Support me on patreon.com/c/Striker2025
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The morning Garron departed for Last Hearth dawned cold and clear, Arthur stood in the courtyard with the rest of his companions, watching as the Greatjon's party made final preparations.
Lord Umber had brought a smaller escort than when he'd arrived—just twenty mounted warriors, enough for safety on northern roads but not so many as to suggest he expected trouble. The message was clear: this was a family journey, not a military expedition.
Garron stood checking his horse's saddle straps with the careful attention Arthur had taught him years ago. The big man wore practical traveling leathers rather than anything marking him as either Umber or Cultivator.
"You're sure about this?" Lyanna asked quietly, standing beside Arthur.
"He needs to do this," Arthur replied. "Family matters, especially family that was lost and found again. And the Wall assignment is genuine—we do need someone coordinating with the Watch. This accomplishes both."
The Greatjon approached, his massive frame somehow seeming less imposing than during the Council sessions. There was something almost vulnerable in how he looked at his grandson—a man who'd lost his daughter years ago, who'd mourned a grandchild he'd believed dead, now trying to reclaim what remained of that loss.
"Ready?" Umber asked Garron.
"Ready, my lord," Garron confirmed, then hesitated. "Grandfather."
The word hung between them, awkward and tentative but real. The Greatjon's weathered face worked through several emotions before settling on something that might have been hope.
"Good," he said gruffly. "It's a three-day ride if the weather holds. We'll stop at the smaller holdings along the way—let them see you, know you're real. By the time we reach Last Hearth, everyone will have heard that Lysa's boy survived."
Arthur stepped forward, extending his arm. Garron clasped it in the warrior's grip they'd perfected over years of training together.
"Remember what we discussed," Arthur said.
"Yes I remember," Garron replied. "And Arthur—thank you. For everything. For giving me purpose when I had nothing. For never treating me as just another bastard. For making me believe I could be more."
Arthur said firmly. "I just helped you see it. Now go show the Wall what a Cultivator can do."
Garron mounted his horse and settled in the saddle, ready to ride.
The Greatjon swung into his own saddle with considerably less grace but no less authority. "Lord Rickard!" he called toward where Rickard stood on the steps. "I'll have my grandson back in one piece, and the Watch will know the North hasn't forgotten them!"
"Safe travels, Lord Umber," Rickard replied. "And Garron—make us proud."
The party moved toward the gates, hooves crunching on packed snow. Garron looked back once, meeting Arthur's eyes across the courtyard. A nod passed between them—acknowledgment, trust, understanding that transcended words.
Then they were through the gates and gone, leaving only the echo of hoofbeats fading into winter silence.
"That was harder than I expected," Lyanna murmured. "Watching him go."
"He'll be back," Arthur said. "But when he returns, he'll be different. More complete. That's what this journey is for."
"Garron, he'll be okay, right? Will people judge him because of his status?" Lyanna asked.
Arthur glanced toward the riders forming up. "Maybe at first," he admitted. "But Last Hearth values strength. Once they see what he can do, the rest won't matter."
Brandon approached from the keep, looking between Arthur and Lyanna with knowing amusement. "The first of many departures, I suspect. Once the other houses start sending their candidates, we'll have people coming and going constantly."
"Speaking of which," Arthur said, "we should finalize the evaluation criteria before they start arriving. The lords agreed to nominate candidates, but we need clear standards for who actually receives training."
"I thought you said any house could send someone," Lyanna said.
"They can nominate someone," Arthur corrected. "But we evaluate whether that person has the aptitude, discipline, and character required. Not everyone who wants cultivation training should receive it. We can't afford to enhance warriors who lack the judgment to use that power responsibly."
"That's going to cause problems," Brandon observed. "Lords who send their sons or favored warriors expecting acceptance won't take rejection well."
