Support me on patreon.com/c/Striker2025
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The high table seated the most significant figures. Lord Rickard at center, Brandon to his right looking every inch the future Warden of the North, young Benjen to his left watching everything with the careful attention of a boy learning how power operates. Lyanna had been placed beside Brandon, her wild beauty drawing appreciative glances despite her clear discomfort with formal settings. Arthur had been given a position of unexpected honor—seated near Benjen, close enough to the Stark family to signal their favor but not so close as to suggest presumption.
Across from the high table, Lord Umber sat with Garron beside him, the grandfather clearly determined to publicly claim his newly discovered kin. Other major houses filled the remaining positions—Bolton silent and watchful, Manderly jovial and calculating, Karstark stern and traditional, Mormont practical and direct.
The feast began with Lord Rickard's toast. He stood, and the hall fell silent with the automatic respect accorded to the Warden of the North.
"Lords, ladies, honored guests," Rickard began, his voice carrying clearly across the hall. "Today we witnessed demonstrations that will shape the North's path for generations. What we saw was more than strength—it was purpose, discipline, and unity in action. Tomorrow, we will build upon that foundation. But tonight, we celebrate what binds us together."
He raised his cup. "To the bonds of the North—to courage, to kinship, to the will that keeps us standing when others fall, To unity. To strength. To the North."
"The North!" the hall roared back, voices blending in the traditional response.
As lords drank and the feast began in earnest, conversations bloomed like flowers after spring rain. Arthur found himself the focus of constant attention—lords approaching to ask questions, offer compliments, probe for information about training methods or economic innovations or future plans.
Lord Greatjon Umber, emboldened by ale and proximity to his grandson, stood and addressed the hall with his characteristic roar.
"Listen well!" he bellowed, his voice cutting through all other conversations. "This morning I discovered I have a grandson I thought dead. Found him here, in Stark service, crushing stone with his bare hands like a hero from the Age of Heroes!" He clapped Garron's shoulder hard enough to stagger a normal man—Garron barely swayed. "That's Umber blood!" the lord roared. "Push hard, fight harder that's the North!"
"Hear, hear!" several lords called out, raising their cups.
"And I'll tell you something else," Umber continued, his ale-flushed face serious beneath his beard. "I came here skeptical. Thought all this talk of new methods nonsense. But I was wrong. What Arthur Snow has built what Lord Stark has endorsed that's real. That's the future. And any lord too proud or too stupid to recognize that will find themselves left behind when the rest of the North rises."
He sat down heavily, and Lord Manderly immediately stood in response.
"Lord Umber speaks truly," Manderly said. "The North has survived for thousands of years on stubbornness and strength. But survival isn't thriving. What we've seen these economic innovations that could make every house wealthier, martial techniques that could make us unconquerable that's not just survival. That's dominance. That's the North claiming its rightful place as a power no one dares challenge."
"And we achieve that through unity," Lord Karstark added, standing in his turn. "Through cooperation rather than competition. The Council structure Lord Stark proposes ensures no single house dominates, but all houses benefit. That's wisdom."
But between the speeches and formal declarations, more intimate conversations unfolded.
Barbery Dustin had positioned herself near Brandon, engaging him in conversation that appeared casual but clearly held deeper purpose. Arthur watched her technique with professional appreciation—the way she laughed at Brandon's jokes, the subtle touches that could be explained as social convention, the way her body language suggested intimate interest while maintaining plausible deniability.
Brandon was courteous, his words steady, but something in his mind tightened a flicker of old familiarity cutting through the distance he tried to maintain. Whatever had passed between him and Barbery once still lingered, just beneath the surface.
Rickard watched his son's interaction with Barbery with an expression Arthur couldn't quite read. Not disapproval, exactly, but not approval either.
Lyanna, meanwhile, was trapped in conversation with several ladies from various houses—all asking questions about her morning demonstration, about how a lady learned to fight so effectively, about whether such skills were appropriate for highborn women. Arthur could see her discomfort from across the hall, the way her hands clenched beneath the table, the tension in her shoulders as she gave polite responses to questions she clearly found insufferable.
Young Benjen seemed more comfortable, perhaps because less was expected of him. He listened to the conversations around him with the focused attention of someone learning how power really operated.
As the first course concluded and servants brought out roasted boar, Lord Manderly approached the high table and addressed Rickard directly.
"Lord Stark, if I might speak plainly about matters of mutual interest?"
Rickard set down his cup, studying the lord of White Harbor . "This isn't a place for such talk, Lord Manderly," he said. "Join me in my solar after the feast—we'll speak theret."
Manderly inclined his head, the faintest glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes. "As you wish, my lord. I'll await your summons."
