Support me on patreon.com/c/Striker2025
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Stay strong, brothers and sisters November is a marathon, not a sprint.
Winter is coming.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Sea Rose cut through the gray waters of the Bite as the familiar coastline of White Harbor came into view. Arthur Snow stood at the bow, his black stallion beside him as always, watching the busy port grow larger with each passing wave. The sight should have brought relief—home territory, allies, familiar ground—but instead he felt the weight of returning as someone fundamentally changed from the man who had left.
Behind him, three figures stood in respectful silence—no longer the bound assassins who had boarded the ship days ago, but something approaching devoted followers. Their transformation troubled him more than he cared to admit. He had intended to neutralize threats, not create disciples.
Brother Tormund had traded his Faith militant robes for simple traveler's garb, though he still wore a seven-pointed star pendant beneath his shirt. His conversion had been the most profound—from holy warrior sent to kill a heretic to believer convinced he had witnessed divine intervention made manifest. The zealotry remained, merely redirected.
Gareth maintained his nondescript appearance, the perfect spy's camouflage, but his posture had changed entirely. Where once he had carried himself with the casual confidence of a Crown agent, he now moved with the careful respect of a man who had seen his understanding of the possible completely shattered. His analytical mind was still working, but now in service to rather than opposition against Arthur.
Sorrin of Volantis had perhaps adapted most naturally to his new role. Warriors understood strength, and what he had witnessed aboard the ship transcended any martial prowess he had encountered in the fighting pits of Slaver's Bay. His service now was not born of fear, but of genuine admiration for perfection of combat.
The problem was that none of them truly understood what they had witnessed. They saw supernatural ability where Arthur knew there was only the culmination of lifetimes of training. They attributed divine favor to techniques learned through discipline and suffering. Their worship was built on a foundation of misconceptions, making it both useful and dangerous.
"White Harbor," Arthur said conversationally, though his voice carried easily to his new followers. "Largest port in the North, ruled by House Manderly. Loyal to the Starks for generations, though their loyalty comes with... practical considerations."
"Meaning they'll want something from you," Gareth observed, his spy's instincts still sharp despite his change of allegiance.
"Everyone wants something," Arthur replied, though the familiar dance of politics felt strangely hollow after the absolute clarity of combat. "The question is whether what they offer in return has any value, and whether accepting their offers serves our larger purposes."
Captain Blackwater approached from the stern, his weathered face creased with the sort of nervous anticipation that came with approaching powerful men who might be either generous patrons or dangerous enemies. The captain's attitude toward Arthur had shifted dramatically since the pirate encounter—respectful to the point of reverence, tinged with a fear he tried to hide.
"Lord Snow," he began, then caught himself. Arthur had never claimed lordship, but the captain seemed uncertain how else to address someone who had single-handedly destroyed three pirate ships without breaking stride. "We'll be docking within the hour. The harbormaster's already signaling for priority berth—seems word of our... encounter with the pirates has preceded us."
Arthur nodded, unsurprised but increasingly concerned about the stories that would be spreading. Each retelling would add new embellishments, new impossibilities, further distorting the truth into legend. "Any word from shore about welcoming committees?"
"Aye, that's the interesting part." Blackwater produced a message tube from his coat with slightly trembling hands. "Raven arrived not an hour ago. Lord Wyman Manderly requests the honor of hosting you at New Castle. Seems he has... matters of mutual interest to discuss."
Arthur accepted the message and broke the seal with casual efficiency, noting how Blackwater flinched slightly at the movement. Even simple actions now carried weight, perceived as potentially significant by those who had heard the stories. Lord Wyman's script was elaborate, his language flowery, but the underlying desperation came through clearly enough. The fat lord of White Harbor had heard the reports from King's Landing and wanted to position himself advantageously before other northern houses could claim Arthur's favor.
"Predictable," Arthur murmured, then glanced at his followers. The irony wasn't lost on him—he was about to use these three former enemies to navigate political waters, their devotion serving purposes they couldn't fully grasp. "This will be your first test in your new roles. Lord Manderly is clever, ambitious, and utterly mercenary in his loyalties. He'll try to probe for weaknesses, assess threats, and determine how much influence he can gain through association."
