II-11: Shifts In the North II
Northern air bit sharp as knives as Lord Harrick Snowthorn strode through Hartshold's dim corridors, boots tapping stone like drops of water in a deep well. The servant leading him moved ahead without a word, but Harrick caught the sideways glance the boy gave him—nervous, uncertain, yet lacking the proper deference a lord of ancient blood deserved.
The young man's gait was too swift, his head raised a touch too high for his station, as though he served some greater house than Hart. Even the servants think themselves above House Snowthorn these days.
They always knew, didn't they?
Even the servants.
All of them could smell the status on a man, or the lack of it, no matter how fine the silver chain around his throat or how carefully he had slicked back his hair.
The halls of Hartshold were... adequate, he supposed, though the word tasted bitter as winter berries upon his tongue.
Warm enough, even in this late hour, with fires crackling in iron-wrought hearths that cast long shadows along the walls like grasping fingers. The stones beneath his feet had been laid well, he'd grant them that much—solid Northern craftsmanship that had withstood many centuries of unforgiving winter winds.
Yet the tapestries that adorned the walls told a different tale.
Worn and faded, they depicted hunts and victories from days long past, their colors muted by time like memories best forgotten. Lord Arlon Hart might think his family's legacy was something to boast of, but Harrick knew better. Summer knights and autumn lords, he thought, his lip curling slightly. A house that had once commanded respect now clung to it like an old cloak too threadbare to offer warmth.
Much like Snowthorn, he thought with a smile that held no warmth, but no matter. Hart's pride would mean little soon enough, once the meeting began. His fingers brushed unconsciously against the silver chain at his throat, feeling each link like a promise. They all think themselves equal or better than me, these so-called lords, but we'll see who walks away from this hunt with more than pelts. The thought warmed him more than the fires ever could.
Harrick slowed his steps, savoring the tension as the servant faltered. Lateness was a lord's privilege, and he had no intention of arriving like a supplicant.
Let them wait. Let them wonder.
His lord father had taught him that much before the old man had died, choking on his own blood in a bed that stank of failure and missed opportunities. Timing is everything in the game of lords and powers, he'd wheezed between coughs, and mayhaps that was the only lesson of value the old fool had managed to impart.
Arriving too early, too eager... that was the mistake of lesser men.
Of hunters, not lords.
The servant stopped before the heavy oak door of the solar, his hand raised in a gesture that presumed to bid a lord wait. Green eyes met Harrick's for the briefest moment—a flash of something that might have been respect or recognition, though more like as not it was fear—before the man dipped his head and knocked softly. Time seemed to slow as Harrick watched the boy's knuckles rap against the ancient wood. "My Lord, they await you within," the servant murmured, his words almost lost in the shuffle of Harrick's cloak as he stepped past him.
"They'll wait," Harrick finally replied, his voice soft but firm as winter frost, grey eyes narrowing as the servant nearly opened his mouth but quickly thought better of it. Smart lad. Mayhaps there's hope for him yet.
He adjusted the silver chain, its weight cold and familiar—a silent promise that Snowthorn's roots would hold through another winter. His house was as old as the Karstarks, as noble as any in the North, their roots as deep as the winters were long. Would that history alone could command respect, but these days? Bloodlines meant less than silver or steel, and his house had precious little of either.
Even still, he had something else.
Something that couldn't be measured in gold or grain stores.
Cunning, sharp as the thorns that adorned his sigil. Ambition, cold and clear as ice. The sharpness that only winter could hone, that his ancestors had passed down through generations of survival. And tonight, he intended to remind them all of it.
With a final deep breath that tasted of woodsmoke and opportunity, he nodded to the servant.
The boy pushed open the door to the solar, and warmth washed over Harrick like an unwelcome embrace. Too warm for his liking, the fire crackling in the hearth casting an orange glow over the gathered lords.
Petty men, most of them, though they would not see themselves as such.
Lord Ebben Lightfoot, pacing near the hearth like a nervous dog, his thinning hair catching the firelight like strands of copper wire. Lord Torren Moss, standing by the window with that perpetual air of refinement that ill-suited his modest holdings, his gaze outward but his mind undoubtedly on the men in the room behind him. Young Eldric Stream, barely old enough to grow a proper beard, brimming with the sort of ambition that came before the first true winter culled it.
And Arlon Hart, their host, sitting comfortably in his high-backed chair like some petty king holding court, a man who liked to think of himself clever but had never faced a challenge sharper than the hounds he hunted with.