"Better to cause problems during evaluation than after training," Arthur replied. "We're not running a finishing school for noble heirs—we're building a force of enhanced warriors who need to operate with minimal oversight. If someone can't meet the standards now, they definitely can't be trusted with stone-crushing strength later."
"Fair point," Brandon conceded. "What standards, exactly?"
"Physical capability, obviously," Arthur began, ticking off on his fingers. "Not everyone needs to be naturally strong, but they need baseline coordination and endurance. Mental discipline—the ability to focus through discomfort, to practice forms hundreds of times without losing precision. Emotional stability—we can't train someone with uncontrolled anger or deep resentment. And character—basic honesty, respect for authority, understanding that power serves purpose rather than ego."
"That's a high bar," Lyanna said. "How many candidates do you think will actually meet it?"
"Maybe half," Arthur estimated. "Possibly fewer. Which is fine—we're starting with a dozen trainees this year. If we get six or seven who are truly qualified, that's a successful first class."
"And the ones we reject?" Brandon asked.
"We'll be diplomatic about it," Arthur said. "Explain that cultivation requires specific aptitudes, that rejection isn't a reflection on their worth as warriors or people, just recognition that this particular path isn't suited to them. Some will accept that gracefully. Others won't."
"The others are what worry me," Brandon said. "We've just established the Council, gotten the major houses on board. Rejecting their candidates could undermine that support."
"Which is why we document everything," Arthur replied. "Clear evaluation criteria, consistent application, detailed explanations for each decision. If a lord complains, we can show exactly why their candidate didn't meet standards. Most will accept that eventually—and those who don't probably shouldn't have their warriors trained anyway."
The conversation was interrupted by a servant approaching with a message. Brandon read it quickly, his expression shifting to something between amusement and resignation.
"Lord Cerwyn's son is already at the gates," he announced. "Apparently he left Cerwyn lands the morning after the Council session. He's been riding hard to arrive first."
"Eager," Lyanna observed.
"Or his father wants to secure advantage by being first to commit," Arthur said. "Either way, we should evaluate him fairly. Send word we'll meet him in an hour—gives us time to prepare the evaluation protocols."
Brandon nodded and dispatched the servant. As they walked back toward the keep, Arthur's mind was already working through the logistics. The first candidates would set the tone for everything that followed. If they established rigorous standards now, maintained consistency, and demonstrated that the Council's standards were genuine rather than political, they'd build credibility that would carry through future evaluations.
But if they showed favoritism, accepted candidates who shouldn't qualify, or let political pressure override judgment—they'd undermine everything the Council was supposed to represent.
"No pressure," Lyanna murmured, clearly reading his thoughts.
"Easy, right? Just another day with the future of north on the line," Arthur said.
They climbed the steps together, preparing for the first of many evaluations that would determine not just who received training, but whether the Council could maintain the standards it had promised.
Three Days Later
The training yard had been reorganized to accommodate the growing number of candidates. What had once been Arthur's private space for working with his core group now hosted nearly twenty young warriors from across the North, each nominated by their houses and awaiting evaluation.
Arthur stood on a raised platform overlooking the yard, Lyanna and Sarra flanking him. Brandon and Lord Rickard observed from the side, their presence lending official authority to the proceedings. Torrhen Karstark stood among the candidates, his enthusiasm undimmed by three days of waiting.
The candidates represented a cross-section of northern houses—some were heirs like Torrhen, others were younger sons, a few were promising warriors of common birth sponsored by their lords. They ranged in age from fifteen to perhaps thirty, in build from lean to heavily muscled, in demeanor from confident to nervously uncertain.
"My name is Arthur Snow," Arthur began, his voice carrying clearly across the yard. "Over the next three days, you'll undergo evaluation to determine if you're suited for cultivation training. This isn't a test of your worth as people or warriors—many excellent fighters lack the specific aptitudes cultivation requires. This is about determining who has the foundation to build enhanced capabilities safely and effectively."
