Chapter 17 – Whispers in Winter

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Year: 271 AC

Location: Winterfell

Benjen Stark POV

The halls of Winterfell had moods.

In the summer, they hummed with music and training and Lord Rickard's voice echoing in the great hall.

But now—now they whispered.

Benjen wasn't supposed to notice such things. At ten, he was just another boy with a wooden sword and muddy boots. But he did notice. How the guards talked quieter around the smithy. How Ser Colm always looked at Arthur Snow a second longer than necessary. How Jonos had stopped mocking the boy and started calling him "Demon" under his breath—only half in jest.

Benjen had watched Arthur work the forge. It wasn't just strength or skill.

It was control.

Every strike of the hammer. Every movement of his fingers while folding steel. And when the assassin had been caught near the yard—Benjen had seen Arthur appear moments after it ended, eyes calm, shoulders relaxed, not a hint of surprise.

That wasn't normal.

Benjen lay awake some nights thinking about the way Arthur looked at things. Not with fear. Not with curiosity.

With judgment.

Like he was weighing the world.

That morning, Benjen walked past the forge pretending to drop his satchel. Arthur didn't flinch, just nodded once and returned to grinding a blade. The steel screamed beneath the stone, the sound clean and purposeful.

Benjen swallowed.

He didn't fear Arthur. Not really.

But he'd never seen a storm so quiet before.

Lyanna Stark POV

The Godswood was colder than it should be. Snow clung to the branches even though the rest of the castle had thawed under spring's first breath.

Lyanna danced barefoot through the snow anyway. It made her feel alive.

She ran, spun, laughed—and then stopped. Because Arthur was there again.

He always came when no one was looking.

He stood beneath the heart tree, not praying, not speaking. Just still. Sometimes his lips moved, but there was no sound. Other times, his hand hovered over the roots like he could feel something hidden beneath them.

She didn't call to him. She just watched.

He wasn't like Brandon, who bragged. Or Ned, who tried too hard to be noble. Arthur didn't try anything.

And that's what made her curious.

That night, when the stars hung heavy over the keep, she tiptoed to the library and found the oldest map she could read. Wolfswood. The Wall. Shadow Tower. She didn't know what she was looking for. Only that the feeling in her bones when Arthur passed her in the hallway felt like the stories Old Nan told her when she was very small.

He wasn't from a story.

But maybe he was meant to become one.

She lit a candle and scribbled a note in her journal, tucked between two pressed leaves:

"Arthur Snow doesn't flinch. He doesn't laugh. He only watches—and chooses when to strike. Not a blacksmith. Not a knight. Maybe something else. I want to know what."

She closed the book and fell into a deep sleep.