"Standard nobleman behavior," Sorrin said with slight contempt. His years in Volantis had given him ample experience with merchant princes who measured everything in gold and advantage.
"Indeed. But handle him with respect—he's proven his worth to House Stark many times over. His ambition is balanced by genuine competence, and we may need his resources." Arthur folded the message and tucked it into his coat, already calculating how to use Manderly's predictable greed. "Brother Tormund, you'll present yourself as a traveling septon who joined our party for protection. Your knowledge of southern politics will be invaluable, but keep your... religious revelations to yourself for now."
The former Faith militant nodded solemnly, though Arthur could see the struggle in his eyes—the desire to share what he believed he had witnessed warring with obedience to his new master. "As you wish. Though I confess, maintaining silence about what I've witnessed feels like hiding miracles from those who need them most."
"Patience," Arthur advised, recognizing the dangerous fervor still burning beneath Tormund's converted exterior. "Truth revealed too quickly can be as dangerous as truth concealed too long. We serve larger purposes than individual enlightenment."
As the Sea Rose approached the docks, the bustle of White Harbor's famous harbor became apparent. Merchants shouted prices, dock workers hauled cargo, and the air filled with the sounds of commerce conducted in a dozen languages. But Arthur noticed something else—an unusual number of well-dressed figures loitering near the waterfront, their attention focused on their approaching ship with an intensity that suggested more than casual interest.
"We have an audience," Gareth observed, his trained eye picking out what were obviously planted observers. "More than Lord Manderly would typically deploy for a single guest."
"Multiple interested parties, then. Lord Manderly's people, certainly, but also representatives from other houses, southern merchants hoping to curry favor, foreign agents assessing the situation, and probably a few genuine curiosity-seekers drawn by the stories." Arthur's expression remained pleasant, but his mind was already cataloguing faces, estimating loyalties, calculating responses. "Let them watch. Sometimes the best way to control information is to give people just enough truth to prevent them from seeking out dangerous lies."
The ship docked with practiced efficiency, Captain Blackwater's crew handling the lines while their passengers prepared to disembark. Arthur's stallion seemed to sense solid ground approaching and whinnied with what sounded suspiciously like relief—even supernatural horses apparently preferred dry land to rolling decks.
Lord Wyman Manderly himself waited on the dock, his massive frame draped in fine green wool and cloth-of-silver that probably cost more than most lords' yearly incomes. At his side stood his son Ser Wylis, along with a carefully chosen selection of knights, merchants, and officials. The welcoming committee was impressive without being overwhelming—a delicate balance designed to show respect without appearing desperate.
Arthur studied Wyman's face as he descended the gangplank, noting the careful calculation behind the jovial expression. This was not a man overcome by awe at legend made manifest, but a politician seeking advantage from association with power. That made him both more reliable and more dangerous than a simple convert.
"Arthur Snow!" Lord Wyman's voice boomed across the water as the gangplank was lowered. "Welcome to White Harbor! I trust your journey was... eventful?"
Arthur descended with fluid grace, his followers maintaining respectful distances behind him—a formation they had naturally adopted that reinforced their subservient status while keeping them positioned for quick response if needed. "Lord Manderly. Your hospitality is most welcome, though I confess the journey proved more educational than anticipated."
Wyman's small eyes glittered with curiosity at that diplomatic non-answer, but he was too experienced a politician to press for details in such a public setting. Arthur appreciated the restraint—it suggested they could conduct business without the complications of excessive curiosity or misplaced worship.
"Excellent! We have prepared chambers at New Castle, and I believe you'll find our kitchens can provide proper northern fare after days of ship's provisions." Wyman gestured broadly, including Arthur's companions in the invitation with practiced courtesy.
"Most thoughtful." Arthur accepted the offered courtesy while his mind catalogued the faces in Wyman's retinue. Most were exactly what he expected—local nobles, wealthy merchants, ambitious minor houses positioning themselves for advantage. But one figure caught his attention: a young serving woman standing near the back of the group, her posture subtly different from the other servants.