He paused, meeting eyes around the assembled group. "The evaluation has four components. Physical capability—can your body handle the training? Mental discipline—can you maintain focus through difficulty? Emotional stability—can you control yourself under pressure? And character—can you be trusted with power that exceeds normal human limits?"
"How do you test character?" someone called out—a young man wearing Flint colors.
"The test for character won't be explained for now," Arthur said calmly.
He gestured toward Sarra and Lyanna. "These are two of your evaluators. They're enhanced warriors themselves, so they understand what the training requires. They'll be watching everything. Everything matters."
"When do we start?" Torrhen asked eagerly.
"Now," Arthur said. "First evaluation is endurance. You'll run the circuit around Winterfell's outer walls—four miles. We're not measuring speed. We're measuring consistency, form, and how you handle fatigue. Those who can't complete the run aren't disqualified automatically, but it tells us about your current conditioning and your willingness to push through discomfort."
He nodded to Sarra, who stepped forward with a horn. "When she sounds the horn, you begin. Stay together at first—no racing ahead to show off. This isn't about impressing us with speed. It's about demonstrating controlled, sustainable effort."
The candidates moved to the starting position, some loosening muscles, others looking nervous. Arthur caught Lyanna's eye and saw her slight smile—she knew what was coming. Most of these warriors were used to short, intense combat training. A four-mile run at controlled pace would be harder than they expected.
Sarra raised the horn and blew a clear note that echoed off stone walls.
The candidates began running.
Two hours later, Arthur reviewed the results with his core group in a small solar set aside for evaluation discussions.
"Seventeen completed the full circuit," Lyanna reported. "Three dropped out—one after a mile, two after three. Of the ones who finished, about half maintained decent form throughout. The rest were struggling by the end."
"Notable performances?" Arthur asked.
"Torrhen Karstark," Sarra said immediately. "Good endurance, excellent focus, and he slowed his pace twice to encourage runners who were falling behind. Natural leadership instincts."
"The Cerwyn boy—Medger—pushed too hard early and nearly collapsed at the end," Lyanna added. "Lots of raw determination but poor judgment about pacing himself."
"Could be trained out of him," Arthur observed. "What else?"
"There's a girl from Bear Island," Sarra continued. "Dacey Mormont, Lady Mormont's cousin's daughter. Strong swimmer apparently—she said the running was easier than swimming in northern waters. Good conditioning, steady temperament."
"The Flint candidate—Robard—complained the entire circuit," Lyanna said with distaste. "Not about being tired, but about whether this was necessary, whether running proved anything, why couldn't they just fight instead. Poor attitude."
"Note him for character concerns," Arthur said. "Anyone else stand out?"
"There's a Bolton candidate," Sarra said carefully. "Domeric Bolton, Lord Roose's only trueborn son. Quiet, competent, finished in the top five for endurance. But there's something... careful about him. Like he's constantly evaluating what people want to see and giving them exactly that."
Arthur's expression didn't change, but something cold flickered in his eyes. A Bolton candidate. Of course Roose would send someone—probably to observe, to learn cultivation methods that he could somehow turn to advantage, to maintain the appearance of cooperation while gathering intelligence.
"Evaluate him fairly," Arthur said. "If he meets the standards, we train him. If he doesn't, we reject him. But watch him closely—both for genuine capability and for any signs he's here for reasons beyond training."
"You think Lord Bolton is using his son as a spy?" Brandon asked from where he'd been listening quietly.
"I think Lord Bolton does nothing without calculation," Arthur replied. "Whether that calculation involves Domeric being a genuine student or something else, we'll discover through the evaluation process."
They continued reviewing candidates—noting strengths, weaknesses, concerns. Of the twenty who'd presented themselves, Arthur was already mentally eliminating six or seven as unsuitable. Not due to physical inadequacy alone, but combinations of poor judgment, bad attitude, insufficient discipline, or character red flags.
The next two days would test the other criteria more directly. They'd evaluate combat ability, response to instruction, treatment of peers, and—most critically—how candidates handled power when they thought no one was watching.
