Year: 271 AC (Late Winter)
Location: Winterfell, The Broken Pass
Snowstorm winds howled through the stone halls of Winterfell. Fires burned low. Even inside the forge, the chill bit deep.
Arthur Snow worked by himself, Garen gone to help with a shipment from White Harbor. The other apprentices had quit early, hiding from the cold. Arthur stayed. A shortsword glowed orange on the anvil. He shaped it with slow, steady strikes, qi flowing from his arms into the blade—Iron Pulse Rhythm, third cycle. With each hit, the metal sang back to him.
A noise behind him.
Arthur turned slightly. Torren stood at the doorway, arms crossed.
"Garen ain't here. Why're you still working?"
Arthur didn't stop. "Forge's not cold yet."
Torren stepped closer, voice low. "People are watching you. Talking. That guard you 'helped'? They say he lived because of you. That kind of talk can get you hurt."
Arthur plunged the sword into the quench bucket. "Then they should talk less."
Steam rose.
The Message
The next morning, a raven arrived. Ser Rodrik summoned Arthur to the Great Hall.
He entered quietly. Ned Stark stood at the high table beside his father, Lord Rickard. The hall smelled of pine smoke and boiled meat. Servants cleared the remnants of breakfast. Arthur bowed.
"You were born in the North?" Lord Rickard asked, hands clasped.
"Yes, m'lord. Near Long Barrow."
"And your father?"
"Don't know him."
Lord Rickard nodded. "Strange, then, how a boy with no name can craft steel that outworks men twice his age." His voice was calm, but his eyes sharp.
Ned stepped forward. "Rodrik says your weapons strike like they remember war."
Arthur met Ned's gaze. "Steel remembers. I listen."
Silence. Then Rickard leaned back.
"A convoy leaves for Barrowton in two days. Bandits plague the southern pass. Garen's staying here—he recommended you as the forge hand."
Arthur blinked. "I'll go."
"You'll ride under Ser Colm. Stay quiet, work fast."
Arthur bowed again. "Aye, m'lord."
As he left the hall, Ned Stark called out.
"Arthur."
He stopped.
"You strike like a trained swordsman. But you carry no sword."
Arthur paused. "A blade drawn too early turns dull."
Ned watched him go.
The Broken Pass
Two days later, the convoy left Winterfell—three wagons, ten guards, and Arthur sitting beside a crate of spearheads. Wind cut through his cloak, but he didn't shiver. Qi flowed beneath his skin, keeping the frost from his bones.
By dusk, they reached the Broken Pass—a narrow, rocky stretch between frozen hills. Ser Colm called for a halt.
"Wagon's axle feels wrong," one guard muttered, checking the wheel.
Arthur stepped down. Snow muffled everything. His qi flared—a warning. Something was close.
He drew a knife from under his cloak, stepped behind a rock, and listened.
Then it came—a faint shuffle.
Too late.
An arrow flew from the trees. A guard fell, screaming. Bandits emerged, six men with cloaks and rusted blades. But behind them stood a seventh—broad shoulders, black beard braided with bone rings, a longsword across his back. His eyes were yellow, wolf-like.
"Kill the guards," the man growled. "Leave the boy. I want him alive."
Arthur's breath caught. He saw me.
Steel clashed. Ser Colm shouted orders. Arthur ducked behind a cart. A bandit rushed him, swinging a hatchet. Arthur sidestepped—Phantom Tread—and drove a qi-infused fist into his throat. The man crumpled.
Another lunged. Arthur parried with a broken spear and kicked his knee out—Dragon Fang Strike. Bones cracked.
Then the chieftain came.
He moved fast for a man his size, longsword sweeping low. Arthur blocked with the shaft of a spear, qi reinforcing the wood. Still, the blow sent him skidding back. The chieftain grinned.
"You've got skill, boy. Real skill. What's your name?"
Arthur stayed silent.
"Fine," the man growled. "I'll carve it out of you."
He came again. Arthur dodged, slashed with a throwing knife, but the blade scraped off the man's leather armor. Arthur ducked a killing blow and slammed a palm into the chieftain's ribs. Qi burst—but the man only staggered.
Too strong. Not enough qi. Not yet.
Ser Colm tackled the chieftain from behind. They rolled through the snow, blades flashing. Arthur turned to help, but two more bandits came. He killed one with a knife to the gut, kicked the other into a rock. When he looked back—Ser Colm was bleeding, the chieftain gone.
Gone.
Back at Winterfell
They returned two days later. Three dead guards, four wounded. Cargo intact. The bandits scattered—but the chieftain had escaped.
At the gates, Jonos met them. When he saw Arthur, he grinned. "Boy's luck again, eh?"
Arthur didn't smile.
In the forge that night, Garen said nothing. Just pointed at the fire.
"Steel's waitin'. So are the rumors."
Arthur picked up a bar of black iron. Worked until the sky lightened.
Later That Night
Far from Winterfell, in a ruined watchtower south of the Broken Pass, the chieftain nursed a cracked rib. His name was Vargo Three-Fangs, once a hedge knight, now a killer of men. He turned to his second-in-command, who stitched up a cut on his shoulder.
"The boy," Vargo said, teeth gritted. "He fights like someone who's been to war."
"He's just a smith," the man said.
"No." Vargo's eyes burned. "He's something else. And I'll kill him next time."