Harrick smiled inwardly. Pieces on a cyvasse board.
They all turned as he entered, their voices lowering a tad, their eyes narrowing just a fraction—appraisal, curiosity, and, perhaps, mistrust. Good. They ought to be wary of him.
"My lords," Harrick said, inclining his head slightly as he stepped forward into the solar, his eyes sweeping the room, lingering on each man just long enough to make them uneasy. "Forgive my tardiness. The roads, you know."
He made his way to an empty seat near the fire, settling himself with the same measured calm he used to inspect a blade before a hunt. The cushioned chair was well-worn, its wooden arms smooth from years of noble hands gripping them in similar meetings. The others had already gathered, already spoken perhaps, their faces illuminated by dancing flames that cast long shadows across the solar's stone walls.
No matter. The scent of burning pine filled his nostrils, mixing with the musty smell of old tapestries and the sharp tang of fear that seemed to hover in the air.
Late to the game didn't mean lost.
They'd already shown their hands by being here, by waiting for him before proper discussion. Each man's position in the solar told its own tale— all of them believing themselves players rather than pawns.
"We are not here to talk of stags or boars," Harrick began, his voice carrying the low, measured weight of authority. "We gather because the North, our home, faces something greater, something darker." He let the words hang, watching for their reactions, but no one spoke.
Good—he had their attention.
Ebben Lightfoot glanced toward Lord Hart, his lips twitching nervously beneath his wispy beard, but Harrick kept his eyes fixed forward, already plotting the next move. His fingers found the smooth wood of the chair's arm, tracing old scratches as his mind raced ahead like a wolf on the hunt. Monsters, they'd said in hushed whispers throughout the North, in taverns and keeps alike.
Monsters, giant beasts, dark spirits, magic—tales that belonged in old stories, not in the woods of their own holdings.
A boy of noble blood and a pretty face with a sword that could only be Valyrian steel, its white surface as bright as the clouds above. The description had come from five different sources, each more reliable than the last.
The Age of Heroes come again, some even dared whisper in their cups, their eyes bright with wine and wonder.
Harrick had heard the tales from his own smallfolk, watched them make the sign of the old gods when speaking of the creatures that stalked their woods, but he cared little for their troubles.
The sword. That was what mattered. Valyrian steel could buy more than just glory—it could buy power, the kind his house had lost generations ago and that it never even had.
Harrick folded his hands in his lap, tapping his index finger lightly against his thumb, a habit he hadn't managed to shake since childhood. The familiar rhythm helped steady his thoughts as he watched the others shift uncomfortably in their seats. Patience, he reminded himself, feeling the weight of generations of Snowthorns watching him, judging him.
Patience, like thorns. Sharp enough to draw blood, but not yet.
Not yet.
"So," Harrick said, leaning forward, his grey eyes catching the light of the fire as they darted between the lords like a blade testing for weakness, "when do we kill the boy?"
He smiled—just a sliver of a smile—as he watched the unease creep into their expressions, their faces shifting like shadows in the firelight. Some reached for their cups, others straightened in their chairs, armor creaking softly in the tense silence.
He could feel the room tighten as his words hung in the air, like the tense pull of a string from a longbow. The heat from the hearth pressed against his back, but the chill that ran through the solar had nothing to do with temperature. He'd expected resistance—of course, men like these would never take the first suggestion without argument, especially not from a Snowthorn. The name didn't carry the weight it once had, not since his grandfather's time.
Petty lords—some minor, like him—but proud in their small domains, each believing their modest keeps were castles, their hunting grounds were kingdoms. The firelight caught their faces, revealing every twitch, every tell that spoke of their fear and ambition.
Even still, Lord Bolton's shadow lay long over them all, but they wouldn't dare say it aloud, wouldn't speak the name except in whispers. The very air seemed to grow colder at the thought of the Dreadfort's master.
Too afraid, too careful.
They wouldn't acknowledge the weight of the Dreadfort, not directly.
Not yet.
Harrick's mind revisited the last council at the Dreadfort. Roose Bolton had been reserved, his cold eyes missing nothing. 'A man of few words but many thoughts,' Harrick thought as his attention shifted to an uglier Bolton face. 'My words there were seeds planted in fertile ground, now to nurture them in shadow and silence.'