"Tomorrow we begin strength training basics," Arthur said. "Teaching proper form for foundational exercises. That's where we'll really see who has the patience for cultivation—it's repetitive, demanding, and shows no immediate results. The ones who get frustrated or bored are telling us they're not ready for years of dedicated practice."
"And the ones who excel?" Lyanna asked.
"We train them," Arthur said simply. "We turn them into Cultivators who'll strengthen the North and prove the Council's standards are genuine. That's what makes this worth doing—knowing that everyone who completes training has earned it."
The afternoon sun slanted through windows, painting the solar in warm light that contrasted with the cold outside. Twenty candidates waited, each hoping to be chosen, each carrying their house's expectations and their own dreams of enhanced capability.
Most would be disappointed. A few would succeed.
And from those few, the North would build something that hadn't existed in living memory—a force of enhanced warriors bound by discipline, monitored by council, and dedicated to protecting their homeland.
It was ambitious. It was risky. And it was exactly what the North needed.
Arthur stood, gathering his notes. "Let's prepare tomorrow's evaluation. The real work begins now."
Day Two—Strength Training
The training yard had been set up with various implements—weights of different sizes, practice weapons, training dummies, and open space for bodyweight exercises. The candidates assembled at dawn, some still sore from yesterday's run, all of them uncertain what today would bring.
Arthur stood before them, Lyanna demonstrating beside him.
"Cultivation begins with foundation," he said. "Not dramatic techniques or impressive displays—foundation. Building your body's basic capabilities so it can support advanced training later. That means strength, but not the kind most warriors think about."
He gestured to Lyanna. "Show them."
Lyanna dropped into a plank position—body straight, weight on forearms and toes, perfectly aligned. She held it without visible strain, her breathing even and controlled.
"This is a plank," Arthur explained. "Simple. Basic. The kind of exercise most of you learned as children. Lady Lyanna is going to hold this position for ten minutes. Watch her form—see how it doesn't waver? How her breathing stays steady? That's what foundation looks like. Control, endurance, precision."
Ten minutes later, Lyanna rose smoothly, not even breathing hard. Several candidates exchanged nervous glances—if that was basic training, what would advanced work involve?
"Your first task," Arthur said, "is learning to perform fundamental exercises with perfect form. Not quickly. Not with the heaviest weights. With perfect form. Because form is everything—it's the difference between building strength properly and injuring yourself. Between developing capability and just exhausting your muscles."
He walked them through the exercises—planks, squats, lunges, push-ups, rows. Simple movements most warriors knew, but Arthur demanded precision that most had never attempted. Every angle mattered. Every alignment was critical. Rushing was forbidden.
"You'll do these exercises every morning for months," Arthur told them. "Gradually increasing duration and difficulty, always maintaining perfect form. This is boring. This is repetitive. This is absolutely essential. The candidates who succeed will be the ones who can practice the same movement a thousand times without losing focus."
Torrhen Karstark threw himself into the training with enthusiasm that bordered on excess. Arthur watched him attempt a plank, saw the young lord's form start to waver after three minutes, watched him try to push through anyway.
"Stop," Arthur commanded. "Rest thirty seconds, then start again with proper form. Failing form means you're not building the right patterns—you're just exhausting yourself."
"I can hold it longer," Torrhen protested.
"Not with correct form, you can't," Arthur replied. "And incorrect form is worse than no training at all. Learn the lesson now—perfection over duration, always."
Torrhen flushed but obeyed, and Arthur saw the young lord absorb the correction. Good—he could take instruction without his pride interfering. That was promising.
Across the yard, Domeric Bolton performed exercises with mechanical precision. His form was excellent, his control impressive, his endurance solid. He followed instructions exactly, corrected immediately when Arthur pointed out minor flaws, and showed no sign of frustration with the repetitive nature of the work.
"Something wrong?" Sarra asked quietly, moving to stand beside him.
