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The morning sun cast long shadows across Winterfell's training yard as northern lords gathered for demonstrations that would reshape their understanding of human capability. Arthur stood at the center, flanked by his enhanced companions—Lyanna, Garron, Thom, Sarra, Redna, and Maelen. Behind them stood three figures that drew particular attention: Tormund, the former Faith militant, Gareth and Sorrin, the Volantine. Brandon Stark, recovered from his ordeal and now demonstrating his own developing capabilities, took position beside them.
Lord Rickard Stark raised his hand for silence, and the assembled nobility quieted immediately. Beside him stood young Benjen, watching with the careful attention Arthur had taught him, his greenseer abilities allowing him to perceive more than his physical eyes alone could see.
"My lords, chieftains," Rickard began, his voice carrying clearly across the yard. "Yesterday you saw what the North can produce. Today you'll see what the North can become. What you're about to witness is not sorcery, but the result of systematic training and discipline. My son Brandon will explain as the demonstrations proceed."
Brandon stepped forward, "What Arthur Snow has developed are techniques for enhancing human capabilities beyond their normal limits. Not through magic, but through understanding how the body actually works and training it properly. What you'll see today represents months or years of dedicated practice—these aren't gifts, they're earned through discipline."
Lord Umber's rumbling voice cut through Brandon's words. "Pretty words, boy. Show us something real—then we'll believe it."
Brandon smiled. "Garron, if you would demonstrate please."
Garron moved to the center where a boulder had been placed—easily twice the size of a man's torso, the sort of stone that would require multiple men and proper equipment to move. He positioned himself, his massive frame settling into a stance that looked deceptively relaxed.
Then he simply lifted it.
He lifted it smoothly, holding it overhead with one arm while his other hung casually at his side. The boulder must have weighed five hundred pounds or more, yet Garron held it steady, his breathing even, no tremor in his massive arm.
"By the Old Gods," someone breathed.
"That's not possible," Lord Karstark said flatly. "No man is that strong."
"No ordinary man," Brandon corrected. "But Garron's training has systematically enhanced his muscular capability, his bone density, his energy efficiency. His body has been rebuilt through specific techniques to exceed normal human limitations."
When Garron set it down—placing it with the same controlled precision, the thud resonating through the ground beneath their boots—dust bloomed around its base. Several lords flinched at the impact they'd felt through stone and earth, then picked up a smaller stone. Without visible effort, he crushed it in his fist. Rock fragments fell through his fingers like sand.
The yard erupted in shocked murmurs. Lord Ryswell stood from his seat. "That's... by the old gods, that's impossible!"
"Yet you just saw it happen," Brandon replied calmly. "Thom, show us your speed."
Thom moved like water given form. He ran across the yard at speeds that made him blur, changed direction without losing momentum, leaped over obstacles that should have been impossible to clear. When servants threw objects at him from multiple directions practice weapons that would still hurt if they hit he dodged each one with precise movements that they seemed arranged.
"He's moving faster than my eyes can track," Lord Manderly said, his mind clearly racing through implications. "How is that possible?"
"Enhanced reflexes," Brandon explained. "Combined with awareness that extends beyond normal perception. Thom can sense attacks before they occur, move his body with efficiency that wastes no energy, react in fractions of the time it takes ordinary men."
"This is sorcery," someone muttered from the crowd.
"It's technique," Brandon said firmly. "Arthur could teach any of you the basic principles right now. Whether you could master them is a different question—this requires dedication most men don't possess. But it's not magic. It's understanding and discipline."
Lord Greatjon Umber watched Garron throughout the demonstrations, curiosity sharpening his stare. When he finally stood, his great frame almost matched Garron's. "That big bastard. What's his name again?"
"Garron," Arthur replied. "One of my first students and ally. Foundational to everything we've built here."
"And his family? His house?" Umber's voice drew a few glances.
Garron turned to face the Lord of Last Hearth directly and said. "No house, my lord. I'm baseborn. Son of a blacksmith and... a woman who didn't survive my childhood."
"What woman?" Umber pressed. "Where were you born?"
"Near Last Hearth, my lord. My mother died of fever when I was seven. My father in an accident two years later. After that, I traveled, took whatever work I could find, until I met Arthur Snow."
Umber stepped down from his seat and stopped in front of Garron, studying his face closely.
"Your mother's name," Umber demanded.