Lord Moss finally turned from the window, though his expression remained inscrutable in the half-light. His fine clothes, just a touch too fine for his station, rustled softly as he moved. Moss, ever the calm voice of skepticism, spoke first, his tone cool and measured like the first frost of winter. "Kill a boy over rumors and mummer's tales, Harrick? Has Snowthorn fallen so low?""
His fingers tapped lightly against his knee as he leaned back, gaze flitting over the assembled lords. Lord Ebben Lightfoot clung to the hearth like a moth to flame, his eyes flitting between the lords as if searching for rescue. His thinning hair glimmered in the firelight, but his hands betrayed him, twisting the hem of his cloak until the threads began to fray.
Arlon Hart, their host, sat with his fingers steepled, eyes narrowed, watching with the practiced patience of a man used to waiting out his prey. The others—the young ones, the ones with ambition but no sense—shifted in their seats, trying to mask their curiosity beneath a veil of indifference that fooled no one.
Good. They'd come to listen. They were already interested, even if they wouldn't admit it. The thorns were finding purchase.
Harrick's jaw tightened as he barely had to fake outrage at the insult, muscles working beneath his skin. "Rumors? Mummer's tales? You've heard the same reports I have, Moss. Rats like dogs, spiders that screech, stags with burning antlers..."
Harrick trailed off, watching Moss's smirk. "You doubt me? Each time, every time, the boy has passed by."
Truthfully, he had no idea if the boy was near, but did it matter?
Truly?
He leaned forward, feeling the fire's heat at his back but ignoring it, focused only on the prey before him. "Tell me, is that coincidence, or are you still too blind to see the danger?"
"Danger?" Lord Lightfoot muttered, wringing his hands like a washwoman with her linens. The man was practically twitching in his boots, something that nearly brought a sneer to Harrick's face. Lightfoot was the worst of men in his opinion, arrogant on the inside but timid to others, a mix of self-hatred and pride that left him looking like a fool. "Perhaps, but we know nothing for certain, do we? Bolton's men didn't find any sign of the boy, nor the monsters."
"Ah, yes, Bolton's men," Harrick sneered with a curled lip, unable to help himself. The words tasted bitter as winter berries. "They came, they saw... and they did nothing. Roose Bolton dismisses our concerns from the comfort of the Dreadfort, as if these lands aren't ours to protect. Does he live here? Does he walk the forests, see the beasts with his own eyes? No. We're the ones who face this threat. Not him." He caught himself before the bitterness leaked too far into his words. Too much, Harrick.
Torren raised an eyebrow, his gaze sharp as icicles. "And yet, Lord Bolton is still our liege lord, is he not? Perhaps you're suggesting we go against him?"
Harrick's pulse quickened beneath the high collar of his doublet, a familiar rush of anger and fear mingling in his chest. He had slipped up, just for a second, let too much of the bitterness seep into his voice like poison from an old wound.
The lord straightened in his chair, the worn leather creaking beneath him as his fingers drummed lightly against his armrest, a nervous habit he'd never quite mastered hiding. "Of course not," he said smoothly, his throat tightening as he fought to keep his tone measured, proper, lordly. "I would never… never suggest... defiance. But Bolton is... preoccupied. And we have more pressing concerns, do we not? A green boy is Warden of the North, barely old enough to hold a sword, and there's a mad sorcerer running loose in our lands, wielding magic and a Valyrian blade." He paused, letting the weight of those words settle like fresh snow on frozen ground. "Is this not a sign, though? Eddard Stark, a warrior proven, is in the South, the Boltons... the way they are. It falls to us to protect our people."
The firelight caught the silver chain at his throat as he spoke, casting dancing shadows across the room. His fingers found the thorns sigil unconsciously, seeking reassurance in its familiar weight.
Arlon Hart, ever the voice of caution, leaned forward in his high-backed chair, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. The gesture reminded Harrick of a septon at prayer, though the gods Hart truly served were far more earthly. "A sign, is it? And what do you suggest, Harrick? That we march out like fools and slay this boy based on whispers?"
"This boy," Harrick continued, tasting the words like bitter wine, "wherever he passes, Beasts follow. Monsters the likes of which we've not heard outside of tales." The fire crackled behind him, its heat pressing against his back like an unwelcome embrace.
He let his eyes sweep the room, landing on each man in turn, watching the flickers of doubt, of interest, creep across their faces like shadows at dusk. Their expressions betrayed them—even the most guarded among them couldn't hide their fear entirely. Fear is power, his father had taught him, and power is what House Snowthorn needs. "And yet... the boy himself? Untouched. Unscathed by the chaos he leaves behind, not a single scar or pockmark on his face, teeth white as the fresh winter snow, unnatural." That was another thing his informants had woven in their tales of the boy, a softness to his features that one could liken to a maid if he wore a dress. The thought made his lip curl slightly.
