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The feast continued into the evening, northern lords growing more relaxed as food and drink worked their familiar magic. Arthur circulated through the hall, careful to engage with various lords, answering questions, deflecting concerns about tomorrow's martial demonstrations.
But his attention kept returning to one figure sitting alone at the periphery of the celebration.
Roose Bolton.
The Lord of the Dreadfort had positioned himself where he could observe everything while remaining apart from the main festivities. His pale eyes tracked conversations, catalogued alliances forming, noted which lords grew enthusiastic about the innovations and which remained skeptical.
Arthur made his decision. Better to have this conversation now, in controlled circumstances, than allow Bolton time to scheme and coordinate with other skeptical lords.
He approached Bolton's table with two cups of Vaeron's spirits, setting one before the Lord of the Dreadfort without asking permission.
"Lord Bolton," Arthur said pleasantly. "We should talk."
Bolton's pale gaze fixed on him. "Should we? I wasn't aware we had anything to discuss, Snow."
"Oh, I think we do." Arthur settled into the seat across from him, utterly relaxed. "You see, I know something interesting about you. Actually, I know several interesting things. Would you like to hear them?"
Bolton's expression didn't change, but something flickered behind those empty eyes. "I have no idea what you're implying."
"Let me tell you a story, Lord Bolton," Arthur said conversationally. "About three letters. The first concerned an ambush here at Winterfell—right under our own roof. There was only one assassin, a professional, who slipped past our watch and wards to strike at Brandon. He failed. When it became clear he could not complete the task, he took his own life rather than be captured and questioned. Someone paid him. Someone supplied the route."
Bolton's fingers tightened imperceptibly on the goblet. "Bandits—"
Arthur's gaze didn't waver. "Not bandits. A man trained for this, with deadly skill. And the payment came from someone who expected results. Someone who wanted Brandon Stark dead."
The color—what little existed—drained from Bolton's face.
"The second letter went to the Faith," Arthur said. "Not to the High Septon directly—that would be too obvious. But to a septon in Oldtown known for his concerns about sorcery and unnatural practices. This letter expressed deep worries about a bastard at Winterfell who displays 'abilities no natural man should possess.' It suggested that Arthur Snow might be touched by dark powers, that his knowledge seems supernatural, that the Faith should investigate before corruption spreads through the North."
Bolton's breath had gone shallow. His eyes darted toward the hall's exits, calculating distances, escape routes.
"The third letter," Arthur's voice dropped lower, forcing Bolton to lean closer to hear, "was written yesterday. Before you left the Dreadfort. A detailed report to certain southern merchants—men with connections to powerful houses—promising a full account of today's demonstrations. Information they could use to undermine northern trade, to prepare countermeasures, to ensure that whatever innovations House Stark reveals can be neutralized or copied before they provide lasting advantage."
"You're lying," Bolton whispered, but there was no conviction in it. "You couldn't possibly—"
"The merchant's name is Damon Holt," Arthur said. "He operates primarily in Gulltown but has connections throughout the Vale and Riverlands. You've corresponded with him four times in the past year. The letter promised him exclusive intelligence in exchange for twenty percent of profits from any trade disruptions he engineers."
Bolton stood abruptly, his chair scraping against stone. Several servants looked over, but Arthur raised a hand in dismissal, and they returned to their work.
"Sit down, Lord Bolton," Arthur said softly. "We're not finished."
"I don't know what game you're playing—"
"Sit. Down."
The command carried weight that had nothing to do with volume. Bolton found himself sitting, and the realization that he'd obeyed without conscious choice brought true fear into his eyes for the first time.
Arthur leaned back, utterly relaxed. "Do you know what your enemies call me, Lord Bolton? Not here in the North, where they're careful with their words. But in the South, in King's Landing taverns and Braavosi brothels, where men speak more freely?"
Bolton said nothing, his pale face now paper-white.
"The Demon of the North," Arthur said. "At first, I thought it dramatic nonsense. Southern superstition about northern savagery. But then I realized—it's not about what I do. It's about what I know. Demons, in the old stories, know your secrets. Your sins. The things you've done in darkness that you're certain no one could discover."
He leaned forward slightly.
"So let me tell you what else I know, Roose Bolton. I know about the villages that have 'declined' in the Dreadfort lands. Smallfolk who disappear. People with no families, no connections, people no one would miss. I know what happens in the Dreadfort's dungeons. I know about the room you keep locked, the one even your maester isn't allowed to enter. I know about the flayed skins you preserve there, mounted like trophies."
Bolton's hand trembled. Actually trembled.
"I know you've been continuing the old practices," Arthur continued remorselessly. "The ones House Bolton swore to abandon. You've been very careful, very selective about your victims. Almost admirable in its thoroughness, if it weren't utterly monstrous. But careful isn't the same as undetectable. Not to someone who knows where to look. Not to someone with the right... connections."
"The laws—" Bolton started.
"The laws of the North forbid flaying," Arthur agreed. "House Bolton swore to abandon those practices. Yet here we are." He tilted his head. "Of course, you've been careful. The victims were chosen specifically because their disappearance wouldn't be investigated. No one to complain. No one to raise concerns. Just smallfolk vanishing."
Bolton's whisper was barely audible. "What do you want?"
