[Chapter Size: 3200 Words.]

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Third Person POV

Winterfell, 298 AC.

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The clash of sword against dagger quickly rang out in that place, while those present—whether it was Sansa, terrified as she watched her younger sister fighting an assassin, something so unbelievable for Sansa, who had never seen anything like it, not even in her stories—could hardly believe that any gallant knight could fight in such a way, if someone were to tell her something similar.

Or Robb, who kept a cautious gaze, feeling useless while standing there unarmed, watching his younger sister in extreme danger, while her guards simply looked on, doing nothing. At the same time, he had to admit that his sister’s movements were sheer madness—he had never seen her fight like that.

Even having already lost to her on some occasions, Robb had trouble admitting it, even as he saw his sister fighting in a much more aggressive way than before, doubting that he could truly handle it more easily than their occasional training sessions.

Jill and Bari had a firm gaze, not missing a single detail of the fight Arya was orchestrating. Despite their calm expressions, there was caution and a shining worry in their irises.

They obviously didn’t want Arya to be in the situation she was in, while they were forced to let her fight, after her request that she would handle the assassin herself.

Grey Worm wasn’t even here, because they knew he would have intervened even with Arya’s orders—he would have preferred to disobey her than see his lady in such danger.

“She certainly surpassed us, didn’t she…?” Jill murmured, following Arya’s movements, who was fighting in a style more focused on speed, which was why she was holding her ground against the opponent there.

“You’re still asking? You were already losing to her in training. Your body finally started to become faster and stronger thanks to the potion base the royal family takes,” he commented. After all, all royal guards had their potions to prepare powerful men to serve as security for the Royal family.

But the most powerful potions were destined for the king and his family. That included Arya, who had started the process of bodily strengthening along with the first queens and the king while she was living in Arctic.

It was no wonder that not only had her beauty flourished in a way very different from her former appearance, but she had also become stronger, faster, and wiser, with an immune system so potent there was doubt as to whether any illness could actually affect her.

The sound of the final sword strike continued to echo in the air as, under everyone’s eyes, Arya moved as if the sword were an extension of her arm, performing movements she had already done tens of thousands of times.

Since arriving in Arctic, she had barely known how to hold a wooden sword, while shouting that she would be the greatest warrior in the world—yet unable even to react in time as Jon struck her on the head with his training sword in a way that didn’t hurt too much, but certainly stung enough for her not to forget.

‘Don’t show off like that if you want to be a warrior.’

Jon spoke while Arya dropped the sword and held both hands to the top of her head, crouching in pain—pain she had never felt before, as no one had hit her like that.

‘Why did you hit me?’

Young Arya murmured with a tearful tone. She was only eight namedays old at the time.

‘Jon, you shouldn’t have hit her like that…’

Seryna approached as she looked at the bruised area, though Jon hadn’t really hurt her that way.

They were in the godswood that day, while a small number of children of the forest watched them along with some infants of their kind. Even Ygritte was there, though hidden after sneaking in to try and join them—not that Jon didn’t already know that.

Eragon was just a small dragon, the size of a puppy at that time, and sat off to the side watching Jon with his sapphire eyes.

That training session happened only a week after Arya had arrived in Arctic and had finally grown tired of simply looking at the city. After seeing everything and falling in love with the place, she now wanted to pursue her dream.

‘She’s been bothering me for the past three days demanding that I train her. If she really wants to train, she’ll see that it won’t be easy. Every warrior must learn through pain—better to get hurt now than be cut by an enemy’s sword when her life depends on it,’

Jon said in a serious tone.

‘Arya, this is just a taste of what you’ll suffer. Do you still want to go through with this?’

Jon turned back to her. He might have been being harsh, but he had to show her that if she truly wanted this path, it had to be for real.

‘I…’

She was still rubbing the spot hit by the wooden sword while Seryna tried to help her, but she looked at Jon seriously, stood up, grabbed her wooden sword, leaving Seryna behind, and faced Jon with a determined look.

‘I will fight, Jon. I will be an Arctican warrior!’

She stood firm, and Jon nodded in approval.

‘Let’s begin then. I want you to mimic my movements,’

he instructed, and Arya, still clumsy, tried to do exactly what Jon wanted.

He pointed the sword forward and made a vertical cut, and Arya thought she was ready to copy him and executed the move.

She launched her sword, Darksister, forward, while the faceless assassin dodged the attack.

At the same time, in her memory, as she performed that movement, she lost her balance and nearly fell to the ground.

‘Work your feet. Watch my feet—you need to use your feet more than you use strength in your swing. Your feet are your movement. Try that same move, and this one too,’

Jon had said while performing a vertical slash.

Meanwhile, the older Arya’s feet slid through the snow as she turned to the side where her opponent had dodged. Before he could get closer, Arya shifted her feet into a better position for an attack and performed the move Jon had shown her in her memories.

The assassin blocked, forced to stop his advance and give ground again. Arya kept her gray eyes on him the whole time, the two locking eyes for a few seconds.

Young Arya began her training that day, beneath the Heart Trees below the Grand Weirwood. But she didn’t stop there—Jon had given her a set of moves to begin practicing: her movements, footwork, and discipline. She trained there, either under Jon’s personal supervision—even though he was a king at only 11 namedays—or alone, with only the children of the forest for company.

