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Year: 270 AC (Autumn)
Location: Winterfell
The first frost clung to the stone walls of Winterfell like a thin sheet of glass, turning the grey keep into a quiet cathedral of white. Smoke curled lazily from the forges, dancing in the cold morning air. Arthur stood outside the smithy, breath misting as he tightened his gloves. The cold didn't bother him anymore. He was used to steel, soot, and the endless hammering that echoed through his bones.
The raven had arrived at dawn from Deepwood Motte. Garen's curses had followed soon after, echoing off the walls with a fury that made the apprentices scatter like mice.
"Godsdamned delays," the old smith snarled. "Iron's three days late. And half the bloody guard's swords couldn't cut bread."
He turned, eyes landing on Arthur. There was no question in his voice—only command.
"You. Anvil by the window. Full day on swords."
Arthur gave a short nod and headed to his station. He preferred blades anyway. Nails were for roofs. Swords were for men.
The Smith's Test
By midmorning, the sound of booted steps announced a visitor. Ser Rodrik Cassel entered the forge with a dozen longswords bundled under one arm and the stiffness of a man who trusted few. Mud clung to his boots, and his cloak was dusted with frost. He dropped the blades on the bench beside Arthur with a solid thud.
"Notched. Chipped. A few near bent in half," he said gruffly. "Get them ready for winter patrols."
He folded his arms and didn't move.
Arthur didn't speak. He didn't need to. He slid the first sword into the forge, letting the flames swallow it whole. As the steel softened and glowed orange, he took up the hammer. The rhythm came easily—sharp, measured strikes that rang like a heartbeat. There was no waste in his movement, no hesitation. He worked in silence, the heat washing over him like a tide.
Rodrik watched from the shadows, his expression unreadable.
When Arthur finished, he handed the blade back. The edge was straight, honed, gleaming. A soldier could trust his life to it.
Rodrik turned it in his hand, testing the balance.
"That's no village boy's work," he said quietly.
Arthur wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve. "Good steel remembers its edge," he replied. "You just have to remind it."
Rodrik stared at him for a moment longer than necessary. Then, without a word, he took the sword and left.
The Yard Incident
Dusk fell early in the North, stretching long shadows across the courtyard. Most of the guards had retreated to the hall, and the training yard was nearly empty—just snow, silence, and the whisper of steel slicing air.
Arthur stood in the center of the yard, his axe gripped loosely in one hand. He moved through the forms of the Wind Serpent Strike—a flowing sequence of arcs and slashes he had shaped in secret, combining speed with deceptive reach. The weapon felt alive in his grip, responding to every shift in his stance.
A voice broke the stillness.
"Demon eyes and demon tricks."
Arthur turned.
Torren stood by the armory wall, his arms folded, a sneer curling his lip. His nose still bore the crooked mark from their last meeting. Two guardsmen stood beside him—older boys with the kind of swagger that came from bad ale and worse intentions.
Arthur planted the axe into the chopping stump beside him. The blade sank deep with a satisfying thud.
"Say it to my face," he said calmly.
One of the guards chuckled. "Think you're a warrior, boy? That toy wouldn't scare a—"
The axe flew before he finished the sentence.
It spun once, twice, then buried itself in the post behind the man's head with a loud crack. Splinters flew. The guard flinched, pale and wide-eyed.
Silence followed.
Arthur walked forward, pulled the axe free, and turned without a glance back. None of them followed.
The Loft
The loft above the forge was cramped, dark, and smelled of sweat and smoke. Most of the apprentices had already crawled into their blankets for the night. Arthur sat alone, cross-legged on his pallet, his axe resting beside him. He was turning a whetstone in his hand, running his thumb along its edge.
The ladder creaked.
Garen climbed up, each step deliberate, and stopped at the edge of the loft. He didn't say a word. Instead, he tossed a small, wrapped bundle onto Arthur's blanket.
"For the work you're not showing me," he said.
Then he turned and descended, his boots thudding on the wooden rungs. Just before he disappeared into the dark, his voice drifted up like smoke from the coals.
"Winter's coming. Don't waste good steel."
Arthur untied the bundle, careful not to wake the others.
Inside was a wedge of rare Braavosi steel—dense, flawless, and cold as ice. It gleamed faintly even in the dim glow of the forge below, a whisper of deadly beauty.
Beside it was a smith's chisel, the ivory handle smoothed by time and carved with the worn sigil of a stag's head. Old work. Valyrian make, maybe. Hard to tell.
And finally, a whetstone veined with gold, its surface finer than anything he'd ever touched. It glided against his calloused fingers like silk laced with grit.
Arthur stared at the gifts for a long time.
He could feel the weight of them—not just in his hands, but in what they meant. Trust. Recognition. Warning.
Outside, the wind howled through the keep. Somewhere beyond the Wolfswood, the bandit leader's promise still lingered in his mind like smoke from an old fire.
This isn't over.
Arthur ran his thumb across the Braavosi steel's edge, letting the cold bite into his skin.
Neither am I.