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The dust had settled, but Winterfell had not.
Even after the crowd dispersed, the echoes of the duel clung to the walls like mist. Every corridor hummed with whispers.
"He moved like a shadow."
"Not even Ser Vayon could touch him."
"He's no commoner, I'll tell you that much."
Servants whispered in corners. Pages mimicked his movements with brooms. Even old knights who'd survived wars eyed each other with unease.
In the great hall, the fire crackled low. Shadows danced on stone.
Lord Rickard Stark sat on the high seat of Winterfell—not as a father, but as the Warden of the North.
Before him stood Arthur Snow.
Clean. Calm. Hands behind his back. As if he hadn't dismantled ten trained knights that morning.
Beside the lord stood Maester Luwin, his hands clasped tight around a scroll. To the side, Ser Rodrik and the master-at-arms waited in silence. The Stark children lingered in the shadows. Ned and Benjen stiff. Lyanna, curious as ever.
Rickard's voice was low, even.
"You fought like no man I've ever seen."
Arthur didn't reply.
Rickard leaned forward.
"No sigil. No lord's blood. No training under my men. And yet, you fight like a ghost with the strength of a direwolf. Who taught you?"
Arthur bowed his head slightly.
"No one, my lord. I created my techniques myself."
Rickard's brow twitched. "At twelve years old?"
Arthur nodded.
"I watched how others moved. I studied balance, breathing, pressure points. I tested what worked. What didn't. It took time, but I made something new."
Maester Luwin murmured, "A boy born to forge steel now forges ways of war…"
Rickard narrowed his eyes. "You expect me to believe this came from observation?"
Arthur met his gaze without flinching.
"Yes."
There was no arrogance in his voice. Just fact.
Silence thickened.
The master-at-arms spoke at last, voice hoarse. "He fights like the assassins I saw in the east. Beyond Braavos. But even they weren't this… clean."
Rickard looked back to Arthur.
"I've ruled for decades. I've seen bastards who think themselves knights, sellswords with flair, braggarts with luck. You are none of them."
He stood slowly.
"Either you're a prodigy…" He stepped down from the dais, eyes boring into Arthur's. "Or you are something else entirely."
Arthur said nothing.
The silence answered for him.
Later That Night
The rumors spread faster than fire in dry woods.
"Did you hear? He beat ten men. Didn't even break a sweat."
"They say he doesn't sleep. Meditates like a monk from Yi Ti."
"Maybe he's a bastard of some lost Valyrian bloodline."
"I heard he talks to the weirwood trees at night…"
Benjen Stark, outside the yard
He leaned against a post, watching the last of the guards clean up broken shields and practice weapons.
"…No boy should move like that," he muttered.
He looked up at the fading sky, thoughtful.
Lyanna Stark, in her room
She traced a finger on the wooden sill, lips forming silent questions.
"…Created it himself? Then what else is he hiding?"
Arthur, alone in the forge
He stood still, breathing slow.
The warmth of the forge behind him. The cold truth ahead.
He hadn't lied.
The techniques were his—earned through death, rebirth, and relentless pursuit of mastery. Refined in blood. Sharpened through lifetimes. Taught to no one. Taken from no one. His alone.
He placed a finished horseshoe on the rack, the clang echoing like punctuation. The forge's heat curled around his skin, but his focus never wavered.
"Oi, Arthur!" Garen's voice broke the silence, arms full of coal. "You missed a hell of a show in the yard this morning."
Arthur wiped his hands. "I was the show."
Garen blinked. "...Right. Forgot I'm talkin' to Winterfell's new Sword Saint."
The other apprentices snickered from the back of the forge. Tolen nudged a nail into a horse's hoof. "Half the town's sayin' you spun through ten knights like they were hay dolls."
"They were better than hay dolls," Arthur replied simply, setting a blade blank to heat.
"But you weren't even breathin' hard," Garen muttered. "I seen it. You didn't look human."
Arthur glanced over.
"I am human," he said. "Just trained."
The apprentices fell quiet. For a moment, the only sound was the roar of the flames.
Then Garen smirked. "Well, just don't start floatin' through walls or we'll all start prayin' to the old gods again."
Arthur allowed a rare smile.
"No promises."
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HAPPY EASTER EVERYONE (}:})