth threaded through Arthur's chest, "Take care, Jon," he said, embracing Jon tightly. "Should you ever require anything at the Wall, you have but to write. I am only a letter away."
He turned to Robb next, drawing him close in a similar brotherly embrace, "Good fortune to you, my lord."
Robb's weary smile broke slowly, "I'd see you soon, brother."
Arya, uncontained as ever, flung herself at him, arms wrapping around him with all the force her small frame could muster. She pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. "Please visit soon. I want to learn swordfighting from you."
Arthur laughed, ruffling her tangled hair. "Gods help us! The realm is not ready for you with a sword in hand."
Just beyond the king's train, stood Benjen Stark beside a mule already laden for the long road north. The sight of him, calm and steady as a mountain, reminded Arthur why he had always trusted the Starks above most men. With him, of all men, was Tyrion Lannister, who was going to visit the wall. The thought of him at the Wall seemed absurd, yet somehow fitting.
"Lord Benjen, Lord Tyrion," Arthur said, bowing his head in respect. "If I were a bard, I'd give you a song fit for the Wall, but all I can offer is my prayers. May the Seven and the old gods alike keep you."
Benjen chuckled, low and weary. "Prayers are welcome, and you are better than a bard."
"And funnier," Tyrion cut in dryly, "You could be a bard and a jester yet here you are trapped as a knight."
Arthur turned to him, smiling. "Aye, my lord, just as you could be a dragon rider, yet here you are stuck atop a mule."
Tyrion barked out a laugh, unashamed, earning a frown from Benjen. "Well said, Ser. I find myself liking you better than most with each passing day."
Arthur inclined his head, "I extend my invitation to you, my lord, on your way back from the wall, stop by White Harbor. I'd not have a friend leave without a proper farewell."
At that, Tyrion's mouth curled into its knowing smile. "Friend, is it? I found that most men would sooner call me imp than ally."
Arthur's lips curved, thin and confident. "I'm not most men."
A laugh burst from Tyrion, sudden and raw, "Seven hells, boy, you've the makings of a dangerous man, Arthur Manderly. Dangerous, and if the gods are feeling generous, mayhaps even a great one."
Arthur's smile was thin. "That, my lord, I shall leave for you to decide. For now, I'd say farewell."
The yard rang with the sound of hooves and iron-shod wheels as the royal procession set itself in order. Arthur sat tall atop Midnight, Ser Donnel looming large beside him, while the Manderly retainers fell into neat, disciplined ranks behind. The silver merman gleamed upon their cloaks, catching the morning light.
They rode beneath Winterfell's great gates, the villagers of Wintertown cheering as the column wound its way down the road. Arthur pressed his heels into Midnight's flanks, closing the distance to ride abreast of Lord Stark. The king's party stretched forward like a living river of banners and steel, yet Arthur leaned closer, voice lowered.
"My lord," he said, careful, deliberate. "Might I have a word? A matter of importance."
Eddard Stark turned his grey eyes upon him, with the weight of a lord and a father present. "Aye. Come."
Lord Stark drew aside from the main column, and Arthur followed. The din of hooves and shouted orders faded to a murmur, leaving the two of them alone with the morning wind, the scent of summer snows, and damp earth.
Lord Stark asked, "What is it?"
Arthur drew a steady breath. "Lord Cerwyn has confided in me of a troubling turn. He says Lord Halys Hornwood lays claim to one of his holdfasts, preaching it belonged to his forebears and was stolen from him long ago. Cerwyn tells me Halys now names the land his own."
Ned Stark's brow furrowed, "Why would Halys press such a claim? Are you certain of this?"
"Aye, my lord," Arthur replied. "I sent men of my own, that I might be sure Cerwyn spoke no falsehood. They returned but two nights past. Hornwood riders move openly through the villages, collecting tithes in Halys's name."
Lord Stark's jaw tightened. For a time, they rode in silence, the only sound the leather's creak and the steady rhythm of their horses. At last, he spoke, voice low and hard. "Halys did speak of quarrels over land at the feast, yet I had not thought it came to this. To send men to take Cerwyn's due—" He shook his head. "That cannot stand."
Arthur inclined his head. "Lord Cerwyn fears as much, my lord. He has no wish for quarrels. It was his plea that I bring the matter to you."
"You did rightly," Eddard Stark said, his eyes fixed ahead upon the long, rutted road. "Yet I ride south with the king, and cannot see to it myself. Robb must hear of this, and his lady mother as well. They will await my judgment. Tell Cerwyn to bring his grievance before them at Winterfell. Let no swords be drawn until I return."
"As you command, my lord."
They reined back toward the column then, folding once more into the stream of riders. Yet Arthur could not help but glance sidelong at Eddard Stark, at the weight that seemed ever to press upon his shoulders. The lord of Winterfell carried more than one realm's troubles with him on that long road south.
