The snows fell thicker with each passing moon.
In Winter Town, the rooftops vanished beneath drifts that sometimes reached the eaves. The roads hardened under ice, and travelers arrived at the gates of Winterfell shivering, wrapped in heavy cloaks of fur and wool.
The world was silent in a way Naros had come to associate with danger. It reminded him of the moment before a kunai struck, the heartbeat before an enemy revealed themselves.
Because even as winter deepened, the North hummed with restless whispers.
---
Naros was fifteen years old now, though to the eye he looked nearer twenty.
Senjutsu chakra had seen to that. His frame had grown broad, his shoulders square, his hair longer and thicker than any Northern boy his age. Neighbors often remarked how he seemed to belong to an older generation already hardened by life's burdens.
He moved among them quietly, mending fences, hauling firewood, and checking the snow for signs of wolves or worse.
All the while, his shadow clones roamed the world beyond the Wall, through the Riverlands, and across the Narrow Sea. They brought back tidings in streams of half-remembered faces, coded whispers, and scraps of overheard secrets.
But nothing in five years prepared him for what arrived one bitter morning in early 298 AC.
---
Lysa was shaking snow from her shawl when she burst through the cottage door, cheeks flushed pink.
"Naros, Joren—have you heard? The Hand of the King is dead!"
Joren, seated by the fire, lifted his eyes from the blade he was sharpening. "Jon Arryn? Dead?"
"They say it was sickness," Lysa said, breathless. "Some lung fever or something worse."
Naros straightened where he stood beside the hearth. The name rang in his mind like a bell. Jon Arryn: the man who'd kept Robert Baratheon's kingdom steady all these years. Mentor, father-by-law, Hand of the King.
The realm had been balanced on his quiet strength. Now it teetered.
Neighbors trickled through the village all day, each bearing some new piece of rumor.
"A tragedy," said old Tom the miller. "A good man, they say."
"He was getting on in years," murmured another. "Men that age don't fight off fevers like they used to."
But the words felt hollow to Naros's ears.
Because he'd felt it. A trembling in the threads of the world. A break in the pattern.
---
Two days later, Naros was splitting logs behind the cottage when he felt the flicker of a returning shadow clone.
He barely had time to drop the axe before the clone materialized in a burst of swirling snow. It stood before him for the briefest instant—a young man dressed like a stableboy from King's Landing.
Then it dissolved, and memories slammed into Naros's skull.
He staggered, clutching his temple as images poured through his mind:
The smell of hot, dusty streets in King's Landing.
Noblemen whispering in corners.
The Red Keep's high halls echoing with rumors.
A trembling servant whispering, "They say the Hand was poisoned. Not sick at all."
Naros gasped as the visions faded. His breath smoked in the cold air. His heartbeat drummed in his ears like war drums.
Jon Arryn… poisoned.
Not sick. Not old age. Murder.
He clenched his fists until his nails bit into his palms.
---
That night, he sat before the hearth, gaze lost in the flames. Joren and Lysa were already asleep, their breathing soft and even.
Naros stared into the fire, jaw set.
Jon Arryn's death was no mere palace tragedy. If the Hand could be murdered, the realm itself could be bleeding from hidden wounds.
He couldn't ignore it.
---
Before dawn, Naros slipped from the cottage and trekked through the woods to a clearing deep among the pines. The snow there lay smooth and unbroken, shimmering under starlight.
He formed the familiar seals, pouring chakra into his lungs.
"Kage Bunshin no Jutsu."
Hundreds of clones filled the clearing, their identical faces solemn in the pale glow of moonlight.
"I have a task for you," Naros said, voice low. "Jon Arryn did not die of sickness. He was poisoned."
Murmurs rippled among the clones.
"I want you to find out why. Who killed him. Who benefits. Look everywhere—in kitchens, in cellars, in noble houses, in the shadows behind the Iron Throne itself. Stay hidden. If any of you are discovered… vanish."
A clone stepped forward. "Understood, boss. Anything else?"