He paused, letting the words sink in like thorns finding purchase. The room had grown still, save for the crackling of the fire and Ebben's nervous shifting. "It's no coincidence."
"Are you suggesting the boy controls these things?" Lord Ebben finally spoke up, his voice tinged with uncertainty. His eyes flicked nervously toward Torren, seeking some kind of silent reassurance, like a dog looking to its master. Pathetic.
Yet, the other lord's face was a dead mask, giving nothing away but the slight tightening around his eyes.
"Harrick," Lord Hart said, his voice level, measured as a merchant's scales, "we've heard rumors, yes, but this... accusation you make—it's bold." There was a challenge in his tone, but it lacked conviction. He wants to be convinced, Harrick realized. They all do.
"Bold?" Harrick's lips curled into a thin smile, sharp as the thorns of his house sigil. "Perhaps. But necessary." He straightened in his chair, the leather creaking softly as he leaned forward slightly, his gaze locking with Arlon's. The firelight caught his prematurely silver hair, casting an almost ghostly sheen about his features.
"You've all heard the stories. The boy—this supposed lordling—who claims to have no memory of who he is or where he's from. Yet he carries gold, throws magic about like a seasoned sorcerer, and lifts giant boars over his head as if they were feathers. We've heard the villagers talk—how he deflowers their daughters, takes what he pleases, then vanishes into the night." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle like frost on autumn leaves. "Magic, as you know, comes from knowledge, blood, and sacrifice. Feigning loss of memory while performing such grand magicks is a clear falsehood. Who knows how many Northerners this Essosi boy has sacrificed for his acts? How many smallfolk girls he's defiled and then killed? Might he even be a boy at all? Dark magic can do many things."
A murmur rippled through the room like wind through winter wheat. Even Torren, who had maintained his stoic expression, shifted slightly, his brow furrowing beneath his severe hairline. Lord Ebben glanced nervously around the table, his fingers twitching at his side like a man reaching for a sword that wasn't there.
"If Harrick speaks the truth," Ebben stammered, glancing around as if expecting someone to finish the thought for him, "can we afford to wait? Beasts... magic... it could spread, could it not?" his voice wavered, but the hint of urgency clung to it like frost.
"And how do we know this?" Torren asked again, eyes narrowing to slits. "Claims that the boy deflowers the daughters of villages, slays them in secret, and uses their blood for his magic. Is that your proof, Harrick? Gossip from smallfolk lips? You speak of things without proof," Moss continued, his voice carefully neutral as fresh-fallen snow. "We've only stories and rumors. This boy may well be innocent of these things."
"I speak of what my men have told me. He receives wounds and drains the life of those he kills to heal his own," Harrick spoke the words with a soft snort, his smile widening despite himself as he relayed the report of one of his men who survived the massacre at the Lonely Hills. The memory of the man's terror-filled eyes as he spoke of the boy's unnatural healing gave weight to his words. "Innocent? Magic like that does not spring from nowhere. A boy with no past, no name, yet wields power beyond any of us? And you'd call him innocent?"
Torren folded his arms across his chest, the fine wool of his doublet rustling softly. His tone remained skeptical, but Harrick could see the seed of doubt taking root behind those calculating eyes. "A boy with power? Perhaps. But power does not always mean danger, Harrick. You said yourself, he carries a sword, magic even, but that does not make him the enemy."
"It doesn't?" Harrick scoffed, voice dripping with sarcasm as bitter as winter berries. "He wanders through our lands, wielding Valyrian steel—the very symbol of ancient power—and throws around magic like it's nothing, but you would have us believe he's some lost child? Naive. No, Lord Moss. He's a weapon, and weapons are only as dangerous as the ones who wield them."
"He's a boy," Lord Ebben interrupted, voice shaky as autumn leaves, his brow furrowed in thought, the man clearly trying to argue for the sake of argument. His fingers twisted at the silver ring on his hand—a habit that betrayed him more than his words ever could. "Perhaps he doesn't know what he's doing—"
"Doesn't know?" Harrick interrupted, eyes gleaming in the firelight. "A boy who lifts a boar weighing more than three men over his head? Who draws magic from the air like breathing, performs feats of necromancy that would make a red priest drop to his knees, and claims himself simply lost?"