They reached Castle Cerwyn after three days of riding. Here, the road forked, one path running south toward the Neck, the other west toward Torrhen's Square. The royal host would press on toward the kingsroad, and Arthur had his own course to follow.
He drew rein before the king's horse, dismounting with practiced grace. Lord Stark was there already, grim and weathered, standing a step behind King Robert.
Arthur bowed deeply. "Your Grace, My lord, my path parts from yours here. Duty calls me westwards."
King Robert barked a laugh. "Always a dutiful boy, eh, Arthur? Seven bless you for it. Ride well, my boy, and may the gods keep you well. I'll expect to see you soon at court. My table grows dull without northern blood."
Arthur smiled charmingly. "Then I pray to return as soon as possible, Your Grace."
The king's laughter followed him as he turned to Lord Stark. His farewell was quieter, as it ever was. "I'm grateful for your aid and service, Arthur. I will not forget it."
Arthur inclined his head. "It was no more than duty, my lord."
Eddard's mouth softened into a smile. "Take care of yourself, son."
Arthur bowed and turned towards Sansa, who stood near, pale and graceful as a flower carved from frost. She curtsied with all the poise her septa had drilled into her, though her eyes lingered on him a heartbeat longer than custom required.
Arthur smiled warmly. "Farewell, Lady Sansa. The south will marvel at your grace, though I doubt they deserve it. May the Seven watch over you."
Her cheeks flushed faintly pink. "Farewell, ser. You have been most kind."
Arthur swung back into the saddle. Donnel gave a low whistle, and the Manderly men fell in at his flanks. They rode west, hooves beating the dirt road as the banners of White Harbor dwindled from the royal host.
After four more days of riding, the banners of House Tallhart snapped faintly in the afternoon breeze before him. They stopped beneath the gatehouse of Torrhen's Square. The castle rose plain and strong from the earth, its four square towers joined by high walls thick with moss and ivy.
Master Helman Tallhart came forth to meet Arthur. His clasp was warm and firm, and his voice rang with honest welcome. "Ser Arthur Manderly. You honor us with your visit."
"Your friendship honors me, Ser," Arthur replied.
At Helman's side stood his son, Benfred Tallhart, a youth nearer to Theon's years, tall and sturdily built.
"My lord Arthur," Benfred said with a courteous bow. "You are most welcome. I had long wished to see you again, to thank you. I have not forgotten your kindness."
Arthur remembered, Benfred had come often to Winterfell with his father. There, he was mocked by Theon Greyjoy for his thick neck and slower wit. Arthur had mocked Theon in turn, and it seemed the boy had not forgotten that small mercy. Gratitude was a rare thing in noble sons.
Arthur smiled at that, allowing warmth to soften his words. "I'm honored, Benfred, and there's nothing to thank me for. Perhaps you and I shall test our arms together later, if your father permits it."
Benfred's eyes lit, eager though still tempered with courtesy. "I should like that well, my lord. It'd be an honor."
"They say you won glory for the North," added Leobald Tallhart with a grin, Ser Helman's younger brother. "Unhorsing the Kingslayer before half the realm? Seven hells, there's something to thank you for, Ser Arthur."
Donnel laughed and replied, "He does, Ser. Though I suspect the kingslayer will not thank him for it."
That earned a round of laughter, hearty and unguarded.
Helman clapped his son upon the shoulder, pride plain upon his face, then turned back to Arthur. "Come. There is much to show you. The harbor has grown much since last you saw it. You'll scarce know the land."
They left the walls behind. The air grew damp and cool, and the scent of earth gave way to water. Soon, the glint of the lake spread before them, a vast mirror of steel-grey water, its rippling surface catching the pale light of afternoon. Its surface, broken by the wooden skeletons of piers stretching out like fingers.
Men labored everywhere, driving posts, shaping stone blocks, guiding ropes and pulleys. A scatter of huts and merchant stalls had already sprung up along the banks, the first bones of a town yet to be named.
Arthur reined in his horse, taking in the sight. "It grows swifter than I dared hope."
"Aye," Helman said, his voice gruff with satisfaction. "A part of the harbor may be put to use before winter's first snow. Your men from White Harbor have the sense of it."
A man in a white-and-blue tunic approached, bowing low. Ink stains marked his hands; the sign of a man more at ease with parchment than spade. "My lord," he said, "the design allows for inland anchorage, sheltered from storm and shielded from Ironborn longships. We've set the foundations for the outer towers there," he pointed toward a half-built line of stone, "and here along the shore will rise the warehouses and cargoholds. Below them, cellars cut into the rock for salted fish and grain."
"It must finish quickly," Arthur studied the layout, gaze sweeping the laborers, the cranes of timber, the lake beyond. "The Ironborn raided these shores not long ago, and they will again. When they come next, I mean for them to find stone and steel waiting."
The engineer bowed again, voice careful. "It will be done within the year, my lord."
Arthur frowned, though not unkindly. "Longer than I had hoped." He dismounted and walked closer to the edge of the lake, boots sinking slightly in the soft earth. "Still, progress is better than promise. You are Sven, are you not?"
