Games of Thrones: The Heavenly Demon of North

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Arthur reined in as the crossroads inn came into view, its stone walls softened by evening light, windows glowing with fire. To any traveler, it was just another waystop—a warm fire, cheap ale, the smell of stew drifting on the road. But Arthur remembered. This place was no simple inn. It was a branch of the Order, a quiet node in the web that Redna had spun, a place that played both sides. To the Master of Whisperers, it offered tidbits, illusions, carefully planted falsehoods that did no harm to him or his plans. Just enough to convince the crown's spiders they had eyes here. But its true loyalty bent elsewhere—toward him.

He dismounted and led his horse to the stable. A stablehand darted forward, eyes flicking briefly to Arthur's hooded face before lowering them again with practiced ease. Inside the inn, warmth and noise swallowed him—the scent of mutton stew, clatter of tankards, the off-key strain of a bard's harp. Yet the moment he stepped through the door, conversation faltered. For a heartbeat, too many eyes turned to him, measuring, weighing, recognizing. Then the hum resumed, laughter forced back into place.

Behind the counter, the barkeeper froze, then whispered something urgent to a serving girl. She scurried off through a side door. Arthur knew before she returned who she had gone to fetch.

Moments later, Maeryn appeared. The innkeeper herself. Sharp-eyed, steady, memory like steel. She walked without haste, though her hands were folded in her apron to hide their trembling. Her gaze lowered as she reached him, voice pitched for his ears alone.

"He is here," she murmured to the barkeep, then turned. "Lord. Come. Not out here."

She led him through a low archway into a small chamber off the hall, set apart from the noise of the common room. The walls smelled faintly of oak smoke and old parchment. A single candle lit the table where she gestured for him to sit. When the door shut, the inn seemed to exhale, as though the whole house bent subtly toward his presence.

Arthur lowered his hood. His eyes were sharp, unreadable, a shadow cut into flesh. He said only, "Tell me. All of it. The great houses—what they move, what they plan, what they fear. No omissions."

Maeryn's hand trembled as she poured the wine, and with it came memory—unbidden, fierce.

It had been years ago, in the frozen cellar of the Ashen Keep, when Redna gathered them all. Dozens knelt in silence, torchlight sputtering on stone. Arthur stood apart, face unreadable, a scroll of pale silk in his hand. No maester could name the characters inked upon it. He spoke only to Redna, voice low, the kind of voice that bent silence itself to listen.

Then he placed the scroll in her keeping. "You will be their hand," he said—not request but command, carved into inevitability.

Redna had drawn a knife, pricked her palm, and whispered words Arthur had given her. Words that seared the air like burning iron. When her blood touched the brows of the kneeling, a shiver ran through them all, deeper than flesh. One by one, gasps filled the cellar. One by one, they felt it—the tether, the chain without metal, the vow that could not be broken.

Maeryn herself had knelt. She remembered the moment, the sensation of falling into an endless dark, then being caught—not gently, but absolutely. When she rose again, her knees shook. Arthur said nothing, only looked upon them once, and in that glance they knew: they did not serve Redna, nor themselves. They served him.

Even now, years later, with the common room's fire only a wall away, Maeryn felt her chest tighten. The memory burned like a scar. Fear, yes—but also the strange, unshakable certainty that there was no escape, and no desire for it.

She lowered her gaze. "As you command, lord." She sat across from him and began to speak, her words swift and precise, as though every piece had been rehearsed for the moment she would finally give it to him.

"The Ironborn raid unceasing on the Reach's western shores. Villages burned, grain ships taken. Lords murmur that the crown cannot protect them."

She leaned closer. "Mace Tyrell fortifies his ports. He spends freely in the capital, buying favor. He means for the Reach's grain to be the realm's lifeline when winter strikes—and he means to profit from it."

"Tywin Lannister offers aid, fleets to strike at the raiders—but not without price. He asks concessions from the crown, and already his gold flows into certain hands in King's Landing. Hands that grow louder with each passing moon."