Garron hesitated, glancing at Arthur, who nodded slightly. "Lysa, my lord. Lysa... Umber."
The yard fell silent. Every lord present understood the implications of that surname combined with Garron's proximity to Last Hearth.
"Lysa," Umber repeated, his voice gone strange. "My eldest daughter. She ran away when she was sixteen, returned pregnant two years later. Refused to name the father. We took her back, cared for her, but she died not long after the boy was born." His massive hand shot out, gripping Garron's chin, tilting his face into better light. "I remember that child. Remember his face before the family she was staying with claimed fever took her and the boy both."
"The fever took my mother," Garron said quietly. "I survived. The family that took me in... they weren't kind. When my father—the blacksmith who claimed me—died, I left. I was nine years old and had nowhere else to go."
Umber's expression cycled through emotions too quickly to track—rage at deception, grief for lost family. "You're my grandson. My blood. And you've been here, in Stark service, when you should have been at Last Hearth learning to lead the house that's rightfully yours to inherit!"
"I'm a bastard, my lord," Garron replied steadily. "With no proof of parentage, no claim to anything. I found purpose in serving House Stark and learning from Arthur Snow. That's more than most bastards ever get."
"You're an Umber!" Greatjon roared, loud enough to make several lords flinch. "Look at you—you've got my build, my face, my strength! You think I can't see my own blood standing before me?"
Brandon stepped forward, his voice interrupting the conversation. "Lord Umber, perhaps this discussion should continue privately—"
"No." Umber turned on him, looking at Arthur. "You knew. You must have known. You've had my grandson here, training him, making him strong enough to crush stone, and you said nothing."
"I knew Garron's heritage," Arthur said evenly. "He told me himself, and he chose not to claim it. That was his decision."
"His right?" Umber's face was purple with rage. "His right was to come home! To learn how to lead our house! To be raised as an Umber instead of wandering as some nameless bastard!"
"He would have been raised as a bastard at Last Hearth as well," Lyanna said, her voice steady despite her age. "Maybe acknowledged, but still baseborn. Here he found purpose and skill. Would you take that from him?"
Umber turned his attention to her, and several northern lords tensed—the Greatjon in full rage was dangerous. But after a moment, some of the fury drained from his face. "My daughter died believing her son dead. I mourned them both. And he's been here, alive, becoming..." He gestured at the crushed stone, the boulder Garron had lifted. "Becoming this."
"I'm sorry, my lord," Garron said quietly. "For your loss. For the deception, even if it wasn't intentional. But I can't regret the path I've walked. Arthur Snow gave me purpose when I had none. Taught me discipline when I knew only survival. Made me strong enough to protect others instead of just enduring."
Brandon, sensing the need to redirect attention, spoke up. "Perhaps we should continue the demonstrations? There's more to show, and these discussions might be better held after you've seen the full scope of what's possible."
Lord Manderly stood. "Before we continue—young Stark, be plain with us. What you're showing here, these impossible feats of strength and speed—can these capabilities be taught to others? Or is this limited to those already in your service?"
"They can be taught," Brandon confirmed. "But not easily, not quickly, and not to everyone. The training requires years of dedication. Some people have natural advantages that make them progress faster. Others might train their entire lives and achieve only modest enhancement. But yes—the fundamental techniques can be shared."
"Then you're proposing to create warriors like this throughout the North?" Lord Karstark's voice was careful, neutral. "To build an army of men who can crush stone and move faster than eyes can follow?"
"We're proposing to offer training to those willing to dedicate themselves to it," Arthur replied. "Whether that creates an army depends on how many people have the discipline required and how much time we're given to train them. But yes—the goal is enhancing the North's defensive capabilities."
"Defensive," Lord Bolton said quietly from his place at the back — his first words since arriving. "And rightly so. These capabilities may lend themselves to offense, but their true value lies in deterrence. A man who can crush stone would make any attacker think twice. Strength and speed like that don't invite war — they prevent it."
A few of the gathered lords exchanged surprised looks. Bolton rarely spoke at all, and never in defense of another man's cause.
Arthur met his gaze across the hall. Bolton's expression stayed unreadable, but a faint tremor passed through him — so slight that only his retainer noticed. The man beside him assumed his lord had caught a chill; no one else seemed to notice at all.
