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From White Harbor to the Eyrie, from the Dusty Vale to the Reach, the tale spread like wildfire caught in wind.
A boy in Winterfell.
Defeating ten knights alone.
No wounds. No bruises. No exhaustion.
Some said he moved like a shadow cast in firelight—dancing, flowing, striking like a storm with every breath. Others called it nonsense. Tales spun by Northmen who drank too much mead and valued stories over sense.
In the halls of Oldtown, maesters scoffed. In the Red Keep, lords laughed.
But a few didn't.
A few listened.
A few watched.
At Barrowton,
Lord Dustin leaned back in his seat as his daughter, Lady Barbrey, read the raven aloud.
"One boy against ten. Unharmed. Hmph." He grunted. "Winter's early madness."
Barbrey didn't speak. She tapped the raven's parchment twice, thoughtful.
"That's the second report. And this one came from a knight."
Her father waved a hand. "And knights drink, too."
Barbrey's eyes flicked toward the hearth, where her sword leaned.
At Riverrun,
Hoster Tully frowned as he heard the tale again over supper.
"That's the third letter from the North," he murmured. "All the same story."
Brynden Blackfish, arms crossed, chuckled.
"Either the North's raising a god… or training something worse."
At Winterfell,
ravens landed daily.
Some bore polite inquiries. Some hinted at alliances. One even came from Dorne, veiled in sweet words and sand-stained parchment.
Lord Rickard burned that one.
He sat in silence, the fire crackling low, rereading the latest message from White Harbor. Wyman Manderly himself planned to visit, along with a small escort and his son, Wylis.
"Everyone wants to see the miracle boy," Rickard muttered.
He turned to Maester Luwin.
"Keep Arthur occupied. Don't let him wander too far."
Maester Luwin hesitated. "My lord… if the tales are true, we may not be able to stop him from doing anything."
Varys – The Spymaster's Web
In the dungeons beneath the Red Keep, where even shadows feared to linger, Varys stood in silence. A dozen candles flickered before him, each representing a whisper, a voice, a thread.
He read the latest message, ink still wet.
"A boy named Arthur Snow defeated ten knights in Winterfell. No wounds. No fatigue. The people call him the Demon of the North."
Varys smiled—thin and cold.
"The North breeds strange winters," he whispered to himself. "But never… storms like this."
He turned to the cloaked shadow waiting in the archway.
"Send two more birds north. One to White Harbor. The other to Mole's Town. I want eyes in the market, ears in the alehouses, and whispers beneath the Stark's walls."
The spy bowed. "Should they approach the boy?"
Varys shook his head.
"Not yet. But watch those who do."
He turned away, the message already burning in the brazier behind him.
"And listen for names. Anyone connected to this Arthur Snow. Especially… any who vanish."
King Aerys POV
The Raven Tower reeked of piss, smoke, and oil. Flies buzzed in the corners. King Aerys II Targaryen sat hunched upon his throne like a vulture atop bones, fingers twitching, nails blackened and cracked.
He stared at the parchment in his hand, though he'd read the words a dozen times.
"Arthur… Snow…" he spat, teeth yellow with rot. "A bastard. A Northern whelp swinging blades like a knight. Like a prince."
He tore the letter slowly, piece by piece, eyes wide and bloodshot.
"Do they think I'll kneel to bastards now? Do they think I'll bow to some wolf-spawn from the ice?"
He stood, cloak dragging behind him like a corpse shroud.
"I'll burn the North? Ha! No. I'll melt it. I'll drown it in wildfire."
He turned to the Kingsguard—silent, motionless statues in white.
"Let it be known," he growled. "Anyone who crosses me... anyone who whispers rebellion… will die screaming in green flames."
Prince Rhaegar POV
In the quiet chamber above the Hall of Scrolls, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen read the same message. Unlike his father, his fingers trembled not with madness—but with curiosity.
"A boy who moved like a storm," he whispered.
He looked to the harp at his side, and the books of prophecy piled near the window.
He turned to Ser Oswell Whent.
"If the stories are true… then something stirs. And not just in the North."
Oswell remained silent, as always.
Rhaegar looked out toward the setting sun.
"The dragon has three heads. But perhaps… one of them wears wolfskin."
Varys – Closing the Web
In his hidden chambers, Varys drew a new thread across the map of Westeros.
A small sigil was pinned to Winterfell.
Over it, a black circle with no name.
Only a note.
"Observe. Do not act."
For now.
At Winterfell's gates,
the horns blew thrice—unexpected.
Ser Rodrik moved fast, sword in hand.
A rider approached, bearing a sigil none had seen in decades.
A black stag upon a field of blue.
Behind him, six riders. Southern faces. Well-armed. Silent.
Rickard Stark walked onto the battlements, eyes narrowing.
"That," he said softly, "is a banner of Storm's End."
Lyanna and Brandon stepped beside him.
Ned watched quietly.
Only Arthur Snow, wiping sweat from his brow in the training yard, looked up with something different in his eyes.
From beneath the rider's helm, a voice called out across Winterfell's stones:
"I seek the one who defeated ten knights."
He pulled back his hood.
"I seek the one they call Snow—but who fights like a storm."
The wind howled. And Arthur stepped forward.