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Year: 268 AC (Late Autumn)
Location: Northern Hamlet
The bandits came at dusk—six riders in mismatched armor, their swords already drawn.
Arthur saw them first from the ridge, his hand tightening around the iron dart. Three days had passed since trading with Jem, three nights of shaping nails into weapons. Now the tools would be tested.
"RAIDERS!" Old Meg's scream shattered the evening calm.
Chaos erupted below. Villagers scrambled like startled hens as the horsemen crashed through the vegetable plots. One swung a mace at Hobb's ale barrel, sending staves and liquor spraying. Another hauled Ella's mother off her feet by the hair.
Arthur moved.
His first dart took the nearest rider in the throat. The man gagged, toppling from his saddle. The second dart buried itself in a raider's eye before he could raise his sword.
"Ambush! Archer in the trees!" their leader bellowed.
Arthur was already sprinting downhill, staff in hand. He'd left three hooked blades in the hollow—no time to retrieve them. The remaining four bandits wheeled their horses, searching the twilight.
Jem cowered behind the trader's overturned cart, clutching his bleeding arm. A raider dismounted, kicking crates aside to reach him.
Arthur's staff cracked against the man's knee. Bone shattered. As the bandit screamed, Arthur drove the staff's end into his temple.
"You—!" The leader spurred his horse forward, sword raised.
Arthur braced—
A horn blast split the air.
Five Stark riders thundered into the hamlet, led by a grizzled man in a mail coat. The bandits broke instantly, fleeing into the Wolfswood. Only the leader hesitated, his hate-filled gaze locking onto Arthur.
"This isn't over, demon boy." He spat before galloping after his men.
The Aftermath
Ser Colm, the Stark veteran, examined Arthur's darts with a grunt. "Made these yourself?"
"Aye," Arthur wiped blood from his staff.
"Hmph." The knight tossed one to his lieutenant. "Seen men twice your age with worse aim."
Jem limped over, face pale. "He saved my life, ser."
Ser Colm's eyes never left Arthur. "Waste to leave skill like yours rotting in this midden. Winterfell's forge needs hands."
Lysa emerged from her shack, fox pelts still clutched like a shield. "Take him. Does nothing but bring trouble."
Arthur retrieved his darts from the dead bandits. No one stopped him.
The Road North
At dawn, Arthur shouldered his sack—iron scraps, the whetstone Jem pressed into his hand, and four untouched coppers.
Jem caught him at the tree line. "Da's smithy in White Harbor—ask for Harwin if you ever—"
"I'll remember." Arthur adjusted his staff. No hugs, no tears. Just a nod.
The hamlet shrank behind him as he followed Ser Colm's party north. When the wind shifted, he caught his first glimpse of Winterfell's towers—gray teeth biting the horizon.
Ser Colm chuckled at his stare. "Never seen a proper castle, boy?"
Arthur didn't answer. He was counting the guards on the walls.