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The snow fell steadily as the first northern lords arrived at Winterfell's gates, their banners snapping in the cold wind that swept down from the Wall. Arthur stood in the courtyard as Lord Rickard Karstark's column entered, the sunburst of his house stark against the winter-gray sky.
"Karstark brings his son," Redna observed beside him. "Torrhen. Nineteen, trained at Last Hearth."
Arthur nodded, watching the younger Karstark dismount with practiced efficiency. "Assessing whether what we've built represents opportunity or threat to traditional power."
The courtyard transformed into controlled chaos as Winterfell's staff managed the influx of northern nobility. Horses stamped and snorted, producing clouds of steam in the frigid air. Servants hurried between arriving parties, directing lords and their retinues to prepared quarters.
Lord Wyman Manderly's arrival was impossible to miss—his considerable bulk required a reinforced carriage, and his retinue included not just warriors but scholars and merchants. The Lord of White Harbor emerged with surprising grace, his keen eyes already assessing Winterfell's preparations.
"A man who understands economic power," Vaeron murmured, joining Arthur. "He came ready to discuss business."
Throughout the morning, more lords arrived. The Glovers from Deepwood Motte, their banner showing the mailed fist in silver. Lady Maege Mormont from Bear Island, formidable and commanding respect through sheer competence. The Flints, the Ryswells, the Dustins—each house represented, each lord arriving with their own agenda.
Then came the mountain clans.
Arthur spotted them before most others did—moving differently than lowland lords, more comfortable on foot than horseback, their clothing practical rather than ornamental. Three chieftains led contingents from their respective clans, but Arthur's attention focused on one in particular.
Chieftain Harrek of the Cold Fang Clan walked with the confidence of a man who'd survived mountain winters and clan warfare. He was weathered and lean, hard as mountain stone, with gray eyes that missed nothing. And walking beside him, her expression carefully neutral, was Sarra.
Arthur moved to intercept them before they reached the main courtyard chaos. Lyanna, Garron, Redna, Maelen, and Thom followed—Sarra's immediate circle, those she trained and worked with daily.
"Chieftain Harrek," Arthur said, offering the respect due a clan leader. "Welcome to Winterfell. Your presence honors House Stark."
Harrek's gaze swept over Arthur with the directness of someone who trusted action over words. "Lord Snow. My daughter speaks of you often. I thought it time to see for myself what keeps her from her people."
Sarra stepped forward. "Father, let me introduce everyone properly. This is Arthur Snow. Lyanna Stark, Lord Rickard's daughter. Garron. Redna. Vaeren. Maelen. Thom."
She gestured to each in turn, and Arthur noted how she presented them—not as Arthur's subordinates but as a cohesive group. "This is Chieftain Harrek of the Cold Fang Clan. My father."
The revelation drew surprised looks from several of Arthur's companions, though Arthur himself showed no reaction. He'd known, of course—his intelligence networks tracked such details. But for the others, this explained much about Sarra's capabilities and independence.
"Your daughter is exceptional," Arthur said directly to Harrek. "She was formidable when she arrived and has become more so through training. Whatever the mountain clans taught her provided an excellent foundation."
"Pretty words," Harrek replied, his tone neutral. "But I didn't travel to Winterfell for compliments. I came to understand why my daughter chooses to serve Stark interests instead of returning to lead her people."
Lyanna stiffened slightly at the bluntness, but Arthur appreciated it. Mountain clans didn't waste time on diplomatic words.
"I serve the North," Sarra said firmly. "Which includes the mountain clans. Everything I've learned here, every capability I've developed—it serves our people, Father. Just not in the traditional way."
"The Cold Fang Clan needs a leader," Harrek continued, his voice harder now. "Your mother's sister leads now, but she grows old. The clan expects you to return, to take leadership as your blood demands. Yet you remain here, training in lowland ways, abandoning your heritage."
"I haven't abandoned anything," Sarra countered. "I've grown beyond what the clans alone could teach me. The threats we face don't respect tradition. They respect strength, preparedness, unity. That's what I'm building here—the capability to defend the clans more effectively than any traditional leader could manage."
Garron watched the exchange with interest, recognizing the parallel to his own situation—a bastard finding purpose outside traditional family structures. Redna's expression remained neutral, but Arthur sensed her calculating the political implications.
