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The bells of Winterfell rang just past noon.
Not for death. Not for a feast.
For battle.
A duel in the training yard was rare. A duel against multiple knights? Unheard of. But when word spread that the blacksmith boy—Arthur Snow—had challenged all of House Stark's sworn swords to a public sparring match… people abandoned their work.
Fishermen left their nets. Traders closed their stalls. Women carried their children to the gates. Even old men with bad knees hobbled down from the watchtowers.
The training yard had never been so packed.
From the walls, the guards leaned over. From the keep's windows, even servants peeked. The Stark banners waved in the cold wind as if eager for blood.
At the center of it all stood a boy.
Twelve. Barefoot. Calm.
Arthur Snow.
He wore a sleeveless tunic, his arms wrapped in cloth, his hair tied behind his head. Around him, ten knights circled, armored in padded sparring gear with blunted weapons.
He stood alone.
The crowd whispered.
"Is he mad?"
"Ten of them?"
"He's just a boy…"
Lord Rickard sat on the raised platform beside Maester Luwin and the Stark children. Even the master-at-arms remained silent, eyes narrowed.
Lyanna gripped the wooden rail. Brandon leaned forward. Ned clenched his jaw. Benjen looked… curious.
Arthur exhaled once.
Then moved.
Arthur's POV
The first knight lunged—a wide slash meant to test him.
Arthur's body shifted. One step forward. Palm strike.
Crack.
The knight spun midair, his ribs caved in. He hit the dirt before the second even raised his sword.
Two more charged together.
Arthur's foot swept left—dust exploded as he vanished from sight.
He reappeared between them. Elbow. Knee. Shoulder check.
Thunk-thunk-thump.
Three down.
The crowd gasped. No magic. No trickery. Just movement—so fast it looked like teleportation.
Murim style.
A knight came from behind with a heavy hammer. Arthur twisted, caught the handle mid-swing, and flipped over the man's shoulder—driving him face-first into the stone wall with a brutal thud.
Another tried to grapple him. Mistake.
Arthur's palm glowed faintly—qi surged through his strike.
Heavenly Crushing Wave.
The man flew backward like a rag doll. His armor cracked. Breath stolen.
Arthur turned.
Only four remained.
They hesitated.
One of them—a bigger man named Ser Baric—gritted his teeth and bellowed. "Together!"
All four rushed.
Arthur smiled.
He dashed forward—not back—meeting them head-on.
He slid under a blade, deflected a spear thrust, twisted inside a shield bash. Hands blurred.
Two fell unconscious instantly.
One screamed as his shoulder dislocated.
The last swung high—
Arthur leapt—one foot on the man's arm, the other straight into his face.
The knight collapsed.
Dust settled.
All ten were on the ground.
Arthur stood alone.
Chest rising slowly.
The yard was silent.
Then the applause came—not cheering, but stunned claps. Sparse at first. Then more.
Even the guards on the walls were clapping.
Lord Rickard's brows furrowed. Maester Luwin's quill had stopped mid-note.
Brandon stared open-mouthed. Benjen whispered something under his breath.
Only Lyanna smiled.
Arthur looked up at the lord.
"Was that enough?"