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POV: Arthur Snow
Location: Winterfell Great Hall
The Great Hall glowed with firelight and flickering candle flames. Banners stirred faintly overhead as the wind whispered through the stone.
After the grim silence of the council, the feast served not just as celebration—but assurance. The Northern lords needed to see their Warden hale and whole. They needed to drink, feast, laugh. And so they did.
Arthur stood by the high table, not seated, but at Lord Rickard's shoulder. Not a place of power—yet everyone knew what it meant.
He was no longer just a blacksmith's apprentice.
"Boy with a blade and instincts," Brandon Stark muttered beside him, carving into roast fowl. "You sure you're not some leftover from the Age of Heroes?"
Arthur raised a brow. "I was told you were the dramatic one."
Brandon grinned, wine-stained and sharp. "You were told right."
From down the table, a voice cut through the chatter.
"And what name does the Age of Heroes give bastards now? Snow? Or Wolf?"
All eyes turned.
Lady Barbrey Dustin, seated beside her husband Lord William Dustin, had spoken. She was dressed in sable and silver, her hair bound in intricate braids threaded with jet beads. Lord William, younger than most expected and still hale, leaned forward slightly but said nothing.
Barbrey, however, watched Arthur like a riddle.
"He fights. He forges. He saves. Yet wears no colors, swears no sword, bears no blood. Tell me, Lord Rickard, where did you find him? Or did he find you?"
Rickard didn't blink. "In the fire, Lady Dustin. Like all good steel."
A few quiet nods passed through the table.
Brandon chuckled. "He's not for sale, Barbrey. So don't get any ideas."
Her smile was feline. "Oh, I only collect things worth the price."
Just then, a shadow passed near the dais. Lyanna Stark, wild-eyed and flushed from the sparring yard, had entered late and climbed directly to her father's side.
"Arthur," she said, brushing a snowflake from her cloak. "You missed the morning tilt."
"I was forging," he said simply.
"You're always forging," she said, then looked down at his hands. "Still burned?"
Arthur flexed the fingers slightly. "Healing."
Lyanna grinned. "You owe me a match."
"I'll try not to embarrass myself."
From across the table, Barbrey's gaze narrowed, her goblet raised halfway to her lips but forgotten. She watched the girl—barely grown—and the bastard exchange smiles like old allies.
She leaned back toward her husband and murmured something too quiet to hear. William Dustin looked confused. Then wary.
Across the hall, Lord Wyman Manderly toasted once again. "To the blade that saw the poison! To the boy who saw what seasoned men did not!"
Arthur inclined his head politely. Lyanna elbowed him lightly and whispered, "You should've said something clever. They love clever."
He murmured, "You say enough clever for the both of us."
Her eyes sparkled with amusement.
Later That Night — The Courtyard
Arthur stepped out into the cold for air. The sky above was a stretch of stars, pale and watchful. Snow hadn't started yet, but the air warned it would soon.
A footstep behind him. Not heavy. Familiar.
"I don't like the way she looks at you," Lyanna said, arms folded across her chest.
"Lady Dustin?"
"She's married. And twice your age."
Arthur didn't answer.
"She collects people," Lyanna continued. "Like horses. You're not for collection."
"I'm not," he agreed.
She looked at him, dark eyes fierce. "Good."
Then she walked off, her steps sure and angry.
From the tower window above, Barbrey Dustin watched with a quiet, unreadable smile.