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Year: 268 AC (Winter's Approach)
Location: Winterfell
The forge heat hit Arthur's face like a living thing as he stepped inside. Ten paces wide and twice as long, Winterfell's main smithy smelled of coal, sweat, and quenching oil. Three anvils stood like iron sentinels, the largest dented from centuries of use.
"Garen!" Ser Colm bellowed over the clangor. "Brought you another pair of hands."
A barrel-chested man straightened from the bellows, his beard streaked with soot. Arthur recognized the stance—left foot slightly forward, weight balanced. A fighter's posture.
Garen's calloused fingers turned Arthur's palms upward, examining the scars and fresh burns. "Hmph. You've swung a hammer before."
"Some," Arthur said.
The smith snorted. "We'll see. That one's yours." He pointed to the smallest anvil, its surface pitted but serviceable. "Start with these." A kick sent a basket of broken plowshares skidding across the stone floor.
First Trial
By midday, Arthur's shoulders burned. The Stark forge hammers were heavier than his stolen tool from the hamlet, the work relentless. But muscle memory guided each strike—the Iron Pulse Rhythm of his past life, though his child's arms trembled with the effort.
"Seven hells," muttered the apprentice at the next anvil—a pockmarked boy named Luton. "You're shaping that like it's butter."
Arthur didn't pause. The plowshare under his hammer was taking on a lethal edge despite its purpose. He forced himself to blunt it before quenching.
Garen appeared at his elbow, tongs dangling. "Who taught you to draw steel like that?"
"No one." Arthur wiped sweat with his sleeve. "Just watched the village smith."
A lie. The village had no smith.
Garen's eyes narrowed but he only grunted. "Finish that batch by dusk. Then you'll learn to mend mail."
The Yard
At twilight, Arthur escaped to the practice yard. His stolen moments with the staff were all that kept the memories at bay—the Nine Dragons Staff Art flowing through him in broken fragments.
"Not bad," rasped a voice.
Rodrik Cassel leaned against the armory wall, his sword belt slung low. The master-at-arms had been watching.
Arthur lowered the staff. "Ser."
"That sweep—where'd you learn it?"
"Saw a guardsman do it."
Rodrik's laugh smelled of onions and ale. "Liar. But I like initiative. Dawn tomorrow. You'll hold a proper sword."
As Arthur retrieved his staff, he caught movement in the high tower window. A pale face framed by dark hair—the Stark boy, watching.
The Loft
The apprentices slept above the forge, the residual heat staving off winter's bite. Arthur waited for Luton's snores before examining his hidden projects:
A dagger forged from scrap, its edge honed to a whisper
Three iron spikes that could punch through boiled leather
The whetstone Jem had given him, now worn from use
Footsteps on the ladder. Arthur palmed the dagger as Garen's head appeared through the trapdoor.
"Knew you'd be awake." The smith tossed a lump of good steel onto Arthur's pallet. "For tomorrow. Show me what you really can do."
The unspoken challenge hung in the smoky air. Arthur nodded.
Outside, the wind howled through Winterfell's gates. Somewhere beyond the walls, the bandit leader's promise echoed: This isn't over.
Arthur smiled into the dark.