"What threats?" Harrek demanded, turning his sharp gaze back to Arthur. "You speak of preparations, of unity. What exactly do you see coming that requires taking my daughter from her people?"
Arthur chose his words carefully. "The world grows more unstable, Chieftain. Wildling activity increases beyond the Wall. Ironborn raid with new coordination. Southern houses maneuver toward conflicts that could engulf the realm. We're preparing for all of it, because preparation serves regardless of which threat materializes first."
"Or you're building power under pretext of protection," Harrek suggested, making it observation rather than accusation.
"Possibly," Arthur acknowledged, his honesty surprising several listeners. "But whether my motives are pure or ambitious doesn't change the reality that the North grows stronger through what we're building. Your daughter contributes to that strength. When threats arrive—and they will—she'll be positioned to defend not just Cold Fang but all the mountain clans."
Harrek studied Arthur for a long moment, then looked at the others in the group. "And you all believe this? That following this bastard's plans serves the North better than traditional ways?"
"I follow him because he's proven capable," Garron said bluntly. "Repeatedly. Whatever his origins, his methods work."
"Because he sees what others miss," Maelen added. "Understands connections between events that seem unrelated. That's valuable in times of instability."
"Because he can make us stronger," Lyanna said firmly.
Redna remained silent, but her presence beside Arthur spoke its own statement of loyalty.
Harrek absorbed their responses, his weathered face unreadable. Finally, he turned back to Sarra. "The clans are your people. Your blood. Come home, daughter. Bring your new skills if you must, but lead Cold Fang as you were meant to."
Sarra met her father's gaze steadily. "I will return to the clans, Father. When the threats we're preparing for arrive, when the North needs every capable defender coordinating rather than fighting separately. But not to lead one clan—to help unite all of them with Winterfell's forces. That's where my skills serve best. That's where I can protect the most people, including Cold Fang."
"You refuse your heritage?"
"I'm expanding it," Sarra replied. "The daughter who left was a skilled clan warrior. The woman who will eventually return is someone who can coordinate forces, who understands strategy beyond individual combat, who can help the clans survive what's coming instead of dying nobly."
The silence stretched between them. Then Harrek sighed.
"Your mother would be proud of your strength. And concerned about your choices. I'm both." He reached out, gripping her shoulder with rough affection. "If you truly believe this serves our people better than our teachings, I won't stand against it. But remember—clan blood doesn't thin with distance. You're a Cold Fang member regardless of where you stand."
"I know, Father," Sarra said softly. "It means everything. Why else would I work this hard?"
Harrek released her shoulder and turned back to Arthur. "Keep her safe. Make her useful. And if your preparations fail, if threats come that your methods can't handle—send word to the clans. We may not understand your lowland methods, but we know how to fight."
"The clans' martial capability is valued, Chieftain," Arthur said formally. "And will always have place in the North's defense. We don't propose replacing traditional strengths, merely enhancing them through coordination."
"Hmm." Harrek's grunt was noncommittal. "Show me these preparations you claim make the North stronger. I'll judge for myself if they're worth my daughter's service."
As servants directed the mountain clan contingent to their quarters, Arthur felt cautious satisfaction. The confrontation had ended without rupture—Sarra's relationship with her father maintained while her commitment to Winterfell remained intact.
"That was intense," Lyanna murmured as Harrek departed.
"Mountain clans are direct," Sarra replied. "They say what they mean, challenge what they question, and respect strength over diplomacy. My father needed to see that I'm here by choice, not through force."
"And now he has," Arthur said. "Which means when the mountain clans see what we've built, they'll judge it on merit rather than assuming we've somehow coerced their people."
---
By midday, Winterfell's great hall buzzed with northern nobility. Lords clustered in informal groups, assessing each other, exchanging information, positioning themselves for the demonstrations to come. The mountain clan chieftains stood somewhat apart, observing lowland politics with detached interest.
Only one notable absence remained—Lord Bolton.
Lord Rickard Stark rose from his seat at the high table, and the hall gradually quieted. The Warden of the North cut an imposing figure, his gray eyes sweeping across the assembled lords with the authority of generations.
"My lords, chieftains," Rickard's voice carried clearly. "You've answered House Stark's summons with speed and loyalty, as the North has always done in times of significance. What you will see today represents not a departure from northern tradition, but its evolution. Our land is harsh. Our enemies numerous. Our resources stretched thin by geography and climate. For too long, we've accepted these limitations as unchangeable facts of northern life."
