NOVEL NEXT CHAPTER 85: Of Falcons and Fangs
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Winterfell – Northern Training Grounds
Snow fell lightly as Arthur walked the perimeter of the training yard, breath steady, eyes sharp. Benjen followed behind, mimicking his pace. The boy had grown leaner, stronger—shoulders squared now, hands quick to settle into form. But more importantly, he was quieter. Watching. Thinking.
They stopped near the long trough of packed earth used for movement drills.
Arthur nodded toward it. "Again."
Benjen grunted, then launched into motion—springing over the rope-lattice, dipping under the weighted poles, pivoting along the incline wall. He fell once, caught himself, and tried again—better this time.
Arthur watched in silence.
When Benjen returned, breathing heavy, Arthur didn't praise or correct. Instead, he sat cross-legged on a worn stone slab and gestured for Benjen to do the same.
"This isn't just for muscle," Arthur said. "It's for pattern. Memory. Anticipation."
Benjen nodded, but frustration lingered in his eyes. Arthur waited.
"They said I might foster in the Vale," the boy finally said. "With Lord Arryn."
Arthur exhaled slowly. So the time had come.
"Rickard told you?"
Benjen shrugged. "I overheard Lyanna speaking to Maester Walys. She seemed… not happy about it."
Arthur's gaze turned to the falling snow.
"It's a high honor. A place where Ned will be too."
Benjen didn't answer immediately. "And you?"
Arthur turned to him. "What about me?"
"You've trained me more than anyone. And now you'll stay here while I go—"
"No," Arthur said softly. "I won't be here either. Not for long."
Benjen's brow furrowed.
Arthur leaned forward, brushing snow off a flat stone between them. "What we build isn't about staying still. It's about lighting sparks. Letting others carry them forward."
Benjen looked at his hand. "What if the spark goes out?"
Arthur smiled faintly. "Then you learn how to relight it. That's all any of us do."
They sat in silence, the snow still falling.
Winterfell – Raven Tower
Rickard Stark stood before the ravenmaster, holding a scroll sealed with the crescent moon and falcon of House Arryn.
Jon Arryn's neat, measured hand expressed gratitude for the promise of a new ward—and noted the growing martial discipline spreading from the North.
"Word has reached Gulltown of strange drills and sharper recruits from Winterfell. Even Lord Royce remarked on 'the Bastard Demon of the North' over supper, though with laughter and wine. Still—our eyes are open. Be well, old friend."
Rickard read the line twice, then folded the message.
They're watching now, he thought. The whole realm.
Winterfell – Training Yard, Evening
Arthur stood across from Benjen once more. Wooden blades in hand this time. Benjen struck first—fast, precise. Arthur blocked with ease.
Again.
Strike. Parry. Step. Breath.
Benjen's foot shifted subtly. Arthur saw it—a twitch of muscle in the right thigh.
He feinted left, then swept Benjen's legs from beneath him.
The boy landed hard, exhaling sharply.
Arthur didn't speak immediately. He offered a hand.
Benjen took it.
Once he stood, Arthur's fingers drifted briefly to his shoulder, then to the spine—settling on the point just below the second thoracic vertebra.
There. A gentle pulse, like a needle of heat through snow.
Benjen blinked. "What was—?"
Arthur stepped back. "Nothing. Just... breathe."
Benjen inhaled slowly.
And then he felt it—clarity.
The night grew stiller. The flakes slower. His muscles no longer ached. His heartbeat evened. It wasn't strength, not yet—but stillness. A deeper readiness.
Arthur studied him in silence.
The blood remembers, he thought.
Winterfell – Tower Balcony
Lyanna leaned against the stone railing, arms crossed. Below, Arthur and Benjen sat by the fire pit, the light flickering between them.
Maester Walys stood beside her.
"He's changing," Walys said. "Benjen, I mean."
"He's always been quiet," Lyanna replied.
"No. I mean beneath the quiet. He listens now. Feels more than he speaks. That's not from books or scrolls. That's from him." He nodded toward Arthur. "From that one."
Lyanna said nothing. She already knew.
Down below, the fire crackled. Arthur rose and walked away. Benjen remained, eyes closed, breath steady.
Winterfell – The Rookery
A raven streaked over snow-covered fields and towers, wings slicing through dusk.
In the rookery, the keeper broke the seal and carried the message to Lord Rickard.
This time, it bore the sigil of House Royce.
Short. Cryptic. No longer mocking.
"If this Bastard Snow carves warriors from cold stone, perhaps it is time the Vale remembered its own forge. We will watch your snowstorm, Lord Stark. Carefully."
Rickard folded the message, eyes narrowing slightly.
The South would come—not with swords first, but with curiosity.
With whispers.
And after whispers... blades.