"Want?" Arthur's smile widened. "I want you to understand your position, Lord Bolton. The assassination attempt on Brandon Stark—that's treason. Punishable by death and attainder of your house. The letter to the Faith—that's conspiracy to harm House Stark's interests through religious manipulation. Also quite serious. The letter to Damon Holt—that's active betrayal of northern interests for personal profit."
He leaned forward.
"Any one of these would be enough to destroy you. Together? Lord Rickard could have your head on a spike and every lord in the North would applaud. But more importantly, understand this: if you continue to conspire and scheme—if you keep sending letters, courting southern merchants, or plotting to undermine House Stark—then certain documents will leave my hands. They will be distributed to Lord Rickard, to every major house in the North, and to the Faith. They detail everything: the assassination at Winterfell, your correspondence, your… hobbies… in the Dreadfort dungeons."
Bolton's breathing had gone ragged. "You have no proof—"
"I have the names of four men who survived the ambush," Arthur said flatly. "Men currently residing in places you can't reach, ready to testify. I have the original letter to the Faith—your seal, your hand, verified by three separate masters of letters. I have copies of your correspondence with Damon Holt. I have testimony from two of your household servants about the locked room and what they've glimpsed inside it."
The silence stretched. Bolton's mind was clearly racing, calculating, searching for angles, escape routes, ways to regain control. Arthur could see the moment he found nothing.
"What do you want?" Bolton asked again, his voice low, defeated.
"Your neutrality," Arthur said simply. "I don't need your active support. I don't need you to embrace the changes we're implementing. I just need you to not oppose them. Don't conspire with southern merchants. Don't write letters to the Faith. Don't plot against House Stark or anyone under their protection. And most especially—don't ever threaten Brandon, Lyanna, Lord Rickard, or anyone else connected to this family again."
"And in exchange?"
"In exchange, your secrets remain secret. Your position remains secure. House Bolton continues as Stark bannermen, no questions raised, no investigations launched. You keep your lands, your title, your life. All you have to surrender is your ambition to profit from Stark misfortune."
Arthur stood, looking down at the Lord of the Dreadfort.
"But understand this, Roose Bolton—I'm watching. Always. Every raven you send, every whisper, every move you make. The moment you step out of line, the moment you threaten what we're building, everything I know becomes public. And then..." Arthur's smile vanished, replaced by something cold and dangerous. "Then you'll understand why they call me the Demon of the North. Not for what I do to enemies, but for what I know. There is nowhere for you to hide. I will find you, Roose. And I will do to you what you have done to others—slowly, painfully, and without mercy."
He turned to leave, then paused.
"Oh, and Lord Bolton? That man you're considering for your next... project. The trapper from the western villages who is an orphan. I know about him too. Touch him, and I'll ensure Lord Stark learns exactly what you've been doing in your dungeons. Are we clear?"
Bolton managed a jerky nod, all his legendary composure shattered.
"Excellent," Arthur said pleasantly. "Get some rest, my lord. Tomorrow's demonstrations should prove quite enlightening. Try not to be late this time—I'd hate for you to miss seeing exactly what we're capable of."
He walked away, leaving Roose Bolton sitting alone in the near-empty hall, trembling with fear for the first time in decades, finally understanding what it meant to face someone who knew everything—and had the power to destroy him with a word.
As Arthur disappeared into the shadows, Bolton stared at his untouched goblet with hands that still shook. The Demon of the North, they called him. Now Bolton understood why. And he knew, with absolute certainty, that he would never move against Arthur Snow or House Stark again.
---
Arthur stood in the courtyard as snow continued falling, watching windows light and darken as northern nobility settled for the night. Tomorrow would bring different demonstrations—of martial capability. The lords had seen what the North could produce. Next they would see what Arthur's people could do.
Lyanna joined him in the courtyard, her breath misting in the cold air. "Today went well. Better than expected, actually."
"Economic benefits are easy to appreciate," Arthur replied. "Tomorrow will be more complicated. When we demonstrate enhanced capabilities, some lords will see opportunity. Others will see threat."
"You mean when they see what we can actually do. What training with you produces."
"Yes." Arthur's tone was matter-of-fact. "The economic innovations make the North wealthier. The martial innovations make individuals more dangerous. Lords tend to worry more about the second than the first."
"But they need to see both to understand what we're building."
"They do. Which is why tomorrow's demonstrations matter more than today's, even if they're harder to manage politically." Arthur turned toward the keep. "Get some rest, Lyanna. Tomorrow we'll need full strength."
As Arthur stepped into Winterfell's warmth, he felt the weight of tomorrow's demonstrations pressing down. The northern lords had gathered, observed the possibilities, and already begun calculating what advantages they might gain. Now they needed to see the full scope—not just what the North could produce, but what the people themselves could achieve.
He moved through the quiet halls, noting torches guttering against the cold stone, the servants tidying long tables, the faint echo of footsteps in empty corridors. The castle felt alive in its preparation, yet tense, as if it too understood the stakes.
The game continued. The pieces were in position. Tomorrow would show whether the lords would embrace change or retreat to the familiar comfort of tradition.
Outside, snow blanketed Winterfell's ancient stones. Inside, the North's future rested on choices, calculations, and small, deliberate actions. Arthur, tempered by patience and experience far beyond this hall, readied himself for the next phase of a plan that could either unite the North—or tear it apart.
Tomorrow would tell which.