Games of Thrones: The Heavenly Demon of North

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POV: Rickard Stark

Location: Winterfell

The frost had thickened overnight, blanketing the godswood and battlements in a soft silence that muffled even the dogs' distant howls. Rickard Stark stood beside the weirwood, gloved hands clasped, eyes narrowed beneath the silver leaves as he watched the red sap trailing like tears down the carved face.

He did not pray. He listened.

The reforms were working. That much could not be denied. The storage caverns beneath the Great Keep had never filled so swiftly with dried grain and smoked meat. The smallfolk had returned to their tasks with a kind of brisk loyalty, some even offering to take up spears or hammers in gratitude. Arthur's plans—methods Rickard could hardly understand in origin—were bearing fruit.

But so were the whispers.

He turned as Walys approached, scrolls clutched to his chest, breath misting in the morning chill.

"They're speaking of Arthur openly now," the maester said without preamble.

Rickard said nothing, letting the wind rustle the leaves above them.

"In the corridors, the barracks, even the alehouses. They call him a Reaper, a teacher, a sword that walks. And not just the common folk. Lord Mollen's younger son called him 'the true shield of the North' after the last drill. And Lady Lysa Cerwyn apparently asked her husband why their levy couldn't be trained by him instead of her own cousins."

Rickard's jaw tightened. "They speak too freely."

Walys offered a slow nod. "That's the danger of a man who does too much without asking for reward. He becomes more than a soldier. He becomes... a symbol."

Rickard exhaled through his nose. "The North was never meant to be ruled by symbols. Just blood. Ice. And will."

Walys hesitated, then handed Rickard the scroll. "A raven from Torrhen's Square. Lord Tallhart thanks you for the reinforced crop granaries. But he asks again whether his son might train directly with Arthur. He says the lad listens to none but him."

Rickard took the scroll but did not read it. "I'll send a polite refusal. Not yet. Not until I see where all this leads."

There was another pause.

"He's not your enemy, Rickard."

Rickard looked to the godswood, then back to Walys. "He's not my ally, either. Not officially. No banner. No blood tie. And yet he walks my halls, trains my sons, speaks to my people as if he were born of the Stark line."

Walys adjusted his gloves. "Perhaps that's the trouble. He didn't need to be born of it."

The words lingered long after the maester departed.

Rickard made his way back through the courtyard.

Two young squires—sons of House Mollen and House Slate—hauled bundles of ashwood to the drill posts, laughing breathless. A third practiced stances alone by the smithy wall. Rickard paused as he passed; the lad nodded. "Ser Arthur says I lean too far forward when I strike," he explained, no shame in his tone.

Younger bannermen, Rickard thought. Quicker to bend, quicker to harden.

There, Arthur stood quietly with Benjen, his cloak still and unremarkable, his stance as neutral as carved stone. The boy mimicked him—legs bent, breathing slow, holding a stick as if it weighed more than iron.

"Again," Arthur said, calm as snowfall. "Move with the air, not against it."

Benjen exhaled and stepped.

Rickard didn't interrupt. He watched from a shadowed archway, arms folded.

It was not combat. Not truly. But it was… shaping.

When not in the yard, Benjen now spent hours in the maester's tower, decoding old raven routes and mapping coastlines with Walys. It wasn't the boy's nature—but something in Arthur's rhythm had stirred a hunger in him. Not just to move. But to think.

Arthur wasn't teaching his youngest son to fight. He was teaching him to observe. To measure his breath. To align his body with instinct, not impulse. Even at ten, Benjen responded to it with a quiet concentration Rickard hadn't seen since Ned had left for the Vale.

He heard the soft scuff of boots behind him. Lyanna, arms crossed, hair bound in a tight braid.

"He never yells," she said. "That's what I noticed. He just… waits for you to catch up."

Rickard glanced at her. "You've been watching him closely."

"I watch everyone," she said. "But yes. He's different."

"How so?"

"He doesn't act like a man trying to prove anything. He just does what needs doing. Even when no one's looking."

Rickard's eyes returned to the courtyard. Arthur was helping Benjen correct his footing, shifting his knees with one hand, never raising his voice.

"He's not one of us," Rickard murmured. "Not in name. Not in origin."

"No," Lyanna said. "But neither are the men whispering about him."

That caught his attention. "What do you mean?"

"I heard Lord Cley Cerwyn's steward in the kitchens. Said he overheard a rider from the Barrowlands claiming Arthur's presence had 'unsettled the bones of tradition.' Said the old families are watching Winterfell too closely. Looking for signs that we've… bent the knee to something else."

Rickard frowned. "Something else?"

Lyanna shrugged. "Strength that doesn't wear a sigil."

He said nothing.

Benjen lost his balance and stumbled; Arthur caught him, let him settle, and then released without scolding.

"They're afraid of him," Lyanna said, voice softer now.

Rickard watched the motionless figure that was Arthur Snow—quiet, unmoved, unshaken by praise or politics.

"No," he said at last. "They're afraid of what he makes us question."

