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The gates of Winterfell rose before Arthur Snow like the maw of some ancient stone beast, their iron-bound oak scarred by centuries of northern winters. Snow had begun to fall during his journey from White Harbor, dusting the ancient castle's walls with the promise of harsh months ahead. Arthur's breath misted in the cold air as he approached the entrance, his three companions maintaining respectful distances behind him. His stride was unhurried and confident.
The guards recognized him immediately—his reputation had preceded him by weeks, and every man-at-arms in the North knew the face of Lord Stark's most formidable retainer.
"Arthur Snow," called Ser Rodrik Cassel from atop the gatehouse, his weathered face creased with relief. "Lord Stark has been expecting you. He's ordered the great hall cleared for private audience." His eyes shifted to the three men behind Arthur. "And who might these be?"
"My own retainers," Arthur replied simply. "Men I've selected to serve through me in Lord Stark's service. They answer to me, as I answer to Lord Stark."
Ser Rodrik nodded, understanding the hierarchy.
"The precautions I outlined in my message, have they been implemented?" Arthur asked.
"Implemented to the letter. No one moves alone, routines have been altered, and we've had every servant questioned about unusual behavior." Rodrik's expression remained carefully neutral. "No suspicious movements so far, which I suppose is... reassuring."
Arthur's eyes hardened with understanding. "They're already here," he stated with absolute certainty. "In my experience, when enemies of this nature prepare to strike, complete normalcy means they're confident in their control. They've made their first mistake."
The party proceeded through Winterfell's courtyards, past the godswood where the ancient weirwood stood sentinel with its carved face, past the training yards where Brandon Stark worked with sword and shield under watchful eyes. Arthur noted the increased guard presence, the subtle positioning of archers on the walls, the way servants moved in pairs rather than alone.
As they passed the training yard, Brandon caught sight of Arthur and immediately abandoned his practice, jogging over with the enthusiasm of youth combined with genuine respect for the man who had become legend throughout the North.
"Arthur!" Brandon called out, his face flushed with exertion and bright with excitement. "Father said you were coming, but we didn't know when. Is it true what they're saying about King's Landing? That you defeated Ser Jaime Lannister without even drawing your sword?"
Arthur studied the young man's face carefully—the eagerness, the hero worship, the genuine warmth of greeting. This was Brandon Stark as he should be, unmarked by supernatural influence, his spirit as bright and untamed as his reputation suggested.
"Stories tend to grow in the telling," Arthur replied with mild amusement. "But yes, Ser Jaime and I had a... demonstration of techniques. He proved an adequate training partner."
Brandon laughed at the casual dismissal of the realm's finest knight. "Adequate! The songs are already calling it the greatest display of martial prowess since the Dragonknight himself!" His expression grew more serious. "But Father's been worried ever since your message arrived. He won't tell us what's wrong, just keeps doubling guards and changing routines. Are we in danger?"
"Potentially," Arthur said, appreciating the boy's directness. "Which is why I need you to promise me something, Brandon. Whatever happens in the coming days, whatever anyone tells you to do, remember who you are. Remember your loyalty to your family, your house, your own principles. Don't let anyone—anyone—convince you to act against those bonds."
Brandon's brow furrowed with confusion. "That's an odd thing to ask. Of course I won't betray my family. Why would you even—"
"Because the enemies we face specialize in making good men do terrible things," Arthur interrupted gently. "They use techniques that can cloud judgment, corrupt intentions, make betrayal seem like loyalty. Promise me you'll fight against any influence that tries to change your fundamental nature."
"I promise," Brandon said solemnly, though Arthur could see he didn't fully understand the implications. "But Arthur, what kind of enemies are we talking about? Assassins? Southern spies?"
"Something more dangerous than either," Arthur replied. "Men who wage war on the mind itself, who turn strength into weakness and love into hatred. Stay close to your family, trust your instincts, and remember—if something feels wrong, it probably is."
