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The solar of Winterfell had never felt smaller to Lord Rickard Stark as he sat surrounded by ravens' scrolls, each bearing news more extraordinary than the last. The afternoon light streaming through the tall windows cast long shadows across the stone floor, yet they seemed pale compared to the shadow his protégé had cast across the Seven Kingdoms.
Maester Walys shuffled through the messages with practiced efficiency, his chain clinking softly. "The accounts are remarkably consistent, my lord. Every raven from King's Landing tells the same tale—Arthur Snow defeated Ser Jaime Lannister in single combat before the entire court, then somehow incapacitated King Aerys with nothing more than a look."
Rickard's weathered hands gripped the arms of his chair as he processed the implications. Arthur Snow—the bastard he had taken in as a boy, trained as a retainer, elevated to trusted ally—had humbled the finest knight in the realm and brought the Mad King to his knees.
Across the room, Ser Rodrik Cassel stood by the hearth, his broad frame rigid, arms crossed. The grizzled master-at-arms had trained Arthur alongside Stark sons. His voice, gravelly and sure, cut through the heavy silence. "I said it years ago, my lord. The boy had steel in him unlike the rest. Not just strength of arm—strength of spirit. You can drill men to fight, but you cannot drill them to carry storms inside their eyes."
Rickard allowed himself a faint nod. Arthur had always possessed an otherworldly quality, but his recent achievements had elevated him from northern promise to continental legend.
"The political ramifications alone…" Maester Walys began, but Rickard silenced him with a raised hand.
"I know what this means, Walys. Every lord in the Seven Kingdoms now knows that House Stark's most trusted ally has the ear of princes and the power to humble kings. They will either seek our friendship or our ruin."
It had been several days since Brandon's return from Barrowton, and already his presence filled Winterfell like a restless fire. He entered the solar with his usual confident stride, still wearing his riding leathers though his horse had long been stabled. The wolf's blood ran hot in him, and his grey eyes shone with eagerness.
"Father," Brandon said with only the barest bow before excitement carried him onward. "The whole North speaks of Arthur Snow's triumph. Lord Dustin's hall was in uproar when the ravens arrived."
Rickard's mouth twitched into a dry line. "I imagine it was. Sit, Brandon. Tell me what you heard in Barrowton."
Brandon took a seat, though it seemed every muscle in him resisted stillness. "Lord Dustin says nobles from as far south as the Reach are sending inquiries about joining Arthur's Hollow Vale. They want to train under the man who humbled Ser Jaime Lannister."
Maester Walys looked up sharply. "The Hollow Vale? That's Arthur's training ground?"
"Aye," Brandon said eagerly. "Young lords, second sons, even seasoned knights are begging for acceptance. Ravens fly in every day. The demand grows with each telling of his victory." His voice swelled with conviction. "Father, this could change everything for the North. Our influence, our reputation—"
"Could also paint a target on our backs," Rickard interrupted, though not unkindly. "Power draws attention, Brandon. Not all of it welcome."
Ser Rodrik shifted, his leather boots creaking against the stone. "Aye. A mighty name is like a great shield—it draws every spear toward it. But a true shield doesn't break, no matter how many strikes it takes."
Brandon's jaw tightened with determination. "Then we prove ourselves unbreakable. Arthur Snow has set the realm ablaze, and every flame reflects back on House Stark. Southern lords who never spared us thought now scramble to curry favor."
Rickard's voice carried a measured weight. "And what do they seek in return?"
"Access," Brandon answered at once. "Training at the Hollow Vale. Meetings with Arthur. Marriage ties to the North that suddenly seem more valuable than ever."
Maester Walys folded his hands, brows furrowed. "The shift is undeniable, my lord. For centuries, the South has seen the North as harsh, distant, irrelevant save in war. Now…"
"Now they see us as the forge of legends," Rickard finished. "The place that shaped the man who can bring kings to their knees."
Brandon rose and went to the window, watching men-at-arms sparring in the yard. "Lord Dustin says applications to the Hollow Vale have tripled. Young nobles offer dowries, gold, even sworn swords just for the chance to train beneath Arthur's methods."
"And how should we respond to such… enthusiasm?" Rickard asked.
"We harness it," Brandon declared. "Every son trained there binds his house to us. Every favor granted builds coin we can spend when winter comes."
Ser Rodrik gave a short grunt of approval. "The boy speaks true. A sword left sheathed rusts. Better to wield it and set the terms of its use."
Rickard studied his son for a long moment. Brandon had grown at Barrowton, his fire now tempered with purpose. Perhaps it was time to trust that growth.
"The Hollow Vale will need to expand," Rickard mused. "More instructors. Better facilities. And guidance from House Stark to steady the weight now placed upon it."
"Arthur foresaw as much," Brandon replied. "Before leaving for King's Landing, he spoke of making the Hollow Vale a beacon for the realm. He wished to strengthen it here, in the North, until its reputation reached every hall and holdfast."
Maester Walys frowned. "That will demand vast resources, my lord. To maintain quality, to preserve standards…"
"Standards are the heart of it," Rickard said firmly. "Arthur built his name on discipline, not promises. If his standards hold, so too will the North's."
A knock came at the door. Ser Rodrik stepped forward, opened it, and returned with a bundle of messages. His face was grave. "Ravens from White Harbor, Deepwood Motte, and Bear Island. Every major northern house seeks your word on how to answer the flood of southern requests."
Brandon's excitement all but radiated from him. "Do you see, Father? The opportunity is ours for the taking. We can reshape the realm itself."
"Or be buried beneath the weight of expectations we cannot uphold," Rickard countered, though there was a faint test in his tone.
"Then we do not fail," Brandon said fiercely. "Every man who comes north will leave knowing the North's honor and strength. That is Arthur's promise, and ours."
Rickard regarded his son in silence, then gave a decisive nod. "Very well. Send ravens to our bannermen. House Stark endorses the Hollow Vale. But make it clear—entry is not bought with birth or coin. Arthur's standards are iron, and so they remain."
Brandon's grin was bright as dawn. "Yes, Father. And when Arthur returns north—"
"We will stand ready to support the course he sets," Rickard finished. "The North has ever bred warriors others fear and respect. Now we will teach the realm why that is so."
When Brandon left to draft the letters, only Maester Walys and Ser Rodrik remained. The maester spoke hesitantly. "You take a great risk, my lord. If Arthur's legend fades, if his methods falter—"
"Then we face it together," Rickard cut in. "Arthur Snow built his name with steel and results, not fancy words. So long as he continues, the North's harvest will be bountiful indeed."
Ser Rodrik inclined his head, his voice steady. "Storms test the strength of walls, my lord. Better to stand upon stone than sand when they come."
Rickard's gaze lingered on the northern sky beyond the tall windows. A seed planted years ago now pushed through the earth, its roots deep and strong. What it grew into would not only shape the North—it might change the very realm.
Winter was coming. But for the first time in years, Rickard Stark looked forward to its arrival. this will be the chapter no changes