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POV: Arthur Snow
Location: Leaving Winterfell → Cold Fang foothills
Arthur left Winterfell before dawn.
He moved without guards, pageantry, or ceremony. Just a cloak, a small pack, and the sword across his back, still bound in plain cloth.
The gates creaked open slowly. Two sentries nodded to him, uncertain whether to say anything. They didn't. That suited him.
Benjen stood just outside the stables, wrapped in a heavy fur too large for him. His cheeks were red with cold. He looked like he'd been waiting there for a while.
"You're really going alone?" Benjen asked, rubbing his hands together.
Arthur nodded. "It's not a warband I'm building. I need to see things for myself."
Benjen hesitated. "You'll be gone long?"
"I'll be back when I've found people worth trusting."
The boy didn't answer right away. Then, quietly: "You'll write?"
"No," Arthur said. "But I'll return."
Before Benjen could say more, footsteps approached behind them.
Lyanna.
She looked tired, like she hadn't slept. Her gloves were mismatched, one still half-laced. She didn't smile.
"You could've told me," she said.
Arthur looked at her for a moment, then said, "Would you have tried to stop me?"
"Yes," she said plainly.
"Then it's good I didn't."
She stepped closer, her voice low. "You don't have to carry it all on your own."
Arthur looked out past the gates, where the snow was already starting to thin under the morning light.
"I don't want to carry everything," he said. "That's why I'm going. To find people who can stand beside me. People who don't need permission to be strong."
Lyanna held something in her hand—a small carved stone, smooth and dark, shaped like a sitting wolf.
She pressed it into his palm.
"So you don't forget where your feet first stood."
Arthur didn't say thank you. She didn't ask for one.
"Don't take too long," she said. "The world doesn't wait for the slow."
He looked at her. "Neither do I."
Then he turned and walked.
The roads south of Winterfell were quiet.
Snow still clung to the branches, but the worst of winter had passed. He walked alone for two days, keeping off the main paths. A lone rider draws questions. A group draws more.
He stopped in villages only when he needed food. Spoke only when spoken to. Slept light. Moved early.
He wasn't following rumors. He didn't have a map of names or promises. He chose direction based on terrain, weather, and something harder to name—a kind of feeling. The land's weight. The way silence held in a valley.
He passed through a stretch of rough foothills west of the White Knife where the trees thinned and sharp stone jutted from the ground in broken lines. The locals didn't have a name for it, but it smelled like places no one wanted to linger. Tracks came through, but few returned.
Perfect.
He didn't know who he'd find. But he'd find someone.
Not a knight.
Not a soldier.
Someone who'd seen loss and chose to survive anyway. Someone who needed power—but hadn't yet found out how to achieve it.
Location: Cold Fang Borderlands – Unnamed Trail
The road to south was empty.
Late that morning, he came across a wrecked wagon. The wheels were gone, stripped clean. The body of the cart had been burned, or had caught fire while fleeing. Frozen hoofprints led north. Human tracks looped wildly—too many to count.
He followed.
The trail led him down a slope and into a narrow clearing beside a frozen creek. Wind caught the trees just right to cover sound. Even his own steps were quiet. That's why he heard it—a short, sharp cry. Then boots crunching fast.
He crested the low rise and saw them.
Three men. Two dragging a girl by the arms. One limping behind them with a short club.
Arthur didn't hesitate. He didn't shout.
He walked down the slope with steady steps.
The first man saw him, reached for something under his coat.
Arthur didn't stop walking.
The man's blade cleared half its scabbard before Arthur's hand moved. It wasn't a flourish—just speed and clean angle. Steel, strike, collapse.
The man dropped.
The second froze, unsure whether to run or draw. Arthur didn't say a word. He looked at the man. That was enough. The second let go of the girl and backed away slowly before turning and vanishing into the trees.
The third tried to bluff, arms raised.
Arthur hit him in the face with the pommel of his hilt. One step. One strike.
It was done.
The girl stumbled backward and caught herself on a tree.
Arthur turned away. He wasn't expecting thanks.
He kept walking down the old deer path toward the next bend in the ridge.
After a minute, he heard her footsteps behind him.
"Why'd you help?"
Arthur didn't stop. "They were going to hurt you."
"You don't even know me."
"I don't need to."
Another pause.
"I didn't need saving."
Arthur shrugged. "I didn't ask if you did."
She followed a few paces behind. Her boots were old, the laces mismatched. She walked with care, not fear. She had a knife strapped low to her thigh, handle worn smooth. She hadn't drawn it.
They walked in silence until they reached a shallow bend where the trees opened slightly. There, Arthur paused.
She moved up beside him.
"You fight like someone who's done it before," she said.
Arthur adjusted the strap across his shoulder. "I have."
"Where'd you learn?"
"North. Farther than here."
She studied him. "You a sellsword?"
"No."
"Knight?"
"No."
"What, then?"
"Just passing through."
She squinted at him. "You don't talk much."
"I don't need to."
That shut her up for a bit.
They camped that night beneath a stone ledge, wind-breaking trees grown dense around a dry gully. Arthur built no fire. She didn't ask for one.
She sat across from him, sharpening her knives with steady strokes. The blades weren't elegant. Just efficient.
He didn't ask about her. She didn't offer much.
But after a while, she spoke.
"My name's Sarra."
Arthur nodded. "Arthur."
She seemed to wait for more. There wasn't any.
Later, she said, "Those men today… they reminded me of the ones who killed my sister."
He glanced at her but said nothing.
"She was older. Stronger than me. She tried to stop them. Didn't live long."
Arthur's hand drifted to his pack, then stopped. "I'm sorry."
Sarra didn't look for pity. "I don't want sorry."
"What do you want?"
"To be stronger than them. Stronger than anyone like them."
Arthur nodded. "That's something."
Silence fell again.
Then: "You planning to head south?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Looking for people."
"What kind of people?"
Arthur looked at her. "Ones who've lost something. But are still standing."
She mulled that over.
Then asked, "What are you trying to build?"
He didn't answer right away.
"Something lean. Something fast. Not a house. Not an army."
She studied him again. "You take anyone with you yet?"
"No."
She smirked, just faintly. "Then you've got bad taste."
He looked over at her. "You following me?"
Sarra sheathed her blades, her eyes not leaving him.
"I want to know how to fight like that," she said.
Arthur looked over.
"Not just knives," she went on. "Not speed, not reflex. You didn't flinch. You moved like you'd already done it a hundred times."
"I have."
She nodded. "Then I'll follow."
He didn't smile. He didn't encourage her.
"People follow for different reasons," he said. "Some want glory. Others want revenge."
"I want power," she said simply. "Not for show. Just enough so that the next time I meet men like them… I don't end up like my sister."
She settled her pack under a crooked tree and sat, crossing her arms. "You can keep walking. Or sleep. I'll be here either way."
He turned away and crouched near the edge of the ledge. Wind brushed through the gully, dry and sharp. He didn't need to ask if she meant it.
He'd heard those words before.
Another life. Another world. A girl with eyes like storms and a dagger always hidden up her sleeve. She had followed him without being asked, said nearly the same thing: "Make me strong. Just strong enough not to need you someday."
She had died on a ruined battlefield, knees buckled, teeth broken from a final blow she still managed to return.
Arthur looked back at Sarra, now checking the bindings on her boots.
No flair. No bravado.
Just someone trying not to be afraid anymore.
"I'll teach you what I know," he said, finally.
Her head turned. She didn't smile. But she nodded once, like that was enough.
They slept a few feet apart, no fire, just the cold and the quiet.
In the morning, she was still there. When he stood, she did too.
He started walking.
This time, she followed.