He gestured toward Arthur, who stood with Vaeron near tables arranged with various displays. "Arthur Snow and those he's trained have demonstrated that innovation need not abandon tradition. That economic strength enables military preparedness. That the North can compete with southern wealth while maintaining northern values. Today, we'll show you what's possible when old wisdom meets new methods."
Arthur stepped forward.
"My lords, chieftains," Arthur began. "The North faces threats from multiple directions. Wildlings beyond the Wall. Ironborn from the west. Southern political schemes and many more. And perhaps most dangerous—the slow erosion of our economic independence as southern houses dominate trade and commerce. We cannot address these threats through military strength alone. An army without supply lines starves. Power requires foundation, and that foundation is economic."
He nodded to Vaeron, who moved to the center where tables displayed various products. "Vaeron has spent three years developing methods specifically adapted to northern conditions and geography. Not southern innovations, but methods designed for our climate, our resources."
Vaeron began with preservation methods. He explained ice harvesting techniques—cutting blocks from frozen lakes with precision tools, storing them in specially designed ice houses, creating supply chains that could deliver fresh provisions to inland castles weeks after harvest.
"Temperature gradients, air flow, moisture control," Vaeron demonstrated with actual ice blocks. "Done properly, we preserve not just food but medicines, materials that traditionally required southern imports. Economic independence begins with not needing what the South sells us."
Lord Manderly leaned forward, his merchant's mind engaged. "The trade applications... fresh catches reaching White Harbor regardless of season..."
"Exactly, my lord," Vaeron confirmed. "Fish, meat, vegetables from summer harvests, medicines. The North has always struggled with seasonal scarcity. This addresses that systematically."
The glasswork demonstration drew gasps even from stoic northern lords. Vaeren presented pieces ranging from functional windows to luxury goblets, each showcasing clarity and quality rivaling southern craftsmen.
"Glass requires sand, heat, and skill," Vaeren explained, holding up a goblet that caught torchlight like captured fire. "The North has sand. We've developed furnaces that achieve necessary temperatures efficiently. And skill can be taught. These pieces were made here in the North, from northern materials, by northern hands."
"What's the trade value?" Lord Ryswell asked.
"A goblet like this sells for ten silver stags in King's Landing," Arthur answered. "Our production cost is roughly one stag. More importantly, southern merchants currently control glass trade to the North. This makes us independent while creating export goods they purchase."
Another northern lord held a goblet up to the torchlight, squinting. "By the gods… this is clearer than any southern glass I've seen."
Chieftain Harrek turned the goblet in his calloused hands, marveling silently at the unfamiliar craft. The mountain clans rarely saw such workmanship—their lifestyle valued function over beauty—but even he could recognize the economic potential.
The tannery innovations impressed the practical-minded lords. Vaeron showed leather samples treated with new processes—softer, more durable, weatherproofed through systematic experimentation.
"Traditional northern leather serves adequately," Vaeron acknowledged. "But compare this—" he held up standard versus treated samples. "The difference matters for armor, for trade goods, for anything requiring both durability and quality."
Lord Umber—the Greatjon—had arrived during the glasswork presentation, his massive frame impossible to miss. Now he spoke up, his voice a rumble.
"Fancy leather and glass goblets are well for trade. What about steel? What about defense? The Wall sees more activity each season. Wildlings grow bolder. How does perfume help when wildlings attack?"
Arthur met his gaze directly. "Steel requires iron ore, Lord Umber. We've mapped deposits throughout the North that previous generations either didn't find or couldn't efficiently extract."
Vaeron moved to a table displaying ore samples and mining tools. "Traditional mining follows veins wherever they lead, often into unstable areas. We've developed systematic surveying that maps deposits before excavation. Shoring techniques allowing deeper, safer extraction. Smelting processes that improve ore purity."
He held up two iron bars. "Both from the same mine near Last Hearth. The first processed traditionally—note the impurities. The second using refined techniques—stronger, more consistent, suitable for quality steel."
"You've been mining near Last Hearth?" Umber's tone was sharp.
"With your castellan's permission, Lord Umber," Arthur interjected smoothly. "We sent samples months ago. The reports showed significant improvement."
Umber grunted, somewhat mollified. "Aye, I recall. The steel tested true."
The tobacco demonstration drew mixed reactions. Vaeron showed plants cultivated in protected environments, explaining cold-resistant variants bred specifically for northern conditions.
