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Year: 271 AC
Location: Winterfell & the Wolfswood
The forge hissed with heat, steam battling the iron grip of midwinter. Arthur Snow, wiry and lean at eleven, stood shirtless beside the anvil, gray eyes focused. Sparks danced with each strike as he shaped a glowing strip of steel. His muscles moved with precision guided not by instinct, but qi—reborn from a life long past.
Frostfang.
He'd named the blade last night. It wasn't a northern name, not truly, but it fit—short for a sword, long for a dagger, its future soaked in frost and blood. Each hammer fall echoed with intent, tightening the grain through the Heavenly Forge Method, a cultivation of metal and will. This blade would be his test.
Garen grunted behind him, arms crossed. "Another knife, lad? You've been churning 'em out like rabbits."
Arthur didn't look up. "Sword."
Torren sneered from the grindstone. "Sword? You'll poke yourself, Snow. Stick to scrap."
Wyl chuckled, but Garen's growl silenced them.
"Enough noise. Work." He eyed the blade, but didn't interfere. "Ser Colm's riding out. Wildlings again—burnt a crofter's stead two nights ago. Keep sharp."
Arthur quenched the blade in water. Steam curled off Frostfang's edge—blue steel, faintly humming with his qi. He wrapped it in cloth and slipped it beneath his cloak.
"I'll join the patrol."
Garen raised a brow. "You're no soldier."
"I need to test it."
He took his oak staff and walked into the snow.
The Wolfswood
Arthur trailed the patrol from the trees, silent as shadow. Ser Colm led five Stark guards, cloaks flapping in the wind. Tracks in the snow led deeper into the forest—raiders, light-footed. Wildlings knew how to vanish, but Arthur knew how to listen.
A twig snapped ahead. Then the howl of a horn—raw, shrill, and close.
Seven wildlings surged from the pines. Furs, axes, teeth bared. The guards formed ranks. Ser Colm barked orders, steel flashing.
Arthur moved before the first blow fell.
Phantom Tread—no sound in snow.
Serpent Fang Thrust—his staff cracked a wrist, then a jaw.
Thousand Li Arrow—a knee shattered, a throat crushed.
The battle raged. A guard fell screaming, an axe buried in his ribs. Ser Colm fought the leader—a squat man with a notched axe and hate in his eyes. The knight's shield shattered, sword knocked away.
Arthur dropped the staff.
Frostfang slid free.
Qi surged into the blade. He stepped, Heavenly Step, soaring across the snow. The sword flashed once—clean. The wildling leader's head lolled, half-severed. Blood steamed into the frost. Arthur landed, turned, and finished the job.
Silence.
The last wildlings fled into the dark, stumbling over roots. The guards stared.
Ser Colm rose slowly, blood on his cheek. "By the gods," he muttered. "He took the head…"
Jonos let out a low whistle. "Demon of the North. The runt's a reaper."
Arthur said nothing, sheathing Frostfang. His breath steamed, slow and steady.
"Back to Winterfell," Colm said, shaking his head. "Lord Stark will want to know."
Winterfell Great Hall
The torches flickered as Arthur knelt before Lord Rickard Stark. His fur cloak spilled over the stone seat like a bear's pelt. Beside him stood Ser Colm, recounting every strike, every kill.
Rickard's face remained unreadable.
"And the boy?" he asked.
"Saved us," Ser Colm said. "Took down the raiders' chief like he'd done it a hundred times."
Rickard studied Arthur. "How old?"
"Eleven," Arthur said.
"Blacksmith's apprentice. Garen's boy."
Arthur nodded. "The forge taught me. The rest... I learned."
Whispers spread among the gathered men. Jonos leaned against a pillar, grinning. "Demon of the North, I tell you."
Rickard stepped forward and drew a blade—not Ice, but one of ceremonial steel. "Kneel."
Arthur bowed his head, qi quiet in his chest.
"Rise, Arthur Snow," Rickard intoned. "Retainer of House Stark. Keep that steel close. And your eyes open."
Arthur stood. "Aye, my lord."
From the benches, Lyanna clapped before a nurse hushed her. Even Ned, still young, watched with something like awe. Torren lingered in the shadows, fists clenched.