Games of Thrones: The Heavenly Demon of North

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POV: Arthur Snow

Location: Winterfell → Kingsroad → Borderlands of the North

Arthur opened his eyes to the hiss of wind over black stone. The air was thick, metallic—each breath tasted of iron. He turned, expecting the cold timber of his Winterfell chamber, but found himself standing on a battlefield drowned in blood.

And he knew.

Murim. His past life.

Junghyeok Baek stood where Arthur now stood—though the body was the same, the weight in his limbs was heavier, older. Corpses carpeted the ground, their armor dented and their faces half-buried in ash. Banners of the Orthodox Union burned in the distance. His own cult's standards lay trampled in the mud.

Lucidity came like the drawing of a blade. I'm dreaming. But the knowledge did not weaken the pull.

He could hear them again—the voices of his former allies—men and women who had once followed him into death without hesitation, now whispering in secret about the "method" that would make them greater. They had wanted his flesh and blood, believing it would grant them his powers. They had plotted with the elders, thinking themselves clever.

Fools.

His sword, Yeomcheon, lay warm in his grip. He remembered forging it himself—using techniques only he could replicate. And he remembered the slaughter. He had given no mercy, leaving behind no body recognizable enough to be taken home.

The ringing of the forge still echoed in his ears, but it was beginning to fade—for it was the only thing that ever brought him peace in this cruel world.

He awoke in the dim quiet of his Winterfell chamber, breath steady, the image of the battlefield still burning behind his eyes. He sat up slowly, the cold air grounding him in the present.

Why now? Dreams of Murim, of his past life, had not come in years. Perhaps it was the raven. Perhaps the South. The court of Aerys was a place of daggers and whispers—a breeding ground where betrayal spread like mold.

"I will not let it happen again," he said under his breath. "Not here. Not in the North."

He rose, dressed, and stepped into the corridor.

The raven's summons had the quiet, small terror of a thing that cannot be unbroken. Word of the King's call moved through Winterfell like a draft under a door—felt but not seen—until it pooled in the hall and in the faces of those who would miss him. Garron pressed his jaw; Benjen's hand did not leave the pommel of his sword; even the younger boys, who'd never seen a royal summons in their lives, watched him as if he might vanish.

"You really think the South will…?" Garron began, the question trailing off into the realm of things men do not say aloud.

Sarra leaned against the stone wall, arms crossed, her mouth curled in a teasing smile. "Arthur cannot be defeated, Garron. You're worrying for no reason."

Vaeren turned his head sharply, voice low and edged like a drawn dagger. "Defeated? Perhaps not by sword or spear. But can he survive wildfire?"

The room stilled. Even the hearth seemed to hush.

Vaeren's eyes glinted. "Do you know what that is? The greatest alchemical achievement in the history of Westeros. A green fire born from secrets older than the Citadel, clinging to flesh and steel until both are nothing but ash. It burns hotter than any forge. Water does not quench it—no, it screams when drowned, and spreads wider. One spark can devour ships. One drop can erase a man from the world. Can Arthur survive that?"

Arthur didn't answer right away. He simply leaned back, folding his arms, letting the silence stretch until it felt like the whole hall leaned toward him.

Then, with a slow, confident smile:

"Yes. I can."

The way he said it made the air feel different—warmer, heavier. It wasn't arrogance. It was certainty, the kind that made lesser men believe before they understood why.

Rickard Stark's brows rose a fraction. He said nothing, but the ghost of approval flickered in his eyes.

Maester Walys adjusted his chain nervously, though his gaze lingered on Arthur as if weighing the truth of his words.

The master-at-arms let out a dry, humorless chuckle. "If that's true, boy, then even the South' can't even touch you ."

Lyanna's lips curved—not into a smile, but something sharper, like she had just been given proof of what she already believed.

Garron exhaled slowly, the tension leaving his shoulders. "Then I have nothing to fear."

Rickard stood then, grave and old in a way that made the hearth seem frivolous. He thrust a sealed letter into Arthur's hand—wax stamped not with the North's wolf but with the King's hand. "Give this to the King yourself. No intermediaries," he said. "Travel without banners. Let nothing announce you except what you must be."