"The southern tobacco trade brings significant gold into the Seven Kingdoms," Vaeron explained, passing around processed samples. "The North has never participated because conventional wisdom says tobacco requires warmth. We've proven that wrong. This grows in protected valleys, processes here, sells at prices undercutting imports."
"What's the yield?" Lord Karstark asked.
"Sufficient to be profitable in the first year, increasingly so as we refine cultivation," Arthur answered. "But tobacco's real value is diversification. Each new product expands our economic base, reduces dependence on southern markets."
Lord Manderly was nodding, clearly running calculations. "And the soap?"
Vaeron smiled, moving to displays of soap bars and perfume vials. "Soap requires fat, lye, and processing knowledge. The North has abundant animal fat. Lye from wood ash. The techniques transform basic materials into trade goods southern nobility pay premium prices for."
He opened a perfume vial, letting the scent drift through the hall. "Distilled from northern pine, wild herbs, cultivated flowers. Southern perfumes cost several gold dragons per vial. Ours cost copper to produce, sell for silver or gold depending on quality."
"You've tested southern markets?" a lesser lord asked skeptically.
"White Harbor merchants have been moving our products south for six months," Manderly interjected with satisfaction. "Demand exceeds supply. Southern ladies pay handsomely for 'exotic northern fragrances.'"
Laughter rippled through the hall—northern lords appreciating southern vanity turned to northern profit. Even the mountain clan chieftains smiled at that.
The spirits brewed by Vaeren drew eager hands and curious glances. He presented the northern liquors—wines from preserved fruits, potent beers, and distilled spirits honed for northern tastes.
"These are not merely drinks," Vaeren explained, pouring samples. "High-proof spirits serve as trade goods, yes, but also have medical uses—antiseptics, pain relief, preparation for surgery. With the North distant from southern supplies, local production matters."
He moved among the lords, offering goblets. Some winced at the burn of the alcohol, unaccustomed to such potency, while others—accustomed to hardy northern libations—took hearty sips and grinned.
Lord Ryswell, in particular, lingered over his goblet, swirling and savoring the flavor. "Now this," he declared, his eyes brightening, "this has proper strength! None of that watered-down southern piss." He took another deep draught and sighed contentedly. "A man could face a winter storm with a flask of this."
"Aye," another lord muttered appreciatively, wiping his beard. "Burns like dragonfire going down, but warms you to the bones. What's the proof on this?"
"And the body!" a third lord interjected with a booming laugh, already reaching for a refill. "I've had southern wines that tasted like perfumed water. This is a real drink. My hall would go through barrels of this in a single feast!"
Lord Manderly chuckled, raising his goblet in appreciation. "You've found the surest way to northern hearts, lad—through our cups! The trade potential alone..."
"The techniques behind these drinks apply across mead, beer, wine, and distilled spirits," Vaeren continued, fighting back a slight smile at their enthusiasm. "We've mastered fermentation, temperature control, and consistency. The next step is scaling production—so northern hands can provide for northern needs and trade alike."
Lord Karstark, who'd been skeptically quiet, spoke up. "This is impressive. Truly. But what's the actual proposal? What are you asking the northern lords to commit to?"
Arthur stepped forward. "We're not asking for commitment yet, Lord Karstark. Today is demonstration—showing what's possible when traditional capabilities are enhanced through innovation. The political discussions come later. For now, we want you to see that the North doesn't have to accept economic subordination to southern houses."
He gestured to the final demonstration. "But to address your underlying question—we're proposing coordinated economic development across the North. Each house contributing according to their advantages. Every house finding their role in a system that makes us stronger collectively than individually."
"And House Stark's role?" Lord Ryswell asked pointedly.
"Coordination," Rickard Stark answered. "Not control. House Stark provides framework, ensures cooperation rather than competition, maintains fair distribution of benefits. Each house retains independence over their lands and decisions. We're proposing alliance, not subordination."
The glasshouse demonstration concluded the presentations. Vaeron showed a functional greenhouse where vegetables grew despite winter outside.
"Food security represents our greatest vulnerability," Vaeron explained, walking through the glass structure. "Traditional northern agriculture operates on tight margins. One bad harvest means starvation. These structures extend growing seasons, protect crops from early frost, allow cultivation of plants that normally couldn't survive northern climate."