One of Redna's, he realized with satisfaction. His spymaster's network had grown impressively if she had managed to place an agent in Lord Manderly's own household. The girl's presence meant intelligence was already flowing both ways—Redna learning about Manderly's plans while positioning resources for Arthur's use.
The procession through White Harbor's streets drew considerable attention, more than Arthur had anticipated. Word of his arrival had clearly spread beyond the merely curious, and crowds gathered to catch glimpses of the northern warrior whose exploits in King's Landing had already become the stuff of tavern tales. Most showed curiosity mixed with respect, though Arthur noticed more than a few expressions of wariness among the faces.
Fear and awe in equal measure, he reflected. The stories have grown in the telling, as they always do. Soon they'll bear no resemblance to reality.
The reactions troubled him more than he cared to admit. These people saw him as something beyond human—a legend, a force of nature, a power that could reshape their world with a gesture. The responsibility of living up to such expectations, or more importantly, of managing the consequences when reality inevitably disappointed, weighed heavily on his mind.
Children pointed and whispered, mothers pulled them back with expressions of protective unease, and even hardened dock workers paused in their labor to stare. Arthur had become a spectacle, a symbol, something more and less than the man he actually was.
New Castle rose before them, its ancient walls and towers speaking of centuries of Manderly power built on trade, loyalty, and careful political navigation. As they passed through the gates, Arthur noted the defensive preparations—more guards than typical for a peaceful reception, weapons positioned for quick access, sight lines cleared for effective coverage. Wyman was taking no chances with his valuable guest.
The great hall of New Castle had been prepared for a feast, though the afternoon hour suggested this was more diplomatic theater than genuine hospitality. Lord Wyman clearly intended to impress his guest while creating opportunities for private conversation away from the curious crowds outside.
"I trust you'll find our accommodations comfortable," Wyman said as servants bustled about with wine and platters of food that smelled of genuine northern cooking after days of ship's provisions. "I've taken the liberty of arranging separate chambers for your... companions."
"Most considerate." Arthur accepted a cup of wine while studying his host's carefully neutral expression. Wyman was assessing him just as thoroughly, looking for signs of the supernatural abilities described in the southern reports. "I assume you have questions about recent events in the south."
Wyman's diplomatic smile never wavered, but something eager flickered in his eyes—the look of a merchant sensing opportunity for profitable investment. "Questions would be presumptuous, given that I was not present to witness events personally. However, I confess to considerable curiosity about... opportunities that may arise from the current... instability in King's Landing."
There it is, Arthur thought, appreciating the directness despite its diplomatic wrapping. The real reason for this elaborate welcome. "Opportunities often present themselves to those prepared to recognize them," he agreed mildly.
"Indeed! And House Manderly has always prided itself on recognizing... exceptional individuals who might benefit from our support." Wyman gestured expansively, taking in the richly appointed hall and the obvious wealth it represented. "White Harbor's resources are considerable, and our connections throughout the realm are... extensive."
Arthur nodded thoughtfully while Brother Tormund, Gareth, and Sorrin found seats at a respectful distance. They played their roles perfectly—traveling companions grateful for noble hospitality but careful not to intrude on important conversations. Yet Arthur could see the way other guests studied them, trying to determine their significance, their relationship to the legendary northern warrior.
The weight of performance pressed against his thoughts. Every gesture was being analyzed, every word weighed for hidden meanings. He had become a piece on the board so valuable that every player wanted to understand his potential moves, his possible alliances, his ultimate goals.
"Your reputation for practical wisdom is well-earned, Lord Manderly. Perhaps we might discuss specific... arrangements after I've had time to rest from the journey and consider what forms of cooperation might prove mutually beneficial?"
"Of course! Ser Wylis will show you to your chambers." Wyman's satisfaction was barely concealed. He clearly believed he had secured the first audience with Arthur since the events at King's Landing, positioning himself advantageously for whatever came next.
