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Chapter 63 - Chapter 62: The Predator or the Prey ?

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POV: Arthur Snow

Location: Wolfsblood Ridge – Dusk Clearing

The sun bled crimson behind the ridge, casting long shadows across the clearing. The air smelled of iron and crushed pine.

Arthur stood motionless at the center, bare feet rooted in the packed earth. Before him, his students waited—no longer scattered, no longer uncertain.

They had reformed.

Planned.

He could see it in the way their shoulders aligned, in the shared tension humming between them. Thom's fingers twitched toward his darts. Vaeren's weight shifted to his back foot, ready to pivot. Lyanna's breath came slow and controlled, her blade angled just so.

Behind them, Sarra and Redna had vanished into the tree line—not fleeing, but positioning. Garron stood forward, his hammer a silent challenge.

Arthur exhaled through his nose.

"Begin."

Thom moved first—not with a dart, but with a glass sphere hurled into the dirt. It shattered, releasing a thick, scentless mist.

Obscuration. Not poison.

Arthur approved.

Vaeren followed, tossing a flask that exploded midair, scattering powdered silver into the haze. It clung to qi, disrupting sensory pulses.

Clever.

Lyanna struck from the left, her blade a whisper. Arthur pivoted—only for Sarra to feint low, then twist at the last moment to hammer her knuckles into his kidney.

He absorbed the blow, redirecting the force through his stance.

"Timing," he acknowledged. "Better."

Garron charged, hammer raised. Arthur sidestepped—

—and felt Redna's dagger skim his ribs from behind.

Ah.

They had boxed him.

For half a breath, Arthur let them believe it might work.

Then he moved.

A palm to Sarra's diaphragm sent her sprawling. A twist of his wrist disarmed Lyanna mid-lunge. He caught Redna's next strike by the wrist and squeezed—just enough to make her fingers spasm.

Vaeren's next concoction arced toward him.

Arthur inhaled—and with a pulse of qi, breathed out.

The flask detonated prematurely, showering Vaeren in harmless sparks.

Thom's needles came next. Arthur batted them aside with his forearm, the steel pinging into the dirt.

Garron swung again. This time, Arthur met the hammer head-on—not with brute force, but with precision. His palm struck the haft at its weakest vibration point, and the weapon shattered in Garron's grip.

Silence.

Panting. Bleeding. But not broken.

Arthur lowered his hand.

"Much better."

Then he attacked.

Thom went down first—a controlled strike to the throat, just shy of crushing his windpipe. Vaeren lasted three seconds longer, his alchemy useless at close range. Redna managed to graze Arthur's sleeve before he dislocated her shoulder with a twist.

Lyanna and Sarra fought in tandem, their movements synced. Arthur let them push him back two steps—then broke Sarra's stance with a knee to the thigh and sent Lyanna flying with a palm to her sternum.

Garron, weaponless, swung bare-handed. Arthur caught his fist and pulled, using Garron's momentum to slam him face-first into the dirt.

They lay in a scattered semicircle, groaning.

Thom spat blood. "Damn. I really thought the mist would work."

Vaeren groaned, rubbing his ribs. "He breathed through it. Who does that?"

Redna sat up, wincing as she reset her shoulder. "The flanking maneuver was solid. We just... underestimated his reaction time."

Lyanna wiped her mouth, staring at the smear of red on her hand. "We lasted twenty seconds longer than yesterday."

Sarra, flat on her back, laughed hoarsely. "Next time, we—"

"Next time," Arthur interrupted, "you will fight blindfolded. Two against four. Then three on three. You will learn to feel each other's movements—not just see them."

A beat.

"And then," he added softly, "we begin the real training."

They exchanged glances.

Arthur turned away, leaving them in the gathering dark.

Behind him, Garron's voice rumbled:

"...We're going to die, aren't we?"

Lyanna's grin was all teeth.

"Probably."

The moment the word left her lips, a black shadow sliced through the twilight. Arthur's hand snapped up, catching the raven's scroll mid-flight before it could touch snow. The Stark seal gleamed wet and red in the dying light.

Winterfell.

Immediately.

He didn't speak farewells. Didn't fetch a horse.

As the others limped toward camp, Arthur's qi ignited like a banked forge bursting to life. Steam curled from his bare arms as he assumed the stance of the Chasing Moon Technique - a forbidden movement art from the Murim's Stormwind Faction. His next step didn't land on snow.

It landed on air.

Trees became dark smears beneath his feet as he moved faster than any natural creature, his body cutting through the Wolfswood like a blade through silk. Frozen rivers flashed beneath him, his toes touching water only long enough to shatter ice without sinking. The wind's scream died behind him - he outran even sound itself.

Dawn hadn't yet touched the eastern peaks when Winterfell's gates appeared. Arthur's final leap carried him over the outer wall, guards below blinking as sudden snow swirled where no wind had blown. He landed silently in the inner courtyard, steam rising from his skin in great plumes as his qi settled.

Location : Winterfell - Great Hall

The doors opened before Arthur could raise his hand.

