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Year: 271 AC
Location: Winterfell, Outer Courtyard
The clang of steel rang clear in the crisp morning air.
Brandon Stark's laughter echoed as he sparred with a practice sword, shirtless despite the cold. Eleven and already tall for his age, Brandon fought with reckless joy, dancing around his opponent—Benjen, younger and slower, panting as he tried to keep up.
Arthur Snow watched from the edge of the training yard, leaning on his oak staff. He had come to observe, not participate. Brandon was impulsive, but there was a fire in him Arthur recognized. Benjen had heart too, but he lacked the edge his older brother carried.
Arthur's qi pulsed faintly—an itch in the air. A tremor of killing intent, faint but real.
His eyes sharpened. The guards weren't reacting. No one else felt it.
He scanned the battlements. A man stood just above the yard's far corner, dressed in Stark guard colors—but Arthur had memorized every face in Winterfell. This one didn't belong.
The man's hand moved under his cloak. A crossbow.
Arthur moved.
Phantom Tread.
He vanished from the yard's edge, qi blurring his steps. In heartbeats, he was scaling the side stair, moving faster than any normal boy should. The man knelt, lining the shot. The bolt aimed low—beneath the ribs. Brandon wouldn't even see it coming.
Arthur struck.
He didn't speak. His staff hit the man's wrist, shattering it with a crack. The crossbow fired wild, the bolt skipping off stone.
The man gasped. Arthur slammed his knee into his gut, then swept his legs—Coiling Dragon Sweep. The spy hit the floor hard, head bouncing once, dazed.
No time for questions.
Arthur drew Frostfang. The blade flashed, slicing tendons in the man's shoulder. Not a kill—but no more shots today.
Below, Brandon turned, hearing the scuffle. "What—?"
Arthur called down, voice cold. "He was aiming at you."
Ser Rodrik and two guards rushed up the steps as Brandon and Benjen stared wide-eyed.
Rodrik hauled the man up. "Not one of ours. Sigil's fake."
Arthur handed him the broken crossbow.
Rodrik nodded slowly. "You saved Lord Brandon, lad."
Arthur shrugged. "Didn't feel right."
Later, in the great hall, Rickard Stark stood over the bound man. Arthur stood silent by the hearth, hands behind his back. Brandon sat to the side, bruised and silent for once.
"Who sent you?" Rickard asked the spy.
The man spit blood and said nothing.
Rickard looked to Arthur. "You knew?"
"I felt him," Arthur said. "His killing intent. Like a snake in dry grass."
Rickard's eyes narrowed.
Brandon spoke then, voice unsure. "He moved like no one I've seen. He—he was fast, father. Like… not a boy."
Lyanna, sitting beside Maester Walys, watched Arthur with a strange glint in her eyes.
Rickard nodded once. "We'll question this one. But you, boy…"
He stepped forward.
"You're more than just a smith's apprentice. You've now saved one of my blood."
Arthur kept his voice flat. "I serve the House."
"Then serve it well." Rickard's tone was low. "But know this—if you betray me, even once, you'll answer to more than wolves."
Arthur nodded. "Understood."
That night, he returned to the loft in silence. Frostfang lay beside him, cold but calm.
He hadn't meant to reveal anything. But Winterfell was changing. Spies. Assassins.
And Arthur Snow was no longer in the shadows.