Lyanna moved next to him, the thought of loss softening her cut. From beneath her cloak she drew a simple wolf carved from weirwood and pressed it into Arthur's palm. "For the road," she murmured. "Remember where you belong."

He looped the cord about his neck and tucked the letter into his pack without ceremony. The amulet lay cool against his breast. He did not tell them what he carried besides the token and the King's seal.

When he called them together in his solar that night, the fire threw their faces into brief relief. He turned to each person by name and by responsibility, the task-list a kind of prayer.

"Redna—keep the network alive. I want word from every corner of the North."

"Garron—Hollow Vale is yours to fortify."

"Sarra—train the refugees. Strengthen their hands, not just their bellies."

"Vaeren, Thom—you care for those who stay."

"Maelen—watch the Boltons. Closely."

Each nodded in turn. None argued. They understood what needed doing; the North could not stall because one man rode south. Arthur watched their faces for a moment—trusted them—and let the room return to its ordinary noises.

He slept with the amulet beneath his tunic, its weight a quiet reminder even in dreams. The night passed without sound, and the world outside his chamber grew pale. By the time dawn crept over the walls, he was already in the yard, tightening the saddle straps beneath the cold grey light. The gates of Winterfell opened to a Kingsroad half-melted into mud. He felt, absurdly, that if he hurried he could cross the continent in little more than a week using the methods he kept to himself. He did not hurry. His horse was real flesh and muscle; it would need rest. The road had lessons that a rushed man could not learn.

By midday, the animal's pace had slowed, and Arthur pulled to the roadside near a stand of pines to loosen its girth.

The creak of failing wood drew his eye: a refugee wagon, its wheel shattered, a child trapped beneath the tilt. The cart would have crushed the boy.

He let the thought come like a practiced breath and sent it—an almost invisible tug of will that steadied axle and frame.

"Hold it steady!" a man shouted, scrambling to the side.

Another man spat into the mud. "Strange wind today," he muttered, as if a shift in the air could explain why the wagon hadn't fallen.

The mother pulled her boy free, pressing her cheek to his hair. "Wheel must've caught on a root," she said shakily, convincing herself as much as anyone else.

Arthur gave his horse a last pat, then guided it closer to the stalled wagon. He kept his tone casual, as though he'd only just arrived. "Best fix that before it breaks again."

The woman nodded quickly, still half-dazed, and turned back to her son.

He rode on, slipping through villages with the careful anonymity of a man who did not want thanks. In a hamlet by the Weeping Water, his horse's shoes wore thin enough that he let the farrier—an old woman who kept her own counsel said she could replace them. Arthur took a seat in the dim corner of the inn, where the smell of ale clung to the air and the fire fought to burn through damp logs.

The place was loud, thick with talk and the scrape of tankards. He sat with his hood low, letting the noise wash over him.

"…swear I saw him—tall as a tower, white cloak on his shoulders. Must be that knight they say's been riding alone."

"Bah. If he's alone, it's 'cause his company's been slaughtered. South's crawling with trouble—Stormlanders fighting over who sits closest to the king's ear."

A laugh cut through the air. "Closest to his wife's bed, you mean. Word is, Lord Connington's lady keeps herself busy when he's gone to war."

"Not half as busy as Lady Rowan," another voice joined, met with a chorus of crude chuckles.

"Politics is worse than any affair," a gruff man said. "Mace Tyrell's been sending riders to the capital every week—trying to get that Reach grain into royal stores before winter. Some say he's buying half the court."

"…and some say he's buying half the beds," someone else quipped, earning another roar of laughter.

Nearer the hearth, two men argued over a map scratched into the table with a knife. "If the Dornish march, the South'll burn faster than wildfire. And the Targaryen boy—"

"—Prince Rhaegar?"

"Aye. He's not where he should be. Not in the capital, not in the Stepstones, nowhere. Men vanish when they're planning something."

Arthur let it all pass without a word, hands wrapped around a cup he hadn't touched. The noise around him was a web—threads of truth knotted with lies, stretched from the North to the furthest reach of the South. All he had to do was listen.