Inside, Rickard Stark stood frozen mid-pace, a cup of mulled wine halfway to his lips. The Lord of Winterfell's eyes flicked to the frost still melting in Arthur's hair, then to the courtyard where no horse stood panting.

"You were at Wolfsblood Ridge at sundown," Rickard said, voice carefully flat.

Arthur nodded.

Rickard set his cup down very slowly. The quiet clink of silver on oak echoed strangely in the sudden stillness. "That's eighty leagues. Through the Wolfswood. In winter."

A log cracked in the hearth. Somewhere in the castle, a hound bayed.

When Rickard finally spoke again, it was with the measured tone of a man recalibrating his understanding of the world: "I see the rumors from White Harbor weren't exaggerations."

Arthur said nothing. He didn't need to. The truth hung between them in the rising steam from his clothes, in the way the torchlight bent slightly around his form, as if reluctant to touch him.

Rickard exhaled through his nose and gestured to the maps. "Then let us discuss why such speed was necessary."

They sat in quiet for a time as the wind howled through the arrow slits.

Rickard's eyes flicked to the parchment on the table.

"You've heard the rumblings, I trust. The King's mind rots by the day. His grip on the South slips. Tywin resigns, Baratheon rises, and no man knows who commands the crown anymore."

Arthur nodded.

"A war will come," Rickard said. "Not soon, perhaps. But soon enough. The mad do not die quietly, and the South is a tinderbox."

He placed one hand on a northern map.

"And here? The Ironborn stir. Raids have doubled along the coast. They test our reach."

"I've already encountered them," Arthur said. "I killed a few."

Rickard arched a brow. "That would explain the raven from House Talhart. Something about a 'snow-born demon' cutting down twenty reavers alone."

Arthur said nothing.

Rickard didn't smile—but something in his eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

"There's more," the Lord of Winterfell continued. "The Free Folk have grown restless. Scouts say a new king rallies them beyond the Wall."

"Too early?" Arthur asked.

"Too sudden," Rickard replied. "And it worries me."

He leaned back, considering.

"I summoned you not just for report—but for counsel."

Arthur met his gaze. "You want my group."

Rickard nodded. "Not their lives. Their eyes. Their skills. The North has many swords—but few that strike fast and think faster."

Arthur was quiet for a time.

"They're not ready," he said. "But they will be."

Rickard's tone softened.

"And Lyanna?"

Arthur looked away, then back. "She chose the path herself. She won't be coddled."

"I gathered as much," Rickard said. "She's always had more wolf than lady in her veins."

He tapped the table. "Still. Her place in your circle—keep it known, but quiet. Not all ears in Winterfell serve the Starks."

They rose after that.

But before Arthur turned to go, Rickard placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Your path is not mine to guide, Arthur. But if you forge blades, forge them with purpose. The realm may soon forget honor. I hope you won't."

Arthur stepped into the courtyard just as Benjen came charging out of the archway.

"Arthur!" the boy shouted, skidding in the snow, eyes wide. "Is it true you're teaching warriors now? Real ones?"

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Not real until they bleed."

Benjen grinned. "Can I bleed now? Or do I have to wait?"

"Train first," Arthur said, ruffling the boy's hair.

From across the yard, Ned Stark approached—slower, thoughtful as always.

"I leave for the Vale in a fortnight," he said. "Fostering under Lord Arryn."

Arthur inclined his head. "A good match."

"I'll miss Winterfell," Ned added, voice quiet.

"You'll carry it with you."

Ned nodded, looking toward the hall.

"Brandon's still with the Dustins. Father says he thrives there."

"He'll come back taller and twice as reckless."

Benjen groaned. "He already was!"

Arthur turned from them slowly, gaze sweeping the yard.

The stones no longer felt heavy.

Just familiar.

Arthur lingered a moment longer in the courtyard, the echoes of Benjen's laughter and Ned's quiet words still hanging in the cold air. Then, with a final glance at the towering walls of Winterfell, he turned and walked away.

He didn't take the road, but the Gate.

At the gate, two guards stood huddled against the cold.

"Seven hells!" The younger one jerked upright, spear clattering against stone. "Did you see—?"

"See what?" The older guard scowled, rubbing his arms. "There's nothing but damn snow and—"

A gust of wind howled through the gateway. No footprints appeared in the fresh snow beyond the walls.

The younger guard crossed himself. "Something just... moved. Faster than a shadowcat."

"You're seeing things, boy. Too much ale last night"

Then the wind came again. Colder. Sharper. The torches guttered wildly.

When the flames steadied, both men fell silent. The younger guard's knuckles were white around his spear.

Beyond the walls, deep in the Wolfswood, a pine branch cracked under impossible weight.

By the time the sun had fully set, Arthur was already stepping into the firelight of his own camp, steam still curling from his shoulders.

His company looked up as he emerged from the darkness—some bruised, some bandaged, all alert.

Lyanna, sharpening her blade by the fire, didn't even glance at him. "Took you long enough."

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