Brandon nodded, his youthful confidence slightly shaken by Arthur's obvious seriousness. "I'll be careful. We all will."
As they continued toward the great hall, Arthur felt a chill that had nothing to do with the northern weather. The Brandon he had just spoken with was genuine—Arthur's enhanced senses could detect no trace of supernatural influence. But the very normality of the encounter felt ominous, like the calm before a devastating storm.
Lord Rickard Stark waited in the great hall, but not in his usual place at the high table. Instead, he stood before the great hearth, his tall frame silhouetted against the flames, his expression mixing relief at Arthur's arrival with concern about the warnings that had brought him here.
"Arthur," Rickard said simply, but the single word carried the weight of months of growing trust and mutual respect. "Your message spoke of enemies beyond conventional understanding. I've implemented what precautions I could, but I fear we're preparing to fight shadows with mortal weapons."
"In this case, that may be more accurate than you realize," Arthur replied, glancing around the hall to ensure they were truly alone. His three followers had taken positions near the entrances, their loyalty now absolute and their vigilance enhanced by supernatural binding. "The threats approaching use techniques that blur the line between real and unreal, turning allies against each other and striking through bonds of affection."
"Shadow magic," Rickard said grimly. "The maesters claim such things are mere superstition, but after what you accomplished in King's Landing..." He gestured toward chairs arranged near the fire. "Perhaps it's time I learned what my retainer has truly become."
Arthur settled into the offered seat while considering how much truth to reveal. Rickard Stark was a practical man, a lord who had governed the North through cunning and careful judgment. But the full scope of Arthur's abilities and origins would strain even his pragmatic worldview.
"My capabilities have grown beyond what conventional training typically produces," Arthur said carefully. "This has attracted attention from powers that see me as either a threat to their plans or a resource to be controlled. The enemies approaching employ methods designed to exploit human psychology—they will attempt to turn your loved ones against you, make you choose between saving those you care about and protecting yourself."
Rickard's expression hardened. "My children."
"Among others. Brandon, Lyanna, Ned, Benjen—anyone whose safety matters to you becomes a weapon they can use." Arthur leaned forward, his voice carrying absolute certainty. "They will force you to make impossible choices, then exploit the confusion and divided attention those choices create."
"What do you recommend?"
"Centralized protection. Keep your family together in the most defensible part of the castle, with guards you trust absolutely. Avoid separating them, no matter how reasonable the request might seem." Arthur's eyes caught movement beyond the great windows—snow falling heavier now, reducing visibility across the courtyard. "And be prepared for the possibility that people you trust may not be who they appear to be."
Rickard nodded slowly, absorbing the implications. "I've already moved the family's quarters closer together and doubled the guards. But Arthur... if these enemies can wear the faces of others, how do we know who to trust?"
"Trust your instincts. Trust the bonds you've built over years rather than appearances. And remember—shadow magic works by exploiting existing relationships, not creating new ones from nothing." Arthur rose and moved to the window, studying the falling snow with growing unease. "Where is Brandon now?"
"Training in the yard with Ser Rodrik. Though with this weather..." Rickard joined Arthur at the window, following his gaze across the courtyard.
The training yard was empty.
Arthur's enhanced senses immediately detected wrongness in the scene before them. The snow fell naturally enough, but there were no footprints leading away from the practice area, no signs of the normal conclusion to a training session. Just empty space where there should have been activity moments before.
"How long since you last saw Brandon?" Arthur asked, his voice carrying new urgency.
"Not more than an hour. He was working on sword forms when I came to the hall to wait for your arrival." Rickard's face paled as he processed the implications. "You think they've already struck?"
Before Arthur could answer, a commotion erupted in the corridor outside the great hall. Shouts, the sound of running feet, then Ser Rodrik's voice calling out in alarm: "My lord! Lord Brandon... something's wrong with Lord Brandon!"
