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POV: Arthur Snow
Location: On the Road to Winterfell
The path back to Winterfell cut south through half-frozen woods and roads washed thin by spring melt. The snow had lost its bite, but the wind still clawed at their cloaks. Travelers were rare this far north, and company even rarer.
Arthur walked at the front.
The others followed.
Not in rank. Not in line.
Just in chaotic, mismatched orbit.
It was hard not to notice how strange the group had become.
Sarra, barely seventeen, silent until provoked and blunt when pushed, kept ahead of the rest, eyes always on the treeline. She moved like a hawk kept half-caged—sharp, ready, but untested in ways she didn't yet admit.
Behind her strode Garron, well over thirty, hammer swinging with each step, humming tunelessly as if the whole march were just an extension of forge work. He treated silence like an enemy and every rest like a chance to carve something or roast something or question why Arthur didn't talk more.
Thom, the quietest of them, mid-twenties, eyes always scanning—not for enemies, but for patterns. Plants. Illness. Tension. He took notes even now in a small leather book, scribbling between steps with the calmness of a priest and the annoyance of a librarian.
Redna was a flicker—never far, never in the same place twice. Early twenties, wiry and sharp-tongued, with a way of asking questions like she already knew the answers. She had no defined place in the group, and that was exactly how she wanted it. When she wasn't needling Sarra, she was whispering to Garron about village gossip he swore didn't interest him.
Vaeren brought the chaos.
Easily the oldest at forty, he walked slower than the others, burdened not by age, but by eccentricity. He wore too many layers, muttered formulae under his breath, and had begun theorizing aloud about turning bear fat into explosive paste. Thom tried ignoring him. Redna encouraged him just to see what happened. Garron threatened to "dunk him in a snowbank" once an hour.
And at the rear, like a shadow of smoke that had learned to walk, came Maelen.
He said little, but every word seemed to come from elsewhere—not from age, but from distance.
His gait was slow, deliberate, like he was always half-seeing something the others couldn't.
But when he did speak, the group quieted—even Garron, once, when Maelen had murmured during a lightning storm: "The world breathes more loudly before it's struck."
Redna swore he was mad as a frostbitten foot. Thom said his eyes flickered beneath closed lids like he was blind as stone.
Sarra, to her own surprise, respected him. Not out of belief, but because he wasn't annoying.
Only Arthur seemed unsurprised by Maelen's presence.
Like the man was a piece he'd been expecting to find.
"Don't you ever get tired of staring into the trees?" Redna asked Sarra over a cold lunch on a fallen log.
"Don't you ever get tired of talking?" Sarra replied without looking up.
"I like hearing myself. At least I know I'm being honest."
Garron snorted. "You're honest like a drunk horse is graceful."
"That's an insult to horses," Thom said absently, sketching something.
Vaeren added, "Speaking of horses—if we killed one and boiled the marrow with crushed quartz, I wonder if we could distill—"
"No," said three voices at once.
Arthur sipped cold water and said nothing.
That night, they camped near a hill of old standing stones—half-sunken, ancient, nameless.
They sat around the flames, scattered in uneven rings.
Redna tossed a twig into the fire. "So, Seer. Still dreaming of doom and glory?"
Maelen, hunched in his tattered robe, stared into the flames. "I dream of teeth breaking old stone. Of a tide not of water, but people. And I'm not only a greenseer. I'm also a skinchanger. I saw you lot coming to the ruins, your shadows cast long before your steps."
Garron snorted. "Skinchanger? Prove it, old man."
Sarra leaned forward, eyes sharp. "Aye, show us something, or if it's just talk."
Maelen's gaze didn't waver. He said nothing. Then, a sharp cry cut the night. A snow shrike, gray and white as the North's own heart, dropped from the dark and landed on his shoulder. It stood still, eyes locked on his, as if it knew him.
Redna's jaw tightened. Garron went quiet.
Then, Maelen's eyes rolled back, leaving only whites that flickered in the firelight. The air grew heavy, thick with the scent of pine and something ancient—earth and bone. The snow shrike let out a piercing wail, its wings flaring wide, and a sudden gust swept through the camp, sharp and cold as a blade. The fire flared high, spitting embers that danced like eyes in the dark, and for a moment, Maelen's shadow loomed larger than the man himself, stretching across the snow like a specter.
Redna's hand twitched toward her blade. Sarra's breath caught, her eyes wide. Garron's grumble died in his throat.
The shrike stilled, folding its wings. The fire settled, its light dimming. Maelen's eyes returned, sharp and steady, and he looked at Arthur.
Arthur, sitting apart, said nothing.
A heavy silence fell over the camp. The group exchanged uneasy glances, their faces pale in the dying firelight. Redna shifted, her boots scraping the snow, and propped her feet by the fire, forcing a casual tone. "So, when we get to Winterfell, what's the plan? Do we announce ourselves or sneak in?" Her voice was steady, but her eyes darted back to Maelen, betraying her lingering shock.
Arthur glanced at her, noting the effort to move past what they'd seen. "We'll announce ourselves," he said quietly. "No need to sneak."
"You're asking like we're criminals," Sarra muttered.
"We kind of are," Redna said. "Well. Except for our fearless leader."
Arthur glanced at her, but didn't bite.
"You were one of them once, right?" Redna asked. "A retainer. Sword-for-hire. That what they call it?"
Arthur shrugged. "Something like that."
"You gonna tell Lord Stark what this is? A band? A company?"
"A foundation," Arthur said.
That silenced them all for a moment.
Vaeren stirred. "Hmph. Poetic. Almost ominous."
Sarra poked the fire. "You're not worried they won't accept us?"
Arthur looked at her.
"No."
That was all.
They reached the outskirts of Winterfell by the fourth day.
Smoke curled from the towers. Snow melted slow along the walls. The banners still flew—gray direwolf, proud and worn.
Redna exhaled slowly. "So. Home."
"Not for me," Thom said.
"Not for me either," Garron echoed.
Above them, in the clouds, a hawk circled once.
It didn't belong to any skinchanger this time.
It just flew away to the deepest north.