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POV: Lord Rickard Stark | Location: Winterfell
The chamber was cold even with the hearth roaring.
Rickard Stark stood before the great window of his solar, hands clasped behind his back, eyes fixed on the grey sky above Winterfell. The wind carried whispers—of wildlings amassing, of southern whispers growing bold, and of a boy who should have been nameless, now standing at the center of it all.
Behind him, Maester Luwin scribbled quickly, his quill scratching parchment with precision.
"Urgent summons to the Houses of the North," Rickard said without turning. "Cerwyn, Dustin, Tallhart, Hornwood, Mormont, Reed, Flint, Umber, Glover, Karstark. All those who still hold to Winterfell. All those who still bleed wolf-blood."
Luwin dipped the quill again. "And the message, my lord?"
Rickard turned at last. His voice was low, clipped, and final.
"Tell them Winter is stirring. Tell them a storm brews beyond the Wall. Tell them House Stark calls them to council at Winterfell in one moon's turn—no less."
Luwin nodded, sealing one scroll before beginning another.
Rickard walked to the raven perch, gazing at the black birds lined in silent watch. "And tell them," he added, "that those who do not come may find themselves unspoken in the next great tale of the North."
Bear Island – Lady Maege Mormont
The wind howled against the cliffs of Bear Island as the raven landed. Lady Maege Mormont tore the seal, eyes narrowing.
"A council at Winterfell?" she muttered. "About bloody time."
Her fingers drummed against the hilt of her axe. "Tell my daughters to ready the longship. The North is stirring, and the Mormonts will not sleep through it."
Barrowton
The raven came at dusk.
Lord William Dustin read it by the fire, his jaw tight. He passed the scroll to his wife without a word.
Barbrey's eyes scanned the parchment, and a curious smile touched her lips.
"So, Rickard calls the North to Winterfell," she said. "And this bastard blacksmith stands at his right?"
William gave a slow nod. "He does."
Barbrey stood. "Then I shall ride with you."
He looked at her, half surprised. "You want to see the boy?"
"I want to see what kind of shadow he casts."
She leaned closer. "And what kind of man Rickard trusts above his own blood."
The Dreadfort – Lord Roose Bolton (Unseen)
The raven never reached its intended hand. A servant brought the scroll to the steward instead.
Roose Bolton's steward read the message, eyes flickering with calculation.
"We will answer," he said. "The Dreadfort always answers."
But his tone lacked conviction. And behind him, the shadows whispered of other plans.
Last Hearth – Greatjon Umber
A booming laugh shook the hall as the Greatjon read the scroll aloud to his kin.
"Rickard wants a council? HAH! Then we'll bring the loudest damn voices in the North."
He slapped the table. "Fetch the wine. We march in the morning."
White Harbor – Lord Wyman Manderly
In the soft candlelight of his study, Lord Wyman Manderly read the summons, frowning. He glanced to the map of the North, then to a parchment list of grain stores and ship movements.
He set the letter down and turned to his steward.
"Tell them to ready my carriage. Slowly. Deliberately. If the wolves howl again, the fat fish will be watching."
Later That Day – The Great Hall
Arthur stood at the foot of the dais, silent as Rickard addressed his sons and inner circle.
"We will not face this storm with swords alone," Rickard said. "The North must stand united—or not at all."
Rodrick Cassel and Ser Colm nodded. Brandon looked irritated. Ned, thoughtful. Benjen kicked his legs, mostly bored.
Rickard looked directly at Arthur.
"You will stand beside me when the lords arrive," he said. "At the council. No more shadows. No more hiding."
Arthur blinked, surprised. "My lord…"
"You saved my life, and you've proven your eyes see what others miss." Rickard's voice dropped just enough for only Arthur to hear the next part. "You remind me of things this realm has forgotten."
Arthur nodded slowly. "Then I will stand."
Rickard looked to Rodrick next. "Make sure he's dressed properly. Black and silver. No armor."
"And the sword, my lord?" Rodrick asked.
Rickard glanced at Reaper, sheathed across Arthur's back. Its surface gleamed unnaturally in firelight—but only if one stared long enough.
"Let him keep it," Rickard said. "It fits him better than some crown ever would."