Harrick let out a bitter laugh that echoed against the stone walls. "No. That's not ignorance. That's deceit."
Torren's lips pressed into a thin line, his fine doublet rustling as he shifted in his seat. "But we still have no proof of his intent. If the boy is dangerous, yes, we deal with him, but we mustn't act too rashly." His words carried the careful measure of a man used to weighing every option, though Harrick could see the doubt creeping into his eyes like frost on glass.
Harrick's teeth clenched, the muscle in his jaw working beneath his skin. He forced himself to sit back, taking a deep breath of the smoke-tinged air before continuing, his voice low and steady as winter ice. "Torren, Moss—when have we ever waited for proof of intent before acting? Do we wait for a beast to bare its teeth before we kill it? No, we strike before it strikes us." His gaze swept the room like a blade, noting every twitch, every glance between the assembled lords. "And the longer we wait, the more time we give him to strike first."
"If he's even an Essosi," Moss muttered, casting a meaningful glance toward Hart that made Harrick's blood run hot with barely contained rage.
Harrick's fists clenched under the table, hidden from view, his nails biting into his palms. The pain helped him focus, helped keep the bitterness from his voice. "Essosi, or otherwise, he's no Northerner. He feigns ignorance, but we all know the truth—magic, true magic, is born from blood. He's a stranger to these lands, an outsider who wields more power than any of us, and if he is allowed to remain unchecked, who knows what atrocities he will commit? Do we wait until our lands are overrun with beasts, our daughters... defiled?" The word hung in the air like poison.
He shook his head slowly, letting the silence stretch taut as a bowstring. The fire crackled behind him, casting long shadows across the gathered faces. "There's a pattern to this, my lords. Wherever the boy goes, the monsters follow. Boars larger than men, wolves with glowing eyes, unnatural beasts we've only heard of in old songs. And yet, the boy remains at the center of it all, unblemished." The last word carried all the weight of his suspicion.
"You're asking us to kill a boy on suspicion," Moss said, though his voice lacked the firmness it once had. The firelight caught his face, revealing the uncertainty in his eyes. "And if you're wrong?"
"I'm not wrong," Harrick snapped, his voice harsher than he intended, the careful mask slipping for just a moment. He steadied himself, taking a breath that tasted of woodsmoke and opportunity. Keep control. They're listening. You have them. "We've seen enough. We've heard enough. Roose Bolton will do nothing. The Starks are far away. If we wait any longer, more will die. More of our lands will be ravaged by these beasts. And if the boy is behind it all... if he wields that Valyrian sword... well, we all know what that means."
"What are you saying?" Arlon asked, his gaze cold as the winter wind, his voice careful as a man testing thin ice.
Harrick smiled thinly, feeling the weight of his house's sigil against his throat. "I'm saying we have the boy removed ourselves. Quietly, and quickly, before he does more damage. We act together, and no one will be the wiser."
Ebben looked around nervously, his voice small as a mouse in a giant's hall. "But... Lord Bolton..."
"Lord Bolton dismisses us already," Harrick cut in, his tone sharp as thorns. "He will not act. We must."
There was a pause, the fire crackling behind him, the air thick with tension and wood smoke. Torren Moss looked from Harrick to Arlon, then to the others, his expression guarded as a castle gate. Slowly, reluctantly, he nodded, the gesture heavy with resignation. "If what you say is true... then yes. We must act."
Arlon leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing as he studied Harrick like a hunter examining a trap. "And what do you gain, harrick?" Hart's voice was calm, a blade hidden in silk. "Valyrian steel makes a fine prize, does it not? A prize any Lord would eagerly claim, no?"
Harrick felt his pulse quicken beneath his high collar. Careful. Too far, too fast.
He spread his hands, feigning innocence, though the fire seemed to press harder against his back like an accusing hand. "I stand to gain nothing but the safety of our lands, my lord. Nothing more," he forced the words out, but they tasted bitter as wormwood in his mouth.
Nothing but the sword, he thought, feeling the familiar weight of ambition settle in his chest. The sword, and the power that comes with it.
The gathered lords exchanged glances, weighing his words like merchants at market. Finally, Arlon nodded, slowly, the motion deliberate as a headsman's blade. "Very well. If this boy is the threat you claim... we will act. But mark this, Harrick—if you're wrong, the blood will be on your hands."
Harrick smiled, a thin, sharp thing. "I won't be wrong."