Not far beyond that, in a muddy clearing where the trees stood like mute witnesses, a traveling Septon had gathered a crowd. He shouted about false trees and dead roots, about the saving grace of his Seven, and two greybeards—hands bound—crouched beneath his rage. His followers were pale-eyed men with cudgels, eager for a spectacle of blood and repentance.

Arthur walked into the clearing as if he were only crossing the road. The noise thinned; the Septon's voice sharpened to a snarl. "These heretics—" he cried.

"Enough," Arthur said.

The Septon spun on him. "Who gives you the right to stop God's work?"

Arthur's gaze laid like a stone on the man. "Unbind them," he said.

The Septon's lip curled. "They worship wood. They are filth. The law—"

"You call that justice?" Arthur cut in. He inclined his head toward the two old men. "Two unarmed men, bound at the post, before six of you with rods and ropes. Tell me—how many lashes will make you a righteous man?"

The Septon, flushed, demanded a name. "Before the Seven, who are you?"

Arthur regarded him for a long moment, then asked, almost lazily, "How many souls weigh on you?"

The Septon blinked. "What…?"

"Everyone has one," Arthur said, his tone still calm. "How many men you've buried. How many you've failed to save. How many times you've looked the other way."

Murmurs stirred among the onlookers.

"I asked your name," the Septon said stiffly, trying to regain his authority.

"And I asked your count," Arthur replied, the words heavy enough to still the whispers.

For a heartbeat, the Septon's eyes searched him for mockery and found only calm.

Two of the zealots moved at once—steel flashing, boots grinding into the dirt.

"Kill the heretic—!" one managed to shout.

The next second, the world turned upside down for them both. They did not realize, in those final blinks of awareness, that their heads were no longer attached to their bodies.

One gasped out a strangled, "Wha—" before the rest was lost.

Their eyes caught a glimpse of the sky, then the ground rushing up—and then nothing at all.

The bodies toppled. Heads rolled. The clearing filled with the sickening thud of heavy things hitting earth.

A woman in the crowd screamed. Someone muttered, "Seven save us…" Another hissed, "Seven damn him…"

The Septon's voice wavered, his hand tightening on his staff. "Murderer! You've spilled holy blood!"

Arthur turned his head slightly toward him. "Holy?" he said quietly. "Then they've met their gods sooner than planned."

The crowd shifted back, some clutching charms, others just staring, wide-eyed, as Arthur slid his blade back into its sheath with unhurried precision.

A woman clutched her shawl. "Did you see him move? He didn't even break a sweat," another said. A boy near the hedgerow watched wide-eyed, mouth forming a question he did not dare ask.

Arthur cut the bindings with his dagger, breathing shallow. "Go home," he told the greybeards. "Leave the road where it is."

One of the freed men rubbed his wrists, eyes never leaving Arthur. "Ser… why?"

"Because," Arthur said evenly, sheathing the dagger, "you've work yet to do." He jerked his chin toward the Septon, still pale and trembling. "He's yours. See to him as you see fit."

The other man grinned, a dark, gap-toothed thing. "Aye. We'll make him confess every lie he's preached."

Arthur said nothing more. He turned, walking toward the farrier's lean-to where his horse waited. Behind him, the Septon's protests rose into the air, swallowed by the crowd's shifting murmur.

When he stepped back into view, leading his horse by the reins, every head turned. Those in the inn's doorway and those lingering along the road simply stared, struck silent by the presence of a man they could not place—knight, outlaw, or something else entirely.

Inside the farrier's shop, the old woman handed over the reins with a nod. "Good iron under him now. He'll carry you far."

Arthur set the weirwood token on her workbench. "For the trouble," he said.

Her eyes widened a fraction before she tucked the token away. "Safe roads, ser."

He mounted, the amulet cool against his sternum, the King's letter folded safe in his pack. He let the Kingsroad carry him on—toward courts that smelled of ink and gold, and toward a summons that might be trap or test or favor Whatever waited in the south, he had left instructions behind that would hold the North steady until he returned.