"Robert Baratheon pushes for open war. He would sail to the Iron Islands and end their line by sword. But Jon Arryn stays his hand, fearing the whole realm would catch fire. The Arryns themselves send envoys to Dorne, though for what end, none can yet say."

At that name Maeryn lowered her voice further. "The Martells deal in shadows. Some say they have been promised the Stepstones for their fleets. Others whisper they simply wait, patient as serpents, until the realm weakens enough to strike without risk."

Arthur listened in silence. His stillness pressed her to continue.

"Tully of Riverrun watches his own waters. Hoster resists calls to strip men from his crossings. He fears to weaken his hold while the South bleeds."

But then she faltered, as though the next words themselves weighed heavier. "It is the North, lord. That is where the talk turns sharpest. In King's Landing they say the Starks stand aloof, hoarding strength while others suffer. Some whisper Lord Rickard will not march because he trusts neither king nor council. Others say worse—that the North sharpens its own blade, ready for a war not yet spoken."

Her eyes rose to his at last, though they flickered down quickly again. "And your name, lord—it runs through those whispers like a thread through cloth. They call you a Stark bastard come south with secret orders. Some say you are dangerous. Some say you seek to mend ties with the Iron Throne. And others…" She hesitated. "…others whisper that you are not of the North at all, but a shadow sent to judge the realm."

Maeryn's voice lowered further. "There is one more matter, lord. A whisper that runs faster than the rest, and it has already left Stoney Sept."

Arthur's gaze sharpened.

"The bailiff there—Ser Cley Morton—he quakes even now. He has writing to his lord, telling of a hooded stranger who interfered with the gallows. He writes that two were spared not by rope nor mercy, but by the gods themselves, and that the crowd named you their deliverer." She drew a folded scrap from her sleeve. "A copy of his letter. Our riders caught it on the road."

She set it before him, and Arthur's eyes scanned the neat, panicked script: 'A hooded lord, no common man, no sellsword. The people call it a sign. I fear what hand moves beneath the Seven's name. If such a shadow walks our roads, we are already lost.'

Maeryn's lips pressed tight. "They call you the Hooded Lord now. The name grows louder with every retelling. It follows you faster than you can ride."

Arthur's face did not change, though the silence deepened. Maeryn's voice thinned to a tremor. "The realm is watching you. Not only the King's eyes, but all of them."

The candle guttered. In the common room beyond, laughter rose and fell. Arthur sat motionless, the weight of the realm's unraveling laid bare before him.

Maeryn reached under her apron and slid a folded hide across the table. A map, inked with routes, sigils, names. Supply lines, grain stores, weak arteries in the King's court. "This," she whispered, "is what Aerys does not know you know."

Arthur studied the lines. The realm's pulse, thready and failing. The Ironborn pressing from the west. Tyrell and Lannister gnawing at one another. Baratheon clawing for war. Martell patient as dusk. Arryn weaving quiet strands. Tully clinging inward. And the North—silent, watched, mistrusted. The pattern lay clear before him, like a tapestry half unraveled.

He folded the map with steady hands. No word escaped him.

Maeryn did not press. She remembered the glance that had branded her in Ashen Keep as surely as any scar. She had felt dread then. She felt dread even now. And still—she whispered the only word her tongue dared shape.

"Lord."

Arthur rose from the chair in silence. The bench creaked as though relieved of his weight. He drew his hood once more, the shadows swallowing his face, and crossed the common room without pause. Every eye seemed to flicker toward him, yet none dared meet his gaze.

Outside, the night air was cool and sharp with the smell of hay and damp earth. His horse waited in the stable, stamping softly as if it sensed his nearness. Arthur laid a hand on its neck, a brief, quiet touch, then swung into the saddle.

Without a backward glance, he guided the beast onto the road, the inn's warm lantern glow fading behind him until it was no more than a memory swallowed by the dark.