"Yes, lord," Sven said, surprise flickering across his face. "Formerly of your harbor's academy. I had the honor of serving under Master Conrad. I—" he hesitated, "I'm honored you know my name, lord."
Arthur inclined his head. "Good work, Sven." He glanced toward his steward. "Halder."
The grizzled man stepped forward and placed a small leather pouch and a folded paper into Sven's hands. Arthur said, "Some extra compensation for you and the others. See that every man receives his fair share. A harbor is only as strong as the hands that build it."
Sven stared at the parchment, eyes wide, then bowed so low his brow nearly brushed the damp earth. "You are most generous, my lord. The men'll not forget it."
Arthur dismissed him with a nod. Sven backed away, still murmuring his thanks, and hurried off toward the workers, the pouch clinking softly in his grasp.
The waters of Swan Lake stretched before them, still and dark. Arthur walked the lake's edge beside Ser Helman, their cloaks stirring in the brisk wind. A short way off, Ser Donnel and the Tallhart men waited, their voices low, well out of earshot.
Helman's face was ruddy from the chill, but his eyes were keen as ever. He glanced at Arthur, lowering his voice. "What word from Winterfell? Did Lord Eddard give thought to the trouble between Cerwyn and Hornwood?"
Arthur kept his gaze upon the rippling water. "He has," he said evenly. "With Lord Stark's arbitration, I trust the quarrel may yet be settled without blood. Still, we would be fools to rest too easily. Old claims breed old hatreds, and men do rash things when pride is stirred." He turned to Helman. "Tell me, how many men can you muster at need?"
Helman folded his hands behind his back, his stride slow and deliberate. "My retainers number near five hundred. I can summon them within a day's ride. A hundred men-at-arms, the rest afoot. Pikes, bows, swords, and shields, enough to hold a line."
Arthur nodded gravely. "Good. You are nearest to Lord Cerwyn, should the quarrel sour into steel. If swords are drawn, you must be swift to his side. I'll not have the Hornwoods think they can seize land by boldness alone." He paused, then added, "I shall send five thousand gold dragons from White Harbor. Enough to see your men paid and provisioned for a year's service. Let them be ready, though we pray it comes not to blows."
At that, Lord Helman's face broke into a wide smile, his beard bristling with it. "They'll be ready, Arthur, don't doubt it. Hornwood will think twice ere he tests Tallhart steel."
Arthur's lips curved faintly, though his eyes remained solemn. "I do not doubt their mettle, my lord. But I would rather see your swords rust from disuse than reddened in kin's blood. Peace at home is a rarer treasure than gold, and far more dearer when lost." He turned his gaze toward the water, its surface darkening with the coming dusk. "The North must be one, now more than ever. Winter is Coming."
For a while, they stood in silence, the only sound the whisper of the lake and the soft clatter of hammers from the harbor works behind them.
Helman's voice dropped low, thoughtful. "Tell me, Arthur… do you think we'll march north? To face this king-beyond-the-Wall they whisper of?"
"Not today," Arthur replied. "Not tomorrow. But one day, aye. The wildlings gather strength when the Wall sleeps. If they're left to their own, they'll come south in their thousands. Better to face them on their own frozen ground than see their fires upon the north."
Helman grunted, nodding as though he had already suspected the answer.
"There is another matter, a delicate one," Helman began, his tone careful. He looked out across the water before speaking again. "A joining of our houses. Your cousin, Wynafryd, daughter of Ser Wylis. And my heir, Benfred. A union of Tallhart and Manderly would strengthen both houses, and through us, the North itself."
Wyn. His cousin, graceful, clever, with a kindness that softened the steel of her will. She would be wed soon, of course. To some lord of age and standing. Just as he would be, in time. Duty bound them both, as it did all men.
Still, their grandsire had shown them one rare kindness. A courtesy of choice among those that were presented.
And yet, there was no choice. Not for him. His duty was more important.
Marie's face rose before him, her laughter, the smell of autumn rain in her hair. Forcing the thought down, Arthur turned and gave a soft smile.
"You honor my house, my lord. House Tallhart has ever been steadfast in friendship. Such a bond would only deepen that trust. I shall inform my grandsire of your intention."
Helman's eyes crinkled with something between relief and satisfaction. "Good. Good. You've a wise head on your shoulders, Arthur, and you have done well by us. We Stark men shall drink from this cup for years to come. We'll not forget it. And do not trouble yourself over this. I shall speak to Lord Wyman myself when next I ride to White Harbor. Best that such matters be set before him proper."
Arthur inclined his head, hiding the heaviness in his chest. "As you say, Ser." He drew a long breath, the chill of the air sharp in his chest, and turned back to the half-built harbor.
Love and dreams both withered, yet their stories had endured. The gods had seen to that. Yet in the quiet places of the heart, what was lost stayed lost.