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[Oh and by the way the swords name will be Reaper]
POV: Arthur Snow
Location: Winterfell
Winterfell's Great Keep loomed tall above the courtyard as Arthur walked across the stones, Reaper strapped across his back.
A raven had summoned him. No explanation. Just a wax-stamped scroll bearing Lord Rickard's seal.
He suspected this day would come.
The keep was warm, firelit. Guards nodded but watched. Word of the forging had spread—how could it not? Smiths whispered. Servants swore they saw the frost trail fade only hours ago.
Arthur said nothing to anyone. He simply climbed the stair.
Rickard Stark awaited him in his solar.
The room was spare but strong: thick furs, ironwood shelves, a great map of the North carved into stone. A sword hung over the hearth, old and plain. Rickard himself sat behind his desk, hands folded.
He didn't speak for a long moment.
Just stared.
Then:
"You didn't use coal."
Arthur remained standing. "No."
"Didn't use tools."
"No."
"You were gone three days. Garren tells me you shaped cold as if it were fire. Rodrik says the blade drank the heat around you."
Arthur said nothing.
Rickard rose, walked around the desk, and stopped a few paces away. His voice dropped low.
"Do you expect me to believe that?"
Arthur met his gaze. "No."
Rickard's eyes narrowed slightly. "Then help me understand. What did you do in that forge, boy?"
Arthur hesitated.
Then slowly unstrapped the blade.
He didn't draw it.
He simply laid it flat across the nearby table, the leather scabbard faintly misting in the warm air.
Rickard looked down at it, then stepped closer.
He didn't touch it.
"You could've made a simple sword," Rickard said. "Yet you risked your body, your sanity, and your secrecy to make… this. Why?"
Arthur finally spoke.
"Because steel breaks. Fire fades. Even hearts fail. But this—" he tapped the blade lightly, "—is not just a weapon. It's a message."
Rickard arched a brow. "To who?"
"To the dead."
Rickard turned, walking toward the hearth. "You speak like a seer. Or a fool."
"I speak like a survivor," Arthur said. "Something is stirring beyond the Wall. I felt it.
"Do you know what it is?"
Arthur paused. "Not yet. But I will."
Rickard turned back. His expression was unreadable.
"You're a clever boy. Too clever. In this age, we leave ghosts and old gods to the crones. The South calls our faith superstition. Even most in the North believe what they can touch. Build. Fight."
"I know," Arthur said.
Rickard stepped forward, quiet now. "And yet… when I stood outside that forge, I smelled snow burning. Not wood. Not coal. Cold, burning like fire. I watched the walls breathe frost."
He folded his arms.
"So tell me, Arthur. If there is no magic left in the world… what did I see?"
Arthur answered with a whisper.
"Truth. And truth doesn't need belief."
Rickard studied him for a long time.
Then picked up the blade. Just for a breath.
His hand flinched.
He set it back down quickly, eyes wide for the briefest moment.
"…It's colder than death," he muttered.
Arthur nodded.
Rickard stepped away.
"You've completed both tasks I set. The rangers speak of your silence and your steel. House Stark will honor its word. You are now officially a retainer of Winterfell. A man of the North."
Arthur gave a slight bow.
Rickard continued, quieter. "But be warned—power draws eyes. And shadows. Already word of your feats have begun to drift south."
He glanced again at the blade.
"Do not let the South take you for a sorcerer, Arthur. Magic is feared. Misunderstood. They burn those they don't understand."
Arthur nodded.
"I don't need understanding."
"What do you need, then?"
Arthur's voice was calm.
"Time."
Rickard gave a tired smile. "You'll have it. For now."
Arthur picked up Reaper and turned to leave.
Just before the door, Rickard called out.
"Arthur."
He looked back.
"Be careful what speaks to you through steel."
Arthur said nothing.
But as he walked down the stairs, the sword at his back pulsed faintly.
Not with heat. Not with hunger.
With memory.