"Every sword can serve offense or defense, Lord Bolton," Arthur said evenly. "The question isn't what power exists, but how it's used. I'm teaching strength and discipline. Whether that strength protects or destroys depends on the will behind it."
"Show us more," Lord Ryswell said at last, breaking the brief silence that followed. "We've seen strength and speed. What about combat? Can these enhanced men actually fight?""
"Sarra, Lyanna, if you would demonstrate coordinated combat," Brandon said.
The two women moved to the center of the yard, and several lords exchanged glances. Women warriors weren't entirely unknown in the North—Bear Island's she-bears proved that—but these two moved with confidence that suggested genuine capability rather than novelty.
They faced each other across the packed earth of the yard—Lyanna and Sarra—and even the morning wind seemed to still.
For a heartbeat, neither moved. Then Lyanna burst forward.
Thwip—crack! Her practice blade came in low, a blur that split the air. A strike that would have gutted a slower opponent before they could blink. But Sarra wasn't there. She pivoted, the wood of Lyanna's blade whispering past her ribs, shff—, and her counter came up fast—a rising cut toward Lyanna's exposed arm, sharp and efficient.
Crack! Lyanna turned her wrist mid-thrust, wood shrieking against wood, and the counter slid away. She stepped inside Sarra's guard, hand darting for her throat.
A few lords gasped. Too close. Too fast. Impossible to—
Thud. Sarra dropped, folding low beneath the strike, sweeping her leg around in a tight spin that hissed across the dirt. Whsshh—thmp! Lyanna vaulted over it, palm bracing on Sarra's shoulder to flip clear.
They landed apart. Circling. Three steady breaths.
Then they moved together.
The next exchange blurred into a staccato rhythm—crack-crack-crack, the sound of striking wood echoing off stone. Lyanna pressed high, driving Sarra back with blistering combinations, her feet kicking up dust. But Sarra's parries came like water meeting stone—redirecting, flowing, answering force with timing instead of power.
A spinning strike from Sarra—whrrk!—aimed for Lyanna's head. Lyanna ducked low, so low her hair brushed the ground, and drove her blade up. Thock! But the strike had been bait. Sarra twisted, caught the blow on her crossguard, and shoved. Scrrrk—thud. Lyanna slid back a full pace, boots grinding in the dirt.
Lord Manderly's mouth hung open. Beside him, the Greatjon forgot to breathe.
Lyanna straightened, stance sure, breathing even. Something subtle shifted in the air. The lords felt it before they understood it—they'd stopped testing each other. Now, they were fighting.
Sarra came on hard, her rhythm quickening. Thak! Thak! Thak! Her strikes linked seamlessly, one motion feeding the next. Dust lifted around her boots with every pivot. She drove Lyanna toward the edge of the yard, closing angles, cutting escape lines with mechanical precision.
Lyanna gave ground but not control. Each retreating step had purpose. She was learning. Waiting.
There—Sarra overextended, just enough.
Lyanna slipped through the opening, stepping inside the arc of Sarra's descending blade, her weapon thrusting for center mass. Snap— a perfect counter.
Should have ended it.
But Sarra let go with one hand, caught the thrust on her forearm guard, and shoved it aside. Clack! Her freed hand came for Lyanna's temple.
Lyanna dropped her weapon—thud!—caught Sarra's wrist, pulled, and swept her legs. They hit the ground hard, whump!, rolling, limbs tangling, blows snapping in close quarters. A grip became a twist, a pin became a throw. Hff—crack—thmp— neither yielded.
They broke apart, rose together, dirt streaking their arms, eyes locked. Their breathing was steady. Controlled.
Different styles—Lyanna's fluid adaptability against Sarra's measured precision—but equal. Every movement clean, purposeful.
"By the Old Gods," Lord Cerwyn muttered. "They're not even tired."
It was true. Both women stood stead as if the battle hadn't tired them at all.
The final exchange came without signal. Dash—crack! Lyanna feinted low, came high, spun into a back-kick that clipped air as Sarra turned. Whssht—crack-crack! Sarra answered with a pattern so fast the eye lost track, each blow a percussion of movement and control. Lyanna slipped through, countering with quiet precision, the two of them meeting again in the center.
THUD! Wood locked against wood. For a heartbeat, they held there, muscles taut, neither yielding.
Then both stepped back.
And bowed.
