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The feast had wound down to its final hours by the time Arthur made his way to Lord Stark's solar. The great hall still echoed with laughter and conversation, but the formality had dissolved into comfortable camaraderie. Northern lords who'd spent the day competing for position now traded stories and shared cups, united by the success of the Council vote.
Rickard was already waiting, standing by the window with Lord Manderly. Both men looked pleased but thoughtful—the expressions of leaders who'd achieved a victory and were already calculating its cost.
"Arthur," Rickard greeted. "Come in. We won't keep you long."
Arthur closed the door behind him, noting the careful way both men were watching him. This wasn't just about logistics, then.
"I'll be direct," Manderly said once Arthur was seated. "The Council creates opportunities beyond just internal improvements. White Harbor's merchants have been clamoring for details on these new goods you've been developing. If these products are going to market, I want exclusive shipping rights through White Harbor."
Arthur glanced at Rickard, who nodded slightly. "Lord Manderly's support has been crucial. And White Harbor is our gateway to southern markets. The arrangement makes sense."
"Agreed," Arthur said. "Though we'll need to structure it carefully. Exclusive rights to maritime shipping, but overland trade remains open. We can't afford to create monopolies that stifle competition entirely."
"Fair enough," Manderly said, looking pleased. "Though I suspect overland trade will be minimal once southern merchants see the volume we can move by sea."
"About those southern merchants," Arthur said, his tone shifting. "We need to discuss something. The grain prices."
Rickard's expression sharpened. "What about them?"
"They've spiked—wheat, barley, rye—all of them, and it began two days ago, right after our sample shipments reached King's Landing. It looks coordinated: someone's driving prices up to make our innovations unaffordable."
Manderly frowned. "Rising prices during peacetime? That's unusual."
"It's deliberate," Arthur replied. "The southern lords saw our new products—the quality of our goods. They recognized the threat. If northern agriculture becomes more productive, if our goods prove superior in quality and price, we shift the economic balance. The North stops being dependent on southern imports and becomes a competitor instead."
"So they're undermining us," Manderly said, his voice cold. "Artificially inflating prices to drain our coffers before we can establish our position."
"Exactly," Arthur confirmed. "They can't match our innovations, so they're using their control of southern markets to create economic pressure. Make it more expensive for us to import what we still need, reduce our profit margins on exports, force us to spend more gold just to maintain current operations. It's a siege by economics instead of armies."
"Those southern bastards," Manderly growled. "And here I thought the Lannisters at least understood trade. This is short-sighted even for them."
"What should we do?" Manderly asked.
"Arthur has already anticipated and calculated all their moves," Rickard said, a slight smile touching his features. "He's one step ahead of them. Go on, tell Lord Manderly the plan."
Arthur leaned forward, his voice low and precise as he outlined the strategy. He spoke for several minutes, detailing the specific actions, the timing, the resources required, the expected responses and counter-responses. He explained the economic principles at work, the vulnerabilities in southern trade networks, the ways to leverage northern advantages against southern assumptions.
When he finished, the solar was silent except for the crackling of the fire.
Manderly stared at him, his expression somewhere between awe and disbelief. "That's… that's brilliant. Ruthless, but brilliant." He shook his head slowly. "If we execute this properly, it won't just counter their price manipulation—it'll drain their coffers dry. The Reach lords will go bankrupt trying to maintain their position. The Westerlands will hemorrhage gold supporting failing ventures. By the time they realize what's happening, we'll control the entire northern trade network and have leverage over half the southern markets."
He leaned back in his chair, studying Arthur with new intensity. "Are you certain you're really a bastard and not some nobleman's legitimate son they hid away? Because that level of strategic thinking—that understanding of economics and human nature—that's not something most highborn lords possess even after years of training."
Arthur smiled slightly. "It's just knowledge from books, Lord Manderly. Read enough history, enough accounts of trade wars and economic conflicts, and the patterns become clear. The same strategies work across centuries because human nature doesn't change. The southern lords are predictable because they're operating from the same assumptions every generation of southern lords has operated from."
"Books," Manderly repeated skeptically. "You're telling me you learned to orchestrate the potential economic collapse of half the southern kingdoms from books."