He gestured to rows of vegetables at various growth stages. "This isn't replacing traditional farming—it's supplementing it. Scale it up, and you ensure food supply regardless of seasonal conditions."
Lady Mormont spoke up. "The cost? Building these structures..."
"Is expensive initially," Arthur acknowledged. "Which is why we're proposing shared investment. Several houses pool resources to build structures managed cooperatively. Costs distributed, benefits shared proportionally."
He met the lords' gazes steadily. "Everything you've seen today shares a common principle. The North has what it needs to prosper. We simply haven't been using our resources optimally. These innovations don't require southern help or permission. They require northern lords willing to try new methods while maintaining northern values."
The presentations concluded, and servants brought food and drink while lords absorbed what they'd seen. Arthur watched informal groups reform—lords discussing among themselves, weighing advantages, considering implications.
The mountain clan chieftains gathered with Harrek, speaking in their mountain dialect. Arthur couldn't hear the conversation, but their body language suggested cautious interest rather than outright skepticism.
Lord Manderly approached Arthur directly. "You've essentially described rebuilding the North's economy from foundation up. Ambitious. Perhaps too ambitious?"
"Only if attempted all at once, my lord," Arthur replied. "We're proposing phased implementation. Start with what each house can manage individually, build toward coordinated systems over years. Great achievements require time."
"I see value," Manderly said bluntly. "White Harbor has been moving your products for months. The profit margins are extraordinary. But profit creates envy. Southern houses won't appreciate northern competition."
"Which is why economic strength matters," Arthur said. "Southern houses can't easily move against us militarily. But they can use trade pressure, price manipulation, strategic scarcity. Every item we produce internally reduces that leverage."
Before Manderly could respond, a commotion at the hall's entrance drew attention. Roose Bolton had arrived.
The Lord of the Dreadfort entered quietly despite the disturbance his arrival created. Bolton was slight and pale, with eyes like chips of ice and a voice so soft it required straining to hear. He wore pink and red, somehow making even bright colors seem muted and threatening.
"Lord Stark," Bolton's whisper carried in the suddenly silent hall. "My apologies for the delayed arrival. The roads from the Dreadfort proved... challenging."
The excuse was transparently false—every other lord had managed the journey. But Rickard accepted it graciously.
"Your presence honors us, Lord Bolton. Please, join us. We've just concluded demonstrations of proposed economic innovations."
Bolton's pale eyes swept across the displays, the products, the assembled lords. His expression revealed nothing. "How... progressive. The North embraces change. I wonder if change will prove as beneficial as hoped, or if traditional methods exist for traditional reasons."
The subtle challenge hung in the air. Arthur met Bolton's gaze briefly, reading calculation behind that empty stare.
"Traditional methods serve until better methods prove themselves," Arthur replied evenly. "Everything demonstrated today has been tested extensively. We're not proposing experiments, merely sharing proven improvements."
"Tested by whom?" Bolton asked softly. "Under whose authority?"
"Mine," Rickard Stark interjected firmly. "Under my authority as Warden of the North, using Stark resources and lands. Every innovation you see received my direct approval. If you question the methods, Lord Bolton, you question my judgment."
Bolton recognized the trap immediately. His lips curved in something that might have been a smile. "I would never question your judgment, Lord Stark. Merely seeking to understand the scope of these... ambitions."
He took a seat, his presence changing the hall's atmosphere from enthusiastic discussion to wary assessment.
The evening feast began as twilight settled over Winterfell. Long tables filled with northern lords, mountain clan chieftains, and Stark household members. Food flowed generously—roasted meats, winter vegetables, bread still warm from ovens, and samples of the various alcohols Vaeron had demonstrated.
Arthur moved through the informal conversations, observing, assessing, already planning tomorrow's demonstrations based on reactions he'd noted. The economic presentations had succeeded—showing capability without arrogance, potential without impossible promises.
Harrek caught his eye from across the hall, raising a cup in acknowledgment. The mountain chieftain had seen enough to understand why his daughter stayed. That didn't mean he was happy about it, but he respected it.
Lord Manderly engaged Lord Umber in animated discussion about mining coordination. Lady Mormont questioned Vaeron about glasshouse construction costs. Even Lord Karstark, initially skeptical, was examining glass samples with clear interest.
Only Bolton sat alone, observing everything with those cold, calculating eyes. Arthur watched him watching others, and knew that conversation would come soon enough.