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Later that afternoon, the courtyard emptied of snow and sweat. Rickard sat at the long table of the Great Hall—not the high seat, but a bench along the side, poring over ledgers and raven reports with Maester Walys. Outside, smoke from the forges mingled with hearthfire and frozen mist. The people of Winterfell, it seemed, had grown used to the scent of metal and ash.

It was the scent of readiness.

"There," said Walys, pointing to a thick scroll. "Hornwood's steward wrote again. The western flank is reorganized. Garron's improvements to their outer palisade cut three days off their resupply route."

Rickard nodded, making a silent mark with his quill.

"And Lady Barbrey?" he asked.

Walys hesitated. "She refuses correspondence unless it comes through House Bolton. Her reply, though brief, implies you've let 'outsiders' reshape Northern discipline. She called Arthur 'the man with no house and too much reach.'"

Rickard rubbed the edge of his beard. "She would."

A page knocked and entered. "M'lord, Ser Harwin of House Flint is arrived. With two companions."

"Show them in."

Moments later, Ser Harwin entered, face ruddy with cold, flanked by a weathered man and a youth—likely his squire. They bowed.

"My lord Stark," Harwin began. "I rode from Widow's Watch. Lord Locke sends gratitude for the seed grain shipment… but also warnings."

Rickard stood, gesturing for him to speak.

"Some of the holdfasts along the coast speak of Arthur Snow as if he were a lord in all but name. They say the reforms in scouting, timber fortification, even mill repair—it all bears his mark."

Rickard waited. "And?"

Harwin gave a slight grimace. "They say the South will see it as a rebellion. That you've crowned your own weapon."

A long silence.

Rickard glanced down at the raven scrolls before him. So many lines. So many words. All circling the same truth.

"Do you believe that?" he asked.

Harwin shifted. "No, my lord. But I know what southern ears will hear. Especially the wrong ones."

Rickard let him go with thanks and turned toward the fire.

It was true. Arthur had not asked for land, or title, or recognition. But in every hammer raised to build a new granary, in every soldier drilled in restraint rather than rage, his presence echoed. Not as a lord. But as a standard.

That was the real threat.

The flames crackled.

Then a softer knock came. Not a page. Lyanna.

He waved her in. She closed the door behind her.

"What is it?"

"I want to say something about Benjen," she said, stepping forward. "He listens to Arthur. More than he listens to me or even you."

Rickard didn't move. "And does that trouble you?"

"No," she said honestly. "But it will trouble others. Already is."

She hesitated, then added, "Some of the boys from House Ryswell said Arthur teaches 'southern witchery.' That breath and balance aren't the way Northerners fight."

Rickard raised an eyebrow. "And what did you say?"

"I broke one of their noses in the yard."

He smiled faintly, then let it fade. "Violence won't silence whispers, Lyanna."

"No," she said. "But silence will make them louder."

He studied her, and saw in her posture the same quiet weight he saw in Arthur's: the discipline of someone who knew how to endure cold—inside and out.

"Father," she added, "I don't think Arthur wants what people think he does."

Rickard nodded. "That's what makes him dangerous."

"To whom?"

"To everyone who does want it."

Another silence.

Then she stepped forward, placed something on the table. A folded strip of linen—inside, a small wooden carving. A wolf's head. Not finely made, but carefully.

"He gave this to Benjen," she said. "Didn't say a word. Just handed it to him after training. Benjen carved the eyes himself."

Rickard picked it up, turned it in his hand.

"He's trying to shape something that endures," Lyanna said. "Whether we name it or not."

Rickard looked out the window. The snow had stopped falling.

"I know," he said.

—

That evening, as the firelight danced against the hall's stone walls, Rickard stood at the dais while the hearths blazed and the tables filled with food. Not a feast—just a formal supper. Enough nobles had arrived in the past weeks to warrant presence. A few from the Karstark lands, others from smaller vassals.

He caught eyes watching Arthur—where he sat modestly near the lower end of the hall. He drank little, spoke less.

When Rickard rose, the murmurs stilled.

"We've weathered many winters," he began. "But not every storm comes from snow. Some come from within. Doubts. Fractures. Fears."

He let his eyes sweep the room. "Strength does not come from blood alone. Nor does it come from banners. It comes from sacrifice. From discipline. From choosing what must be done even when no one is watching."

Some eyes flicked toward Arthur. Others away.

"I will not pretend we are unchanged. That would be a lie. But the North has always endured change by shaping it to its will. We will continue to do so."

He paused.

"And if any man fears that what we build here offends the South—then let the South come north, and see it for themselves."

Muttered agreement. A few tense glances.

Later, as the hall emptied and the fire burned low, Rickard found Arthur outside beneath the sky.

"You heard?"

Arthur nodded once. "Enough."

Rickard studied the stars. "You should know… some of the lords have begun speaking of alliances. Of you. And how they might shape your path if the South were to intervene."

"I expected that," Arthur said. "The world doesn't let men be free."

"No," Rickard agreed. "But it fears the ones who act like they already are."

A gust of wind scattered fresh flakes.

"Benjen carved the eyes," Rickard added, handing him back the wolf carving.

Arthur accepted it silently.

Rickard clasped his shoulder. "Just don't forget—loyalty isn't always born from blood. But betrayal often is."

Arthur looked up. "I'll remember."

They parted without another word.