For a moment, only the creak of leather and the wind moved. Then sound returned all at once—first a few scattered claps, then more, until the yard filled with the rough rhythm of hands striking together.
Some lords applauded out of disbelief, others because they didn't know what else to do. Voices overlapped—questions, half-laughed curses, muttered awe. The Northern composure had fractured completely.
The Greatjon's booming laughter rolled above it all, broad and unrestrained. "That's fighting!" he roared, clapping so hard his palms echoed like drumbeats.
The Bear Islanders were the loudest. Their lady stood with her arms crossed, a grin breaking through her usual sternness. Around her, her warriors cheered openly, voices rough with pride.
"Now there's a sight worth seeing," she said, her voice carrying across the yard. "Man or woman—that's what the North should look like."
Her retainers answered with more cheers—some pounding their fists against their chests, others whistling. It wasn't polished or courtly, but it was honest.
Up in the stands, Lord Rickard Stark watched in silence, the faintest trace of pride softening his usual reserve. Benjen stood at his side, eyes wide, a mix of admiration and disbelief on his young face. He'd seen his sister battle before, but never like this.
In the yard below, Brandon was grinning openly, clapping once against his thigh before joining the applause. Pride showed plain on his face, steady and uncomplicated. When he glanced up toward his father, Rickard's small nod was enough to meet it.
For a moment, the Starks looked exactly what they were—quietly proud, and united.
Amid the noise and applause, Lord Bolton had gone still. His face had drained of color, mouth slightly open as his eyes followed the two young women in the yard. Lyanna and Sarra stood steady after their bout, calm where others were shaken.
Then Bolton's gaze shifted to Arthur.
Arthur was already watching him, the faintest trace of a smile on his face—quiet, almost mocking, as if he already knew what Bolton was thinking.
Bolton looked away at once.
His retainer noticed. For a moment, he thought his lord had taken ill—until he saw the slight tremor in Bolton's hand. The man's disbelief deepened; he had never seen fear touch that face.
If even Lord Bolton could fear a boy of seventeen or eighteen, what kind of strength—or danger—did that boy carry?
The thought made the retainer's stomach twist. He looked down quickly, not wanting Arthur to see him trembling too.
"The Stark girl fights like that?" someone said in disbelief.
"Both of them do," another lord replied. "Did you see the speed? The precision?"
At the edge of the yard, Chieftain Harrek stood with crossed arms, watching his daughter with an expression that held both fierce pride and something quieter—perhaps sadness. Sarra had gone so far beyond anything their mountain holds could have taught her. The girl who'd left their halls was gone, replaced by this warrior who moved like legends come to life.
The applause finally faded, and Arthur stepped forward, his voice carrying clearly across the suddenly quiet yard.
"What you've seen here," he said, "is only the beginning. Strength, speed, precision in combat—these are foundations. With time, with proper training, with the right commitment, the North can reach far beyond what you've witnessed today."
Lord Umber, who had been silent since his confrontation with Garron, finally spoke. His voice was quieter than his usual roar, but it carried weight. "My grandson crushes stone with his bare hands. The Stark girl and the mountain lass fight like heroes from the Age of Heroes. And you're telling us this is only the beginning? That with enough time and training, there could be hundreds like them?"
"Not hundreds at this level," Arthur corrected. "The advanced capabilities require natural aptitudes most people don't possess. But hundreds of significantly enhanced warriors, yes. Perhaps dozens who approach what you've seen today. Maybe a handful who exceed it. Enough to make the North's defenses truly formidable. Enough to make any enemy—wildling, Ironborn, or southern lord—think very carefully before threatening northern interests."
"Or enough to conquer the South if we chose," someone muttered from the crowd.
Arthur didn't flinch. He turned toward the voice, meeting unnamed eyes in the crowd. "We could," he said simply. "If conquest were our goal, these methods would make it achievable. But conquest isn't victory—it's just the beginning of endless problems. You have to hold land you've taken. Rule people who hate you. Keep supply lines open through hostile territory. Win battles against guerrilla resistance that never ends."
He paused, letting that sink in. "Power doesn't solve those problems. But it does solve a different problem: it ensures no one starts them in the first place. That's the difference between conquest and defense. We're not interested in ruling the South and drowning in their endless political games. We're interested in being too dangerous to attack."
Arthur watched the lords absorb his message, their expressions reflecting the weight of what they'd witnessed.
The real work was about to begin.