The welcoming feast organized by Lady Catelyn was, naturally, far more lavish than Arthur's open-air barbecue at the Peach Garden.
In the Great Hall, Lady Catelyn sat on the dais with her children—nine-year-old Robb, seven-year-old Sansa, and three-year-old Arya—alongside Lady Barbrey Dustin and Domeric Bolton.
Baby Bran was absent, left in the care of Old Nan in the nursery.
As bastards, Arthur and Jon were excluded from the high table. They sat at the far end of the long benches with the guards, riders, and household servants.
The Great Hall was immense, with seven or eight long trestle tables capable of seating five hundred people at once.
Food flowed from the kitchens like a river.
There were staples like black bread and, of course, the ever-present peach pies.
Beyond that, there was beef-and-bacon pie, mutton in onion gravy, thick soup with turnips and peas, mashed yellow turnips swimming in butter, roasted apples, and berry tarts.
Arthur's favorite was a venison pie stuffed with carrots, bacon, and mushrooms. It reminded him strongly of pizza from his past life.
The only flaw in the feast was the drink. Winterfell's ale had a decent malty flavor, but it was sour and flat—far inferior to the peach wine he brewed at the grove.
He and Jon quietly drank one cup and didn't ask for a second.
During the feast, Domeric Bolton demonstrated his skill with the high harp. As the melodious music echoed through the hall, the atmosphere warmed considerably.
Even the severe Lady Dustin, dressed in her mourning blacks, smiled at the sound. Sansa, who had always loved music and songs of chivalry, was completely entranced.
The feast lasted late into the night.
When it finally ended, Arthur returned to his room. He picked up a book borrowed from the Library Tower and lay in bed to read. He liked to fall asleep while reading.
The book was a travelogue written by a Lysene captain in High Valyrian, chronicling a life spent as both merchant and pirate.
It was his favorite bedtime story.
---
Dawn broke grey and cold.
In the practice yard near the Great Keep, Winterfell's Master-at-Arms, Ser Rodrik Cassel, was already drilling the younger guards. His voice boomed across the yard as he corrected their mistakes.
But when Robb, carrying a shield painted with a direwolf, and Domeric, bearing a shield with the red flayed man, entered the yard, Ser Rodrik's attention shifted entirely to them.
"Who do you think will win?" Jon asked as he jogged alongside Arthur to warm up. "Robb told me privately that Domeric is two years older than him. He isn't confident."
"Sword practice is about refining technique. Winning or losing doesn't really matter," Arthur replied without breaking stride. The morning run was a habit he had started to combat the bitter Northern cold, and since they shared a room, Jon had adopted it too.
Jon rolled his eyes. "Easy for you to say. You're the best sword among us. Jory and I have to team up just to keep from getting thrashed by you."
"Sweat more in training, bleed less in battle. I do it for your own good."
Arthur stopped running and pulled a large peach from his pocket. He took a bite as he watched the two boys square off in the yard.
"They're starting!"
At first, both boys were cautious, testing each other with blunted tourney swords and iron-rimmed shields.
Wood cracked against wood and dull steel rang out as sword met shield in a rhythmic clatter.
As the fight intensified, their movements grew faster, punctuated by grunts of effort.
Just as Robb and Jon had feared, Domeric's two-year age advantage began to show. As the duel dragged on, Robb became increasingly impatient. The calm and steady Domeric seized several opportunities, landing solid blows on Robb's shoulder and ribs.
But years of rigorous conditioning allowed Robb to grit his teeth and endure the pain. He refused to yield, swinging his sword faster and faster.
Arthur and Jon weren't the only ones watching. From a window in the Great Keep, Lady Catelyn and Lady Dustin watched the bout over breakfast.
"Look at him. Domeric is much stronger than your son," Lady Dustin said with a smile, watching her nephew gain the upper hand. She peeled a hard-boiled egg and dropped it into her bowl of plum soup.
"Swordsmanship, music… he excels at everything. My cousin from the Rills, who taught him to ride, says he's a better horseman than Brandon ever was. He is destined to be a great knight."
"He is very talented," Catelyn admitted, eating a plum from her bowl. She watched Robb struggling in the yard with worry in her eyes. "But he is not your son."
"He is my nephew, and my page," Lady Dustin corrected, surprisingly unoffended. She crushed the egg into her soup with a spoon. "Sansa seems quite taken with him. Your daughter is lovely and has excellent manners."
"Sansa?" Catelyn raised an eyebrow. Sansa had inherited her looks and was obedient and sweet—her perfect little princess.
"I think Domeric and Sansa should be betrothed," Lady Dustin said, taking a spoonful of soup and looking directly at Catelyn. "Domeric is the heir to the Dreadfort. It would be a very suitable match."
Catelyn set down her spoon, her mind racing. Is this why she came?
"Marriage is a serious matter, my lady. Forgive me, but you should consult Lord Bolton first. And I must discuss this with Eddard."
"I sent a raven to Roose. He replied that a union with Winterfell would be an honor for the Dreadfort. Lord Eddard also said he would discuss it with you. You and your husband are certainly in sync."
Lady Dustin produced a letter and handed it to Catelyn. "The war in the South is nearly over. Balon Greyjoy's eldest son died at Seagard. Stannis Baratheon smashed their Iron Fleet. King Robert is besieging Pyke as we speak."
"May the Seven protect them," Catelyn prayed before taking the letter.
The contents matched Lady Dustin's words, and it bore the seal of the Dreadfort.
It also mentioned that Domeric was to be sent to the Vale next year to squire.
"Domeric is going to squire for Ser Horton Redfort in the Vale?" Catelyn asked curiously.
"If I had my way, Domeric would stay at Barrow Hall with me. He has brought me much joy during his time as my page, especially with his harp." Lady Dustin's eyes softened, the wrinkles at the corners smoothing out as she remembered.
"Roose says Ser Horton is a kind man and that Domeric can learn much from him. The boy is fascinated by Southern chivalry. It just leaves a lonely widow all by herself."
"Perhaps you should find a companion?" Catelyn suggested.
"And have you steal him away too? Spare me, Catelyn. If those grey rats hadn't whispered in Lord Rickard's ear to send his son south, the Lady of Winterfell would not be you." Lady Dustin's lips curled into a cold smirk as she stared at Catelyn.
"I want Arthur Snow to come to Barrow Hall as my page or foster son after Domeric leaves."
"No offense, my lady," Catelyn said, shaking her head, her tone hardening. "Let a bastard serve as your page? Or even be your foster son? That is highly inappropriate."
"Brandon and Eddard… both brothers brought you a bastard. You don't want them, yet you keep them by your side." Lady Dustin stood up. Before leaving, she spat out two final words:
"Hypocritical Southerner."
At that moment, Ser Rodrik called a halt to the duel in the yard, declaring Domeric the winner.
Shortly after, Sansa ran into the yard, her face slightly flushed, and began talking animatedly to Arthur and Jon.