As Manderly returned to his seat, Lyanna managed to extract herself from the ladies surrounding her and approached Arthur.
"Rescue me," she said quietly, her voice pitched for his ears alone. "If I have to explain one more time that women can fight without losing their femininity, I'm going to swing one of them across the hall."
Arthur smiled despite the tension, inclining his head toward the group. "My apologies, ladies," he said smoothly. "Lady Lyanna and I were about to discuss tomorrow's council—some names I'd value your insight on."
A ripple of coos and soft laughter answered him—then the compliments came wrapped in careful civility, each woman angling a remarque that barely skimmed flirtation. "Council can wait, surely," one said, fingers resting a moment too long on her goblet as she smiled. "You showed us such skill this morning—perhaps you might—teach someone privately sometime."
"That would be quite the lesson," another murmured, eyes bright but guarded. "A closer look could be...instructive."
The third let her words hang like a soft invitation, all implication and lacquered charm.
They leaned in, practiced smiles like fishing hooks. Lyanna's jaw tightened; she stepped forward until she shadowed them. "Back off," she said, voice low and flat. "One more push, and I'll punch you so hard your teeth fall out."
The women froze, then melted back, hands fluttering to fans and sleeves. Arthur's smile was small and amused as he inclined his head in polite farewell. He turned to Lyanna, offering his hand in quiet acknowledgment; she took it, seizing the chance to retreat with him.
As they stepped away from the cluster, he leaned close, his voice barely above a whisper. "Thank you for rescuing me."
Lyanna huffed a short laugh, tension still sharp around her eyes. "Thank me? I should be the one thanking you," she muttered. "I don't know how you stand all this politicking without breaking something."
"It's a different kind of combat," Arthur replied. "Less honest than what you did this morning, but just as important. Every lord here is positioning for advantage. The ones who do it well are the ones who make it look like friendly conversation."
"Like that Dustin woman with Brandon?" Lyanna's voice carried an edge. "It's like something happened between them… or maybe I'm just imagining things."
"Your brother can handle himself," Arthur said. "And Lord Rickard is watching closely. Barbery Dustin is ambitious, but she's not stupid—she won't overstep in Rickard's own hall."
"Still," Lyanna muttered. "I don't like it."
Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Tormund, who'd finally escaped the theological interrogation he'd been enduring.
"Lord Arthur," he said formally—a mode he adopted in public settings. "Several lords are asking when advanced training might begin."
Arthur sighed internally. He'd known this was coming, but the speed with which lords moved from watching demonstrations to demanding access still surprised him.
"Tell them that advanced capabilities require natural aptitudes we're still learning to identify," Arthur replied. "Basic enhancement—strength, speed, durability improvements—those can be taught to most dedicated warriors. Advanced techniques are rare and take years to develop. We'll assess candidates carefully, but they shouldn't expect quick results."
Tormund nodded. "I'll explain that. Some will be disappointed, but most will understand—they're northern lords, they know nothing worthwhile comes easily."
As Tormund moved away, Sarra approached from the other direction, her mountain clan directness a refreshing contrast to the court politics.
"The chieftains are pleased," she reported quietly. "They see this as a chance for the clans to prove their worth to the great houses. Father wants to know if you'd be willing to train specifically clan warriors—they're already hardened by mountain life, they'd take to enhanced capabilities well."
"The Council will determine training allocation," Arthur replied. "But yes, mountain clan warriors would be excellent candidates. Their lives have already pushed them beyond normal limits—enhancement would build on existing capabilities."
"Good." Sarra's fierce smile appeared. "Father also wanted me to tell you that if you ever need warriors who won't flinch from difficult tasks, the clans remember those who show them respect. We don't forget our friends."
The message was clear—Chieftain Harrek was offering more than just training candidates. He was offering loyalty, the kind of unwavering support that mountain clans gave to those who earned it. In the complex politics of the North, that was valuable currency.
The feast continued through multiple courses, ale and wine flowing freely, voices growing louder as northern lords relaxed into celebration. Arthur moved through conversations carefully, building relationships without committing to specific alliances, gathering information while revealing little, playing the game he'd been forced to master through necessity rather than choice.
Lord Bolton remained notably distant, seated at his table with his retainer beside him, participating minimally in the general celebration. But Arthur caught him watching several times not with open hostility.
Their eyes met once across the crowded hall. Bolton didn't look away immediately this time, holding Arthur's gaze for several long seconds. Bolton knew Arthur had leverage over him. Arthur knew Bolton would cooperate out of fear if not loyalty. Neither needed to speak the truth aloud for it to shape their interactions.
Then Bolton looked away, and the moment passed.
As the feast reached its height, Lord Rickard stood once more, commanding attention through simple presence.
