(Author's Note: This chapter is divided into subchapters to guide the reader through different scenes and character interactions. The titles are meant to organize the narrative, not to break immersion. Enjoy!)
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(Arriving in the City)
King's Landing smelled as Naros expected: piss, damp straw, rotting fish, and human sweat baking under the summer sun. He slipped unseen through side gates and dusty alleys, never far from the Stark retinue as they wound their way toward the Red Keep.
The guards on the city walls stood straight and sharp-eyed, but Naros saw the lazy shifts of their stances, the idle tapping of spears. They were city men, not hardened veterans. He marked every face. One might become important later.
Naros observed the uneasy expressions of the Northerners as they entered the capital. Eddard Stark looked particularly grim, his eyes scanning rooftops and doorways. Naros knew why: King's Landing felt coiled and waiting to strike. Unlike the North, here every shadow carried a whisper, every smile might hide a knife.
He kept to the rooftops until the party passed into the Red Keep.
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(The Weight of Politics)
That night, Naros moved silently along the Keep's high corridors. Guards spoke softly to each other, trading gossip of the royal court.
In one darkened corner, he paused, listening as a pair of Lannister guards muttered about Jon Arryn's death.
"Poison, I'm telling you," one insisted. "Old man didn't just keel over for no reason."
"Keep your voice down. You want Ser Boros to hear?"
Naros committed the voices to memory. He'd heard the same rumor whispered by his own clone. He trusted the clone's report far more than the court's official story.
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(First Night at the Keep)
He found himself watching Lord Stark from afar as Ned paced a stone balcony, looking out over the city. Naros could feel the tension radiating off him.
He studied Robb Stark, too. There was steel there, but Naros worried that boy would rush headlong into war before understanding the weight of rule. He remembered Boruto, and a pang of grief twisted through him.
He kept the shadows around himself thick, ever cautious. The last thing he wanted was to be drawn into the games of thrones openly. Yet he also knew Ned Stark's death could fracture the North beyond repair, and such chaos could ripple far, endangering many innocents. So he remained watchful.
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(Arya's Frustration and Secret Training)
One night, Naros found Arya creeping along a deserted corridor. She froze when she saw him.
"I figured you'd show up," she said, wooden sword still at her hip. "You always do."
"I'm surprised you didn't try sneaking past me," Naros said.
"I did. You're just annoyingly good at being in the way."
He tilted his head. "That's the idea."
Arya frowned at him. "You still don't look like a fighter."
Naros raised a brow. "I've already shown you one face. Wasn't that enough?"
"Anyone can wear a mask," she countered.
He chuckled. "Then you haven't met enough people."
Then, softly, he said,
"What makes you think this is my real face?"
Arya hesitated.
Naros continued, "No one has found me… because no one knows who I truly am. That's how I survived. That's how you will, too."
"So… you're saying I need to stop being Arya?"
"No," he said. "You need to learn how not to be seen as Arya."
"Same thing, isn't it?"
"Not quite," he said. "Come on. You want to learn how to vanish? I'll show you."
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They went deeper into the Keep. Naros led her through servants' passages and down stairwells that smelled of cold stone and mildew.
"First lesson," Naros said. "Don't move like you're trying to hide. Move like you belong. People notice what looks out of place."
"So act like I'm supposed to be there?"
"Exactly. Confidence can be a better cloak than darkness."
He demonstrated how to walk lightly, how to test each stone before shifting weight. Arya mimicked him, her eyes gleaming in the dim light.
He showed her how to blend into the folds of curtains, how to watch guards' feet instead of faces, and how to adjust her breathing.
"Silent as snow," he told her.
At one point, Arya slipped between two patrolling guards and ducked behind a barrel without a sound.
"See that?" she whispered. "They didn't even blink!"
Naros nodded. "Well done. You're learning faster than most I've met."
"Faster than my sister?"
"She'd trip over her own dress and ask the guards to help her up."
Arya snorted with laughter.
As they crept back toward Arya's quarters, she asked, "Why are you really teaching me?"
"Because you're trouble," Naros said. "And trouble doesn't survive long in this city. Not unless it learns to move like a shadow."
"You don't think I can survive without you?"
"I think you'll do more than survive. But only if you learn when not to fight."
Arya muttered, "Thanks."
"You don't need to thank me," Naros said. "Just remember what you learn."
Arya grinned. "I won't tell anyone. Not even Sansa."
"Good," Naros replied, vanishing into a side hall. "The less people who know your strength, the stronger it is."
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(Follow-up: Secrets and New Lessons)
Two nights later, Arya slipped out again. She found Naros perched on a parapet above the training yard.
"I was starting to think you'd lost your nerve," Naros said without looking at her.
"I'm not afraid of sneaking out."
"No. You're afraid of getting caught," he corrected. "And you should be."
"They'd just lock me in my room again."
"Or worse. King's Landing doesn't forgive mistakes."
Arya crossed her arms. "I've been practicing. I made it from my room to here without a guard seeing me."
Naros nodded. "Good. And what did you see on the way?"
She rattled off details—a guard missing a tooth, another scratching his wrist, a servant with wine, a man in yellow sleeves who turned away when he saw her.
Naros's eyes narrowed. "Yellow sleeves. One of Littlefinger's men. He might have seen you."
"I can handle him," Arya declared, clutching her wooden sword.
Naros placed a hand on her wrist. "No. You disappear. Let shadows handle spies."
She frowned, then lowered her eyes. "Fine."
They went down into the courtyard. The stones gleamed in the moonlight.
"Tonight," Naros said, "you learn how to listen."
"Listen?"
"People talk too much. Even when they think they're quiet."
He guided her behind a column near the kitchens. From inside, two servants gossiped about the Queen's tantrums and secret vaults of gold.
Arya listened, eyes wide.
"Don't listen to words first," Naros murmured. "Listen for emotion. Anger. Fear. Joy. That tells you the truth."
After the servants left, Arya whispered excitedly, "I heard them say the Queen has hidden gold and Janos Slynt took coin from Lord Baelish!"
Naros nodded. "Good. Remember everything. Words are clues. Emotions reveal truth."
Arya's eyes glittered. "I like this game."
"It's not a game," Naros said. "It's how you stay alive."
Arya grinned. "Feels like one."
At dawn, as they returned to Arya's rooms, she paused and murmured, "I wish you were my sword master."
Naros smiled faintly, sadness flickering across his eyes. "In my own way, I already am."
Then he slipped into the shadows, leaving Arya standing alone as the first pale sunlight touched the towers of King's Landing.