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POV: Rodrik Cassel
Location: Winterfell
It began with absence.
Arthur Snow hadn't been seen for three days.
Rodrik Cassel, Winterfell's Master-at-Arms, was not a man prone to suspicion. But even he found it strange. The boy was dutiful, punctual, and never missed a sparring session without reason. Since returning from the North, he'd been quieter—but never lazy.
Rodrik first asked the guards. They'd seen Arthur leave for the forge near the godswood three nights ago.
He hadn't come out since.
Rodrik's brow furrowed. He made a mental note, then informed Lord Rickard the next morning during weapons inspection.
"Three days is too long without word," Rickard had said, folding his arms. "Check on him. If he's well, let him be. If not… fetch Garren too. I trust that old smith's eyes."
Rodrik agreed.
That afternoon, with snow dusting his shoulders and breath fogging in the cold, he made his way to the secluded forge.
There was no sound from inside.
No ringing steel.
Just a soft blue mist curling from the chimney—strange, like frost given breath.
Rodrik knocked.
No answer.
He pushed open the door.
What he saw inside rooted him in place.
Inside the Forge
Arthur stood shirtless, skin pale, his body covered in old scars and fresh bruises. His hands glowed faintly with qi, palms pressed against a crucible wreathed in both fire and ice.
But it was the forge itself that stole Rodrik's breath.
It burned cold.
Blue-white frost licked the floor, spreading slowly. The anvil glowed like winter lightning. And at the center—hovering above it all—was a half-formed blade, black and veined with deep cobalt.
Arthur moved slowly, rhythmically, shaping the weapon with gestures more like ritual than smithing.
Not with hammers.
But with will.
Rodrik closed the door without a word and turned back toward the keep, heart thundering.
Later That Night
"I need you to come with me," Rodrik told Garren the blacksmith in a low voice.
Garren grumbled, rubbing his thick fingers, but followed.
They returned to the forge at dusk.
This time, Arthur didn't acknowledge them. He didn't even blink.
He was somewhere else—deep inside himself or beyond. The room pulsed with energy, the very walls humming faintly.
Garren stood silent for a long time.
Then whispered, "He's not just reforging steel."
Rodrik glanced at him. "What then?"
"He's binding it to his soul."
Rodrik swallowed.
They watched through the night.
They didn't speak.
Not once.
On the Fourth Morning
Arthur emerged from the forge.
His eyes were shadowed, but sharp.
Strapped across his back was the blade.
Silent. Black. Alive.
Rodrik stepped forward, but stopped when the cold radiated from it. Not the cold of winter.
The cold of judgment.
Arthur passed without a word.
He walked straight into the godswood and knelt before the heart tree, the sword resting beside him.
As if asking permission from something older than man.
Later, in the Great Hall
Garren spoke before Rickard.
"I've seen Valyrian steel, my lord. I've worked with black iron from the Smoking Sea, and bronze cast in Bravosian flame. But I've never seen what that boy did."
Rickard raised a brow. "So you believe the tales?"
Garren's voice was quiet.
"I saw no tales. Only truth."
Rodrik added, "Three days and nights without rest. No food. No sleep. Just the forge. It wasn't smithing. It was… communion."
Rickard looked out the window, toward the godswood.
"So. The North gains not just a warrior, but a weapon."
He closed his eyes briefly.
"Let the South send their spies. Let the Wall crumble and the storms rise. The boy is becoming something they cannot predict."
Rodrik said nothing.
But he knew Rickard was right.
Winter had always come.
But this time… the North had answered with something colder.