Arthur and Rickard rushed toward the sounds of disturbance, Arthur's followers falling in behind them with weapons drawn. They found a crowd gathered in the corridor leading to the family quarters, with Ser Rodrik at its center looking more shaken than Arthur had ever seen the veteran knight.
"He just... changed," Rodrik was saying as they approached. "One moment he was normal, speaking of his training, asking about supper. The next, his eyes went dark and he began speaking in a voice that wasn't his own."
"Where is he?" Arthur demanded.
"His chambers. We managed to get him there, but he's... it's not Brandon anymore. Something else is looking out through his eyes."
Arthur pushed through the crowd, ignoring the protests of guards who tried to maintain protective formations around Lord Stark. Brandon's chambers lay at the end of the corridor, the door standing slightly ajar with an unnatural darkness visible beyond.
Inside the room, Brandon Stark sat perfectly still on his bed, his young face wearing an expression of alien intelligence. When he looked up at Arthur's entrance, his eyes held depths that belonged to no sixteen-year-old boy.
"Arthur Snow," Brandon said, but the voice carried harmonics that seemed to echo from multiple directions. "The northern wolf who thinks himself a dragon. You are exactly as described."
"Shadow-binding," Arthur said calmly, though his hand moved instinctively toward his sword. "Impressive work, but not permanent. The boy's will is stronger than you anticipated."
"Strong enough to resist for a time, perhaps. But not strong enough to prevent what must happen." Brandon's possessed form rose from the bed with movements that seemed to flow like liquid shadow. "Soon he will have no strength left to resist, and then you will watch him kill his own father while you stand helpless to prevent it."
Arthur felt the weight of the threat pressing on him. He knew that Brandon's body was being used as a weapon, and the boy's own consciousness struggled in the background.
"Brandon," he said, voice low, "fight them. Remember who you are, what you're meant to become. Don't let them use you as a weapon against those who care about you."
For a brief instant, the alien intelligence flickered in Brandon's eyes, replaced by something recognizably human.
"Arthur?" Brandon's voice was weak, but it came from the real boy. "I can't… they're in my head. Everything's dark, and there are voices…"
Brandon's possessed form tilted its head with inhuman curiosity. "The boy fights well," the entity admitted through Brandon's lips, "but he tires, and we are patient. Soon he will have no strength left to resist, and you will see him destroy those he loves."
Arthur's gaze hardened. "Watch me," he replied, though he knew the real battle was yet to begin.
Outside in the corridor, Arthur could hear Lord Stark organizing the castle's defenses, calling for specific guards he trusted absolutely, positioning them to protect approaches while maintaining sight lines. The man was thinking like a general rather than a frightened father, which made the coming battle survivable.
More importantly, Arthur's own allies were already moving into position. The soul-binding ritual had created a connection that allowed instant communication across any distance. Through that bond, he could sense his three followers spreading through the castle, hunting the sources of supernatural taint with single-minded dedication.
"You're right about one thing," Arthur told the entity possessing Brandon as shadows continued to deepen around them. "I won't sacrifice the boy to save myself. But you've made a dangerous assumption about what that means."
The possessed Brandon tilted his head with inhuman curiosity. "And what assumption is that?"
Arthur smiled with the sort of confidence that came from having advantages his enemies couldn't perceive. "You assume that saving him and saving myself are mutually exclusive goals. In my experience, the best solutions are often the ones that render impossible choices unnecessary."
With that, Arthur began to move—not toward Brandon, not away from the approaching external threats, but into a pattern of motion that would let him address both simultaneously.
The real battle was about to begin, and the shadow-binders were about to discover that they had underestimated not just Arthur's capabilities, but the capabilities of everyone who had chosen to stand with him.
In the corridors of Winterfell, shadows moved against the light. But for the first time since arriving in the North, those shadows were about to encounter resistance they had never faced before—the coordinated response of individuals bound together by loyalty stronger than death itself.
The storm had broken over Winterfell at last, but the outcome was far from certain.