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POV: Arthur Snow
Location: The Wall
Castle Black
The gate creaked open as the riders returned under pale dawn. Snow clung to cloaks and saddles, and the wind bit through fur.
Arthur rode at the front, his face unreadable. Behind him, the men muttered still of the frozen corpses, the broken trees, the whispering wind beyond the Frostfangs.
They passed through the courtyard, dismounted, and were brought directly before Lord Commander Qorgyle.
The old crow stood by the fire, ink-stained fingers resting on the hilt of a worn blade. His black eyes studied Arthur for a moment longer than the rest.
"You saw nothing you can explain?" the Lord Commander asked.
Ser Colm cleared his throat. "No wildlings. No signs of raiders. Just death. Like something swept through and left the bones behind."
"And the missing brothers?"
Arthur spoke. "Gone. One we found burned. One dismembered. The third… was taken."
Silence fell. Then Qorgyle nodded grimly.
"A king beyond the Wall, they're whispering. Or worse—something old, returned." He dipped a quill into ink and began writing.
When he was done, he sealed the parchment with black wax and pressed his ring into it.
"This is for Lord Rickard Stark. Your report. Your silence. Ride fast, ride quiet."
Arthur accepted the letter with a nod. "Aye, Lord Commander."
The Journey South
They set off that same morning—three days' ride to Winterfell through ice-wrapped trees and wind-shorn trails.
On the second day, the rations thinned. The cold took appetite from many, but not from Arthur. While the others rested, he vanished into the trees with bow and blade.
By dusk, he returned with two snow hares and a young buck, throat slit clean, no sign of struggle.
The men ate hot meat that night.
"Where'd you learn that?" one rider asked between bites.
Arthur glanced at the stars. "Alone," he said simply.
They shared tales over the fire that night—some jesting, some dark. Colm leaned in once, asked low, "Where did you go that day, when you vanished?"
Arthur didn't meet his eyes.
"Hunting," he said.
And that was the end of it.
Winterfell
It was the fourth morning when the gates came into view—grey stone wrapped in frost, smoke curling from chimneys, banners limp in the still wind.
Arthur rode ahead. The guards let him through without question.
Rickard Stark stood by the steps of the Great Keep, arms crossed, flanked by two guards.
Arthur dismounted, approached, and offered the sealed letter.
Rickard broke the wax, read in silence.
When he looked up, his eyes were shadowed.
"How many days were you beyond the Wall?"
"Eight," Arthur answered. "Four riding. Four searching."
"And you returned with all your men?"
Arthur hesitated. "All but one. Frostbite. We left him with the Maester at Castle Black."
Rickard nodded slowly.
Then he looked Arthur over—his posture, his worn cloak, the cold in his eyes.
"You've earned your quarters," he said. "And the forge. Both as promised."
Arthur nodded once. "Thank you, my lord."
Rickard's gaze didn't waver. "The third condition remains."
Without Looking back Arthur Left .