"Maybe," Arthur replied. "Or maybe I'm seeing threats where there are none. Bolton's son is technically excellent. That should be enough."
"But you don't trust it," Sarra observed.
"I don't trust anything connected to Roose Bolton," Arthur said flatly. "The son might be genuine. Or he might be exactly what his father trained him to be—someone who appears perfect while serving hidden purposes. Time will tell."
The morning wore on. Candidates struggled with exercises they'd thought simple, discovered that maintaining perfect form for extended periods was far harder than explosive power, learned that foundation training was as much about mental discipline as physical capability.
By midday, three more candidates had effectively eliminated themselves—not through failure, but through attitude. One mocked the training as beneath him, insisting real warriors needed combat practice not "exercises for children." Another grew visibly frustrated when corrections were given, arguing rather than adapting. A third simply lacked the patience, rushing through movements despite repeated instruction to slow down and focus on precision.
Arthur made notes, adding to the evaluation record. Of twenty original candidates, he was now considering perhaps twelve as potentially suitable. The final day's testing would determine who actually received training.
Day Three—Character Assessment
The final evaluation was the most subtle and the most important. Arthur divided candidates into small groups, assigning them various tasks around Winterfell—helping with repairs, working in the kitchens, assisting with horse care, organizing supplies.
"This isn't cultivation training," Arthur explained. "These are just tasks that need doing. Complete them however you think appropriate. We'll evaluate the results later."
What he didn't tell them was that every task had been designed to reveal character. The groups were mixed deliberately—heirs working alongside common-born warriors, strangers forced to cooperate, situations where leadership had to emerge organically rather than through title or rank.
And Arthur, Lyanna, and Sarra watched everything.
They watched Torrhen Karstark take charge of his group's repair work—not through demands but through genuine collaboration, asking for input, acknowledging others' expertise. Good.
They watched Robard Flint try to avoid the dirtier aspects of stable work, attempting to assign those tasks to the common-born member of his group. Poor.
They watched Dacey Mormont notice a younger candidate struggling with a heavy load and stop to help without being asked. Excellent.
They watched Domeric Bolton work with quiet efficiency, completing tasks thoroughly, treating everyone with consistent courtesy that somehow felt more calculated than genuine kindness. Concerning, but not disqualifying.
They watched Medger Cerwyn lose patience when his group's kitchen work fell behind schedule, snapping at a servant who'd been assigned to help them. Very poor.
By evening, the evaluations were complete. Arthur gathered his core group once more, spreading out the detailed notes they'd compiled over three days.
"Final assessment," he said. "Who meets all four criteria—physical capability, mental discipline, emotional stability, and character?"
They went through the list systematically. Of twenty original candidates, they identified eight who clearly met standards. Three more were borderline—not disqualified but requiring additional scrutiny. The remaining nine had demonstrated clear deficiencies that made them unsuitable for cultivation training.
"Eight confirmed, three probationary," Arthur summarized. "We can work with that for a first class. Eleven total is actually more than I expected to qualify."
"What about the Bolton boy?" Lyanna asked. "You've been circling his name all evening."
Arthur studied Domeric's evaluation record. Technically excellent. Disciplined. Stable. Cooperative with peers. No obvious character flaws beyond a certain calculated quality that might just be northern reserve rather than deception.
"He qualifies," Arthur said finally. "I don't entirely trust his motivations, but I can't reject him based on suspicion alone. If he's here genuinely, excluding him would be unjust. If he's here for other reasons, keeping him close where we can watch him is better than sending him away to report to his father."
"You're sure?" Sarra pressed.
"No," Arthur admitted. "But the standards have to be applied consistently, or they mean nothing. Domeric Bolton meets the criteria we established. He receives training."
The decision made, they finalized the list. Tomorrow they would announce results, face the inevitable complaints from houses whose candidates hadn't qualified, and begin the actual cultivation training for those who had.