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Arthur Snow was twelve.
The qi in the North remained thin—pale and slow compared to the vibrant essence of Murim. Still, he'd adapted. Slowly.
Each night, he sat beneath the old heart tree, cross-legged, the stillness of the godswood surrounding him. The weirwood pulsed with something deeper than qi—older, heavier. Arthur didn't understand it fully. But he used it.
He had reached Peak Third Stage of Core Foundation. Back in Murim, it would be laughable. But here, in this lifeless land of steel and frost, it made him a monster.
Today, he stood in the Great Hall.
Lord Rickard Stark sat high on the stone dais. Beside him, Maester Luwin. On the side benches, knights in dark cloaks and gray steel watched in silence. The Stark children sat near the lord—Lyanna sharp-eyed, Ned fidgeting, Brandon smirking, and Benjen quiet.
"Arthur Snow," Lord Rickard said. "The men speak of you. The wildling ambush. The assassin. Even Ser Colm says you fight like a veteran twice your age."
Arthur bowed his head slightly. "I do what I must, my lord."
Rickard's tone stayed level. "Where did you learn it?"
Arthur shrugged. "Maybe I'm just a prodigy."
Murmurs. Low, disbelieving.
"Or maybe your knights have grown slow."
That did it.
Steel groaned as three knights stood.
Ser Bartos was first. Grizzled. Two-time tourney champion. "You dare mock sworn men of House Stark?"
"I'm just answering the question," Arthur replied.
Ser Joren slammed his gauntlet down. "You brat!"
Ser Waymar added, "Name your weapon. I'll put you on the ground before your next breath."
More voices rose. The Great Hall stirred.
Then—CRACK.
The pommel of a wooden cane slammed down. All heads turned.
The Master-at-Arms stepped forward. A tall man, half-bald, scars crawling down his cheek. "You want to draw steel on a twelve-year-old boy in the Lord's Hall?" he barked.
Silence.
Rickard's gaze darkened. "Control yourselves. You dishonor my hall."
Arthur stood still, hands at his sides.
"Very well," Rickard said slowly. "If he thinks himself a prodigy… let him prove it. You'll spar tomorrow. In the yard. No blades."
Then Arthur spoke again. Calm. Cold.
"No need to take turns."
Every knight looked at him.
"If I'm to prove myself… I'll fight all of them. At once."
The hall went silent.
Rickard Stark blinked once.
Then leaned forward on his stone seat. "Have you lost your mind, boy?"
The knights were already rising again, some with scoffs, others with disbelief clouding their eyes.
Arthur didn't flinch. "No, my lord. I just don't see the point in dragging this out. If they're as good as they claim, then they shouldn't need an advantage in numbers."
Laughter—nervous and sharp—spilled from the benches. One of the younger knights muttered, "He's cracked."
But Rickard didn't laugh.
He stared at the boy in the center of the hall. A blacksmith's apprentice. A commoner. But standing like a lord born in fire.
Maester Luwin shifted beside the Lord of Winterfell. "My lord, this could get… out of hand."
Rickard raised a hand to silence him. "Let him have it. If he falls, we learn his limits. If he stands... then perhaps we've underestimated more than just his sword arm."
Arthur gave a short nod, as if it had already been decided.
From the corner of the room, Lyanna whispered, "He's not afraid."
Brandon leaned in. "He's not sane either."
But Benjen… just watched. Quiet and still.