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Year: 271 AC
Location: Winterfell, The Godswood – Beyond the Veil of Time
The Three-Eyed Raven(POV)
Beneath roots older than kingdoms, where time pooled like still water, the Three-Eyed Raven opened his eyes.
The boy.
The threads of fate had twisted again. A soul not born of this realm walked in the skin of another. The Raven perched high in the Heart Tree's memory, its thousand eyes flickering open across the weirwoods of Westeros. In Winterfell, one glowed brighter than the rest.
"He walks the wolf's path… but leaves dragon prints in the snow," the Raven whispered to the weirwood, its red sap bleeding like tears.
He saw Arthur Snow raise Frostfang in the Wolfswood.
He saw the shift in history—a boy who was not meant to be a sword, yet had already cut the course of fate.
Time resisted.
But the Raven watched.
Lyanna Stark(POV)
The snows returned to Winterfell, drifting soft and silent across the Godswood.
Lyanna ran barefoot through the snow, breath fogging in the air, laughter trailing behind her. But she stopped at the heart tree—sudden, still.
Its red eyes watched her. They always had.
She stared back, her grin fading.
It wasn't fear she felt. It was weight. Like something vast had opened behind the world.
A name surfaced in her mind—Arthur Snow.
The blacksmith's boy.
The boy with the still eyes.
The gods didn't speak to her, not really. But something had changed. The snows felt colder around him. And the way her father spoke of Arthur—measured, wary. Like he wasn't sure if he'd forged a sword or found a wildfire.
Lyanna didn't understand it. Not fully.
But she looked over her shoulder as she left the Godswood.
Twice.
Eddard Stark(POV)
Ned tightened his grip on the practice sword. His arms ached. Brandon pressed the attack again and again, grinning with each strike.
"You hesitate," Brandon said.
"I think," Ned answered, parrying.
Brandon rolled his eyes. "You worry too much."
Ned didn't argue. He always worried.
Especially now.
Arthur Snow.
The name echoed in every corridor. Some called him gifted. Some whispered other things—colder things.
Ned hadn't seen the killing blow in the Wolfswood. But he saw the aftermath. He saw the boy's eyes. There was no thrill there. No hate. Just... calm.
It reminded Ned of something he'd once seen in the eyes of a dying direwolf.
Not rage. Not panic.
Acceptance.
He glanced toward the Godswood, where the wind stirred the branches.
Something watched from there.
Brandon Stark(POV)
Brandon didn't believe in signs. Or gods. Or fate.
He believed in swords, blood, and choices.
But when he passed through the Godswood that night, he stopped before the heart tree.
He didn't know why.
Its bark was cold beneath his fingers. Its eyes didn't blink—but they felt like they could.
And in his mind, he saw the fight again. The snow, the blood, the blur of a blade too fast for a boy. Arthur moved like he'd done it a hundred times. A thousand. No fear. No rage. Just precision.
Brandon had fought before. He'd seen men flinch. Gasp. Lose control.
Arthur didn't.
He made it look like a craft.
Like something he'd done long before he ever stepped foot in Winterfell.
Brandon whispered to the tree, "What is he?"
Benjen Stark(POV)
Benjen crouched in the loft above the stables, carving a tiny wolf from a bit of old pine.
He wasn't supposed to be there. He was supposed to be asleep.
But he liked quiet. It helped him think.
Especially about him.
Arthur Snow.
Benjen had followed him once—curiosity, nothing more. Just to see where the quiet boy with the pale eyes disappeared to at night.
What he saw instead still made his stomach twist.
Arthur in the snow, moving faster than any grown man. His staff a blur. A blur that broke bones.
Benjen had watched from the trees as Arthur took down two men like they were training dummies.
And afterward… he didn't run.
He just sat in the snow. Breathing slow. Calm.
Like death meant nothing.
Benjen had said nothing to anyone.
But every time he passed the forge, he slowed.
And every time Arthur looked his way, Benjen looked down first.