But as Arthur followed Ser Wylis from the hall, he caught the subtle hand signals passing between servants, the careful positioning of guards, the way certain guests lingered despite the obvious dismissal. Lord Manderly was indeed prepared to recognize opportunity, but he was also taking precautions against the dangers that came with hosting someone of Arthur's reputation.
The chambers provided were indeed comfortable—spacious rooms with warming fires, fine furniture, and windows overlooking White Harbor's bustling port. The luxury felt strange after weeks of ship's quarters and before that, the austere functionality of the Hollow Vale. Arthur's followers were given adjacent quarters, close enough for quick communication but separate enough to maintain the fiction of their casual association.
As evening fell and the castle settled into its nighttime routine, Arthur stood by his window watching the harbor lights twinkle like fallen stars. The view was peaceful, but his mind churned with the complexities of his position. Every choice now carried consequences that rippled outward, affecting not just his own fate but the lives of everyone connected to him.
I wanted to build something lasting, he reflected, but legends have their own momentum. They become forces beyond their creators' control.
A soft knock at his door interrupted his contemplation, followed immediately by the careful entry of someone trained in stealth. "Enter."
The serving girl from the docks slipped inside with the sort of fluid grace that marked professional training. She was perhaps twenty, with dark hair and intelligent eyes that missed nothing while revealing even less. Her curtsy was perfect—respectful but not subservient, acknowledging status without suggesting weakness.
"My lord," she said quietly, her voice carrying just enough deference to satisfy any listening ears while her expression conveyed entirely different meanings. "I'm Mira, assigned to see to your comfort during your stay."
"How thoughtful of Lord Manderly," Arthur replied, his tone equally diplomatic while his eyes acknowledged her true purpose. The familiar dance of espionage felt oddly comforting after the weight of public performance.
Mira moved about the room with practiced efficiency, adjusting cushions and checking that the fire was properly tended—activities that gave her legitimate reasons to be present while conducting other business. Her movements were economical, professional, and entirely focused on creating the appearance of domestic service.
"The lady sends word," she said softly while ostensibly examining the wine service. "Ravens have been arriving daily at the Hollow Vale. The company grows restless in your absence, though they maintain discipline and continue training operations. Lord Stark has sent multiple summons requesting your immediate attendance at Winterfell."
"Expected," Arthur murmured, settling into a chair positioned to observe both the door and window. The familiar patterns of intelligence gathering grounded him, reminded him of purposes beyond legend and performance. "What of the new recruits? Any problems requiring immediate attention?"
"Some... enthusiasm requiring careful management. Young lords convinced they can achieve your... accomplishments through conventional training alone. The lady handles them with appropriate firmness, but expectations continue to exceed realistic capabilities." Mira's slight smile suggested considerable entertainment value in watching Lyanna Stark manage ambitious nobles. "More concerning are the southern inquiries. Gold flows northward seeking your favor, but some questions come from... less friendly sources."
Arthur's expression hardened, the political mask slipping to reveal genuine concern for his people's safety. "Elaborate."
"Traders from King's Landing asking specific questions about your methods, your background, your... capabilities. Merchants who seem more interested in information than commerce. The lady believes some may be more than they claim." Mira moved to the window, ostensibly checking the shutters while lowering her voice further. "Also, strange reports from the borders. Animals behaving unusually, hedge knights and sell-swords asking pointed questions, travelers who don't quite match their claimed destinations."
"Foreign interest," Arthur concluded, his mind already working through implications and necessary responses. "The eastern powers are moving faster than anticipated."
His actions in King's Landing had clearly accelerated timelines throughout the known world, forcing reactions from powers he had hoped to approach more gradually. The game was becoming more complex, with stakes higher than he had originally calculated.
"Shall I send specific instructions to the lady?"
Arthur considered for a moment, weighing options and calculating responses. His company needed guidance, but they also needed the freedom to adapt to situations he couldn't predict from a distance. The balance between control and flexibility was delicate, especially when dealing with forces beyond conventional understanding.