"That and observation," Arthur said. "And perhaps a bit of experience watching what works and what doesn't. The North has always had advantages we haven't leveraged properly. All I'm doing is applying what's already there."
Rickard was watching Arthur with an expression that mixed pride and something more complex—perhaps a recognition of just how far-reaching the changes Arthur was bringing would prove to be.
"This will require coordination," Rickard said. "Precise timing, significant resources, and absolute discretion until we're ready to move."
"Agreed," Arthur replied. "Which is why I suggest we bring only essential people into the planning. The Council lords will need to know eventually, but the specifics should remain limited until we're certain of our position."
"I can work with that," Manderly said. "My merchants can begin the initial positioning without understanding the full strategy. And White Harbor's records will stay private—we've had practice keeping southern eyes away from northern business."
They discussed a few more details—timelines, resource allocation, communication protocols—before Rickard finally nodded, satisfied.
"This could change everything," he said quietly. "Not just for the North, but for the balance of power across the Seven Kingdoms. If we succeed—"
"When we succeed," Arthur corrected gently.
"When we succeed," Rickard amended, "the North will be in a position we haven't occupied in living memory. Economically independent, militarily strengthened, politically unified. The southern kingdoms will have to treat with us as equals rather than subjects."
"That's the goal," Arthur agreed. He stood, suddenly aware of how late the hour had grown. "If there's nothing else pressing, my lords, I should take my leave. I have a dance to catch up on—and an apology to make for leaving earlier."
Manderly's eyebrows rose with interest, but he said nothing. Rickard's expression remained carefully neutral, though something that might have been amusement flickered in his eyes.
"Go," Rickard said. "The night isn't getting any younger, and some things shouldn't wait until tomorrow."
Arthur left the solar, his mind already shifting from economic strategy to a more immediate—and somehow more daunting—challenge.
He had a promise to keep, and he suspected Lyanna would have strong opinions about how late he was keeping it.
The corridor leading away from the solar was quiet, most of Winterfell's residents having retired for the night. Arthur moved quickly through familiar passages, heading not toward his chambers but toward where instinct told him Lyanna would be.
The godswood. Where else would a wolf girl wait when promises were broken and patience wore thin?
He only hoped she was still there—and that she'd accept both his apology and the dance he owed her.
The godswood was quiet when he arrived, moonlight filtering through the branches. The heart tree waited at the center, its red leaves stirring faintly in the cold air.
Lyanna sat beneath it, her gown creased from the long night, her hair loosed from its braids. She looked up when he approached.
"You're late," she said simply.
"I am," Arthur admitted. "The meeting took longer than expected."
"Meetings always do with you." She rose, brushing off her skirt. "I waited until the torches went out. Then I came here. At least the gods don't make promises they can't keep."
Arthur winced—because she was right. "I promised you a dance," he said quietly. "And I intend to keep it, even if the feast has long ended."
Lyanna's gaze softened, just slightly. "There's no music."
"There's always music," Arthur murmured.
He held out his hand. She hesitated, then placed hers in his. "One dance," she said. "It better be worth the wait."
They moved slowly beneath the trees, the only sound the rustle of leaves and their own unsteady breaths. It was clumsy, unpracticed—more swaying than dancing—but it was enough.
After a moment, Lyanna's voice broke the quiet. "You think too much."
"Someone has to," he replied. "Especially when I'm dancing with a wolf who never stops running toward what she wants."
She huffed a quiet laugh, resting her forehead against his shoulder. "And what if I already caught what I want?"
Arthur didn't answer. He only held her a little closer, letting the silence speak for him.
The night pressed in, cool and gentle. When they finally stopped, neither seemed eager to move apart.
"I should walk you back," Arthur said softly.
"You should," she echoed, but she didn't step away until she had to.
At the base of the stairs, she turned to him. "Thank you," she said. "For keeping your promise."
"Thank you for waiting," Arthur replied.
Lyanna rose onto her toes and brushed a quick kiss against his cheek. "Goodnight, Arthur."
"Goodnight, Lyanna."
She disappeared up the stairwell, and he stood for a moment longer in the quiet corridor, his fingers brushing the place where her lips had touched. Tomorrow would be full of politics and plans and the weight of expectation—but tonight had been simple.
Just a dance.
Just her.
And somehow, that was enough.