Games of Thrones: The Heavenly Demon of North

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POV: Arthur Snow

Location: Outside Winterfell — Hollow Vale

The ground had been cleared of frost long before the last snow melted. Spring came late in the North, but the Vale knew no seasons—only sweat, motion, and discipline.

Arthur stood at the ridge overlooking the training circle. Below him, a dozen boys and girls moved in unison: footwork drills, shoulder rolls, breathwork. No swords. No armor. Just form.

Just the body, learning to listen to itself.

The wind pushed his cloak aside. Lyanna stood a little distance behind, watching the same scene with arms folded.

"They still call it the Hollow Vale," she said, tone unreadable.

Arthur didn't turn. "I let them. It's easier that way."

"It doesn't sound Northern."

"It isn't. But neither am I."

He crouched, picking up a smooth stone from the ledge and rubbing its flat surface.

"They'll ask what it means, eventually," Lyanna said.

"They'll forget to ask when they understand what it does."

Flashback – Three Moons Ago

The first stone was laid after the Ironborn raid.

Winterfell's walls had held, but barely. Too many gaps in response time. Too many noble sons trained in banners, not in blood.

Arthur had stood in the godswood with Rickard Stark, drawing shapes in the dirt.

"Steel is not our only weakness," he'd said, outlining a long oval ringed with smaller shapes. "We lack cohesion. Thought. Grit taught before war, not during it."

"And this... Vale of yours will fix that?" Rickard had asked.

"It will train those willing. Not in swordplay, but in will. The sword comes later. This teaches how to fall and rise. How to listen to wind. When not to fight."

Rickard studied the markings. "And no sigil over the gate?"

"Let it belong to none," Arthur replied. "And so it might belong to all."

Present

A horn sounded from the south end of the field. Vaeren stepped forward to call time. The students bowed. A few collapsed into the grass.

Arthur descended the slope, his steps measured. Around him, wooden beams formed partial frames—future halls for smithing, meditation, first-aid instruction. Foundations laid with no roof yet. But they would come.

He passed Thom, who was inspecting a student's injured wrist. The boy winced. Thom only muttered, "Good pain teaches. Bad pain speaks too late."

Arthur gave a nod. Thom returned it, wordlessly.

They were growing. Slowly, but they were.

Near the center ring, two boys sparred without weapons—just motion. One tall and brutish, the other nimble. The nimble one fell, rolled back to his feet, and tapped his opponent's ribs before retreating again.

Arthur stopped. "What's your name?" he asked the smaller boy.

The boy stood straight. "Cregan... Cregan Hornwood, ser."

Arthur blinked. So the Hornwood bastard had arrived.

"You know what you did wrong?" Arthur asked.

"Yes, ser. I let him set the rhythm."

"And next time?"

"I'll break it."

Arthur turned and moved on. That would do.

In the open hall under construction, Garron hammered into a heavy oak beam, securing the roof supports. His arms were bare and blackened with soot.

"This place is a beast," Garron grunted. "Takes more time to birth than an anvil."

Arthur walked the perimeter with him. "But worth the weight."

"Most of these lads never even held a hammer proper," Garron said. "I'll teach 'em how to make what they use. Not just use what they're given."

He paused. "That Manderly boy's clever. Knows grain angle on a blade. Doesn't talk like a lordling."

Arthur smiled faintly. "That's why he was sent."

Later, Arthur walked past the bunkhouses. Lyanna was seated on the grass, stretching her legs in slow, controlled movements. A group of younger girls mimicked her without instruction.

He watched quietly as she corrected a wrist angle here, a spine alignment there.

"You've become a mentor," he said softly.

She didn't look up. "I didn't ask to be one."

"No one did. But you didn't run from it either."

Her gaze lifted toward the pines beyond the wall. "They'll send eyes soon. The lords who don't like this. The king, maybe."

"They already have," Arthur said.

"And you built this anyway?"

"I built this because they would."

She stared at him for a long moment. Then nodded once and turned back to her forms.

That night, Arthur lit a single lantern in the center of the training ring. The Hollow Vale was quiet—students fed, wounds bound, minds worn and calmed.

He stood alone with the light, feeling the stillness.

It was not a place of battle.

Not yet.

But it was a seedbed.

Where steel was not gifted—but grown.

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POV: Arthur Snow

Location: Hollow Vale – Later that Week

The snow had turned to mud in the training yards, but the drills continued.

Arthur watched from under the newly roofed observation porch. Thom stood beside him, arms folded, watching a sparring round between the Manderly cousin and a Karstark boy.

The Manderly cousin—lean, quick, and unburdened by arrogance—had already disarmed his opponent twice.

"He learns fast," Thom murmured. "Doesn't waste movement."

Arthur gave a faint nod. "Because he listens. He doesn't try to impress anyone. Just improve."

Below, the Karstark boy snarled and lunged again. The Manderly youth sidestepped, swept the boy's leg, and ended with a wooden blade against his throat.

No cheering. No smugness. Just silence, then bowing.

Arthur watched the defeated Karstark rise, frustration carved deep into his scowl. The resentment wasn't aimed at his opponent. It was aimed up—toward Arthur.

"They'll remember the name Hollow Vale," Thom muttered. "And not all fondly."

"That's not the point," Arthur replied. "They don't have to like it. They have to understand it."

Thom paused. "Do you think they will?"

Arthur didn't answer.

That evening, he returned to Winterfell alone.

The quiet of the godswood welcomed him. Snow clung to the low branches of the weirwood. Its red leaves barely stirred in the still air.

Rickard Stark stood before the heart tree, hands clasped behind his back.

"You named it the Hollow Vale," Rickard said, not turning.

"I didn't name it at all," Arthur replied. "They gave it that."

Rickard turned slowly. His face held no emotion—but his eyes watched sharply. "They're calling it a haven for wild seeds. Bastards. Commoners. Sons of broken oaths."

Arthur raised a brow. "And what do you call it?"

Rickard considered. "Necessary. And dangerous."

He stepped closer. "The Vale is training the North's next generation—not just in war, but in self-worth. That's power beyond swords."

Arthur met his gaze. "And power breeds fear."

Rickard's expression darkened slightly. "The Boltons, Karstarks, Dustins—they've sent word. Polite questions for now. But behind those courtesies are doubts. 'Why train our sons if he holds no land? No title? What oath binds him?'"

"I've asked for neither land nor title," Arthur said calmly.

Rickard nodded. "Which makes it worse. Men understand ambition. They don't know what to do with a man who wants nothing from them—but changes everything anyway."

Arthur was silent for a moment.

Then: "The realm is shifting. Southward eyes are watching. If we don't adapt, we'll be remembered only as the last ones who stood still."

Rickard walked a slow circle around the heart tree. "And if they force us to kneel?"

"Then they learn what grows from frost and silence."

Before Arthur departed the godswood, Rickard called after him.

"One question."

Arthur turned.

"Why now? Why build this Vale when you know what it will stir?"

Arthur paused. His voice was quiet but clear. "Because when war comes again—and it will—I want our people ready. Not just trained. Ready."