"Tell her: 'The storm arrives early. Secure the foundations and prepare for weather we haven't seen before. Trust your training and your judgment—you know more than you realize.'" He paused, then added, "And send word to Lord Stark that I'll attend him within the week. He deserves explanations before rumors become more dangerous than truth."
Mira nodded, committing the message to memory with the sort of precision that marked exceptional training. Her recall would be perfect, her delivery exactly as instructed. "Anything else, my lord?"
"Yes. Keep watch on Lord Manderly's other guests—he's too clever to put all his schemes in one conversation. Note who seems most interested in information versus opportunity. And be careful. If my suspicions about foreign surveillance are correct, everyone connected to me becomes a potential target."
"Understood." Mira completed her domestic pantomime and moved toward the door with the same professional grace that had marked her arrival. "Sleep well, my lord. Tomorrow promises to be... illuminating."
After she left, Arthur remained by the window, his mind processing implications and contingencies. The conversation had clarified several things: his company was adapting well to his absence but facing challenges that tested their training; external threats were escalating faster than anticipated; and the political situation required careful navigation to avoid creating more enemies than necessary.
Below in the harbor, ships rocked gently at anchor, their masts swaying like a forest of leafless trees. Among them, Arthur thought he glimpsed vessels that didn't quite match the usual merchant traffic—sleeker hulls, different rigging, crews that moved with too much coordination for ordinary sailors. The foreign interest Mira had mentioned was apparently more immediate than expected.
The game grows more complex with each move, he reflected, touching the hilt of his sword. Time to discover whether my company has grown strong enough to play at this level without direct guidance.
The North had always been his sanctuary, the place where he could build and teach without interference from southern politics or eastern mysticism. But sanctuary, he was learning, was a luxury that powerful men could rarely afford for long. Power attracted attention, and attention brought both opportunity and danger in equal measure.
Tomorrow would bring Lord Manderly's inevitable proposals, each designed to bind Arthur to White Harbor's interests through webs of obligation and mutual benefit. The fat lord would offer resources, connections, protection—all in exchange for association with Arthur's growing legend and access to whatever advantages that legend might provide.
More challenging would be the journey to Winterfell, where Lord Rickard Stark would demand explanations for events that had shifted the balance of power throughout the realm. Rickard had been a mentor, an ally, a source of both opportunity and constraint. Their relationship would need to evolve or risk becoming a liability for both of them.
Most challenging of all would be returning to the Hollow Vale, where his company waited with questions he wasn't entirely sure he could answer. How did one explain to devoted followers that their teacher had become something beyond their understanding? How did one prepare friends for enemies they couldn't yet imagine? How did one balance the responsibilities of legend with the needs of the people who had made that legend possible?
Arthur touched the hilt of his sword again—the Reaper, the blade he alone had forged and honed until it felt like an extension of his own will. Its cold balance was a quiet reminder of what he had built with his own hands, of discipline turned into steel, of purposes that transcended politics and legend.
Perhaps that's the answer, he thought as he settled into meditation. Not to hide what I've become, but to help them become more than they imagined possible. To give them the tools they need to survive in the world I'm creating, whether I'm there to guide them or not.
The wind off the harbor carried the salt scent of distant seas and the promise of storms yet to come. Arthur Snow, the Heavenly Demon reborn in a world of ice and fire, stood vigil against the night and planned for battles that would determine not just his fate, but the fate of everyone who had chosen to follow him into legend.
In the morning, the real work would begin—not the work of performance and politics, but the deeper work of preparing the people he cared about for a world that was changing faster than any of them had anticipated.
The game of thrones had gained a new player, but the rules themselves were evolving in ways that would challenge every assumption about power, loyalty, and the limits of human potential. Arthur's next moves would determine whether that evolution served his purposes or consumed everything he had worked to build.
Outside his window, the harbor settled into the quiet rhythms of night watch and sleeping ships. But Arthur remained awake, his mind racing through possibilities and contingencies, preparing for a future that would test every lesson he had learned in two lifetimes of struggle and growth.
The storm was indeed arriving early, and everyone he cared about stood in its path.