"Lords, ladies," Rickard began once more, "tomorrow we formalize the systems that will guide the North's future. Tonight, we stand on the threshold of change. What we've built together proves that tradition and progress need not be enemies." He let his gaze move slowly over the gathered houses. "The North endures because it learns, adapts, and refuses to be broken. Alone, we survive. Together, we shape the age to come."
He raised his cup. "To endurance. To unity. To the North's tomorrow."
"The North!" the hall thundered back, the sound swelling like storm winds over stone.
As lords drank and cheered, . By tomorrow, when the charter was signed, these threads would bind the North together in ways that hadn't been possible before.
But binding cut both ways. The same structures that would give Arthur power would also constrain him. The same alliances that protected him would also demand loyalty. The same innovations that made him valuable would also make him a target for those who wanted to control or eliminate threats to traditional power.
Barbery Dustin caught his eye from across the hall, raising her cup in a mocking salute. Her message was clear—she saw through the careful political theater, recognized the game being played, and wanted him to know she would be a player in it whether he welcomed her participation or not.
Brandon noticed her gesture, noticed Arthur's response, and moved smoothly to intercept. He crossed the hall with the easy confidence of a lord's heir, positioning himself between Arthur and Barbery's table with the precision of someone who'd been trained in social combat from childhood.
"Lady Dustin," Brandon said pleasantly, "I couldn't help but notice you seem fascinated by our feast arrangements. Perhaps you'd share your thoughts on how White Harbor manages such large gatherings? I understand your family has connections there."
It was smoothly done—redirecting her attention, establishing Brandon as a buffer, all while maintaining perfect courtesy. Barbery smiled, recognizing the maneuver for what it was, but accepted the deflection gracefully.
"Lord Brandon, you're too kind. Though I must say, Winterfell's arrangements are particularly impressive tonight. The way your father has positioned certain seats, for instance—quite strategic."
"Father's always strategic," Brandon replied, his tone light but his eyes sharp. "It's what keeps the North stable when others might see chaos."
The two engaged in verbal sparring that appeared casual but held layers of meaning Arthur wasn't entirely privy to. He used the distraction to observe the rest of the hall.
As midnight approached, the feast began winding down. Lords who'd drunk too much were helped to their quarters by patient retainers. Those still steady enough for conversation clustered in small groups, continuing negotiations that would shape tomorrow's formal charter signing.
Arthur found himself alone briefly, standing near one of the great hall's windows, looking out at Winterfell's snow-covered courtyard. The cold air cleared his head after hours of careful political navigation.
"You handled tonight well."
He turned to find Rickard beside him, the Lord of Winterfell moving with surprising quiet for such a large man.
"Thank you, my lord," Arthur replied. "Though I suspect you orchestrated much of what happened."
Rickard smiled slightly. "I provided structure. You managed the details. That's how leadership work and trusting capable people to operate within them."
They stood in silence for a moment, watching snow fall across ancient stones.
"The marriage proposals will continue," Rickard said quietly. "You should expect more approaches in coming weeks some subtle, some blunt. Every house with an unmarried daughter will see you as a potential prize."
"I serve House Stark," Arthur replied. "Any marriage alliance I form needs your approval."
"Yes," Rickard agreed. "But you should also understand that I'm not opposed to you forming alliances that strengthen your position. A strong Arthur Snow serves Stark interests you're more valuable independent than dependent."
Arthur turned to look at Rickard directly. "You're saying you'd approve marriages that build my personal power base?"
"I'm saying that the North benefits from your capabilities more than House Stark benefits from your exclusive loyalty," Rickard replied carefully. "If marrying a Manderly daughter gives you access to White Harbor's resources while strengthening our innovations, that serves everyone. If allying with Bear Island or the mountain clans expands your influence, that makes you more capable of implementing the changes we need."
He paused, choosing words with evident care. "But avoid the Dustins. Barbery is ambitious and frustrated—dangerous combination. She sees my son as a path to influence she's been denied elsewhere. Don't let her redirect those ambitions toward you."
"Understood," Arthur said. The warning was clear and appreciated.
"Tomorrow we formalize the Council," Rickard said, his tone low but firm. "After that, everything will move quickly. The great houses will send men for training, demand their share of your innovations, and push for results before they're ready. You'll need to balance their expectations without losing momentum. Can you do that?"
"Yes," Arthur replied. "Though I'll need your support when their patience runs thin."
Rickard nodded. "You'll have it. The North has chosen its course—there's no turning back now. What remains is to make sure every promise becomes something real."
He clasped Arthur's shoulder, a quiet gesture of trust. "Finish here and come to my solar when the feast ends. Manderly will join us."
With that, Rickard stepped away, moving through the crowd toward the other lords as the last of the toasts echoed through the hall.