Naros hesitated. His chest felt tight. "Be careful. King's Landing isn't like the Elemental Nations. Here… a knife in the dark is the end."
---
Within days, rumors reached Winter Town that King Robert Baratheon planned to ride north with half his court.
Old Tom the miller declared, "The king's coming to Winterfell! Think he'll raise taxes while he's here?"
Lysa, overhearing this, worried aloud at supper. "The last time the realm went to war, smallfolk paid the price."
Joren nodded, jaw tight. "Kings and lords make decisions. It's the rest of us who bury the dead."
Naros kept silent, though his mind buzzed.
Robert Baratheon. Riding north. Bringing his court. Bringing his queen.
The same queen whose name echoed through the clone's memory, whispered with fear in the Red Keep.
"The queen… she may be involved…"
---
Days later, Naros accompanied Joren into Winterfell as merchants bustled to prepare for the royal visit. Trestles were assembled in the courtyard. Cooks barked orders. Noble children rehearsed bows and curtsies.
Lord Stark himself looked drawn and weary, consulting with his steward about lodging for hundreds of royal retainers.
Naros blended into the crowds, listening.
"King Robert's hunting party grows bigger by the day," muttered one blacksmith. "They'll eat half the North bare."
Another man scoffed. "He's coming to name a new Hand, isn't he? Can't run the realm without one."
Naros felt the truth behind those words.
Jon Arryn's death had opened a void. And power, like water, always sought to fill empty spaces.
---
While in Winterfell, Naros found himself drawn into small events.
A fight nearly broke out in the yard between a Stark guard and a merchant from White Harbor. Naros slipped between them, using just enough chakra-infused presence to chill tempers without revealing his true nature.
He vanished before anyone could question his role.
But word began circulating about a young man who seemed to appear when trouble sparked and leave without a trace.
---
Back in Winter Town, Lysa grew more anxious.
"Naros," she said one evening, pressing a cup of hot cider into his hands, "I've seen the way you look off into the distance these days. Like you're listening to voices no one else can hear."
He swallowed, guilt pricking him. "Just thinking about the king coming north."
She searched his eyes. "You're not hiding trouble from us, are you?"
"I'd never let trouble reach you," he said, voice soft.
But as he lay awake that night, he wondered how long he could keep that promise.
---
The next morning, Naros rose early and crept into the woods. The snow fell thick as goose down, muffling every sound.
He drew a deep breath and began moving through katas, fists cutting the frigid air. His muscles rippled beneath his heavy cloak.
Steel matters here, he thought. Even more than chakra.
He shifted seamlessly from taijutsu strikes to slower, deliberate sword motions. He'd begun forging a blade in secret—a simple steel sword, nothing flashy, but balanced perfectly to his grip.
He knew chakra alone wouldn't protect him if court politics turned bloody.
---
Near dusk, another clone returned in a sudden puff of snow.
Naros staggered as memories poured in:
A nobleman in golden velvet, speaking softly to a red-haired woman in shadows.
"Jon Arryn knew… he knew the queen's secret. That's why he died."
Another voice whispering, "The queen's family would kill anyone who learns the truth."
Naros felt his chest tighten.
Secrets. Lies. Murder.
The same deadly dance he'd known in the Elemental Nations was playing out here—without chakra, but no less lethal.
---
A week later, news arrived that Robert Baratheon had left King's Landing, the royal procession rolling northward through rain and mud.
In Winter Town, folk spoke in hushed excitement:
"King Robert's bringing half his court!"
"They say he might name Eddard Stark the new Hand!"
"Think he'll bring dragons?" asked one wide-eyed child.
Naros listened, heart hammering.
The pieces were falling into place.
Late that night, Naros stood outside the cottage. The stars glimmered between drifting snowflakes.
Jon Arryn was murdered. The queen hides secrets worth killing for. The king rides north. And the realm may shatter if the wrong truth comes to light.
He pressed his palm to his chest, feeling the faint thrum of the Senjutsu bead.
I will not let this world fall. Even if I have to stand against kings and queens.