She began to train and train, for weeks. Jon had also placed her in lessons—both in his strange disciplines and in things like embroidery, dancing, singing, and all the things a lady was supposed to learn, things she hadn’t managed to learn in Winterfell by her 8 namedays. But she did in Arctic, as it was much easier and the company was far better—with the 8-nameday-old girl enjoying herself with the dwarf women and other Arctican women responsible for teaching her.

But training had never left her routine. After all the group lessons with Jon, and even the private political classes he gave alongside Brynden, she always trained.

Day after day, heading to the Arena, meeting other warriors, watching them fight while analyzing their movements, thinking she might one day reach that level—learning more and more, and later grabbing her wooden sword to begin practicing those same repeated movements.

Jon had told her he would begin her training when she truly mastered them.

And she did, some time later.

In the present moment, the older Arya saw the assassin make a move straight toward her, and she quickly moved her sword to knock his daggers away.

‘Turn to the right with a slash,’ Jon had demonstrated.

She mirrored the movement, striking hard against the enemy’s daggers.

‘Now thrust, to pierce your enemy,’ Jon had again shown in her memories.

She did, catching him by surprise and slashing part of his clothing, though he managed to dodge the attack—Arya only lightly injuring him before drawing her sword back again.

‘Remember—always try to watch the full movement of your enemy. Legs, arms—you’ll be able to predict what he’ll do next,’

Jon had said.

The current Arya stared him down, analyzing every movement as he charged. She glanced briefly at his feet to anticipate which hand he would use, and as he placed his left foot forward to brace himself and swung to cut her arm—

Arya dodged, stepping back several times, preparing to counterattack.

‘Try this move,’ Jon had said in her memory—she was a bit older then, four years having passed as they sailed the seas of Westeros on her first military campaign.

He always trained with her there, just as she always asked.

That day, he had slashed a dummy across the chest.

‘Let’s say your enemy steps back to avoid this slash—you have a chance to catch him off guard with another part of his body within reach. Like this—watch.’

He demonstrated.

The present Arya seized the moment to counterattack, attempting to slash the enemy’s chest. He quickly leaned back to avoid the hit—but Arya, imitating Jon, swung her sword back the way it had come, diagonally—hitting the enemy’s leg, which was still planted to keep him from losing balance.

The sound of flesh being cut was heard as everyone looked on, surprised, hearing a small cry of pain as the assassin stumbled back, blood falling onto the snow.

He was limping, trying to support himself on one leg, staring at Arya with a flicker of fear, while the Stark girl kept a serious gaze.

‘Never… never claim victory until you’re sure your enemy is dead… he might use your confidence to strike back. Many warriors fall like that,’

Jon had taught in his lessons.

“What’s going on here?!”

A Stark guard appeared in the godswood, having heard the sound of swords clashing at dawn. He was forced to enter and investigate, especially after his shift partner had gone missing.

His eyes fell, with the help of a few small torches lighting the area, on his very own partner—who should have been on duty with him—now holding two daggers in his hands as he fought against Princess Arya, her guards, and two other sons of Lord Stark, completely unsure of what was happening.

“Go tell my father! Tell him there’s a Faceless assassin pretending to be a castle guard!!”

Robb immediately shouted as a command.

“Assassin…?!”

The man murmured, looking at his companion—someone who had been his partner for the past few nights since he’d left his post on the Wall to stand closer to the godswood, for some unknown reason.

“Don’t just stand there! Warn my father!!!”

Robb shouted. He would have gone himself, but he didn’t trust leaving Arya fighting and a paralyzed Sansa at his side.

The man nodded and began to run off, while Arya kept her eyes fixed on the enemy the whole time, unconcerned with the guard.

“You got me there…”

he muttered, trying to back away, feeling cornered, crouching slightly to check his wound.

Arya narrowed her eyes immediately.

‘Have you ever dodged an arrow in your life?’

Years before Jon began his voyage, young Ygritte had approached her while she was training alone.

‘Dodge an arrow?! That’s impossible!’

Arya muttered.

‘Jon did it… I bet against him and he beat me…’

she murmured, disheartened.

‘Jon did that?! How?!’

young Arya exclaimed, stunned.

‘I don’t even know… but how about I teach you how to do it? You do me a favor?’

Ygritte asked.

‘What?’

Arya asked, suspicious.

‘You have to bring me closer to Jon, you know… when he’s with the others and you have to leave… always bring me along.’

She said while Arya rolled her eyes. Back then, Ygritte was trying to get close to Jon, saying she wanted to steal him.

‘Fine…’

Arya said in the end. Even if it was just a ploy for the girl to be with Jon, she definitely wanted to learn to dodge an arrow.

“Ow!”

Arya muttered as the arrow hit her. It had no tip, of course, but it was fast.

‘Jon made a weird move like this!’

Ygritte shouted, moving her body to the side, trying to mimic what Jon had done.

“Ow!”

It was already the tenth day she’d been trying since they made the deal, and Ygritte was very good with the bow—she never missed a shot.

‘Your reflexes are getting better! Keep going and soon you’ll do it!’

Ygritte shouted excitedly, while Arya was covered in bruises because of it. But she still wanted to try. It wasn’t a very fast arrow, but it was great training for reflexes.

In the present moment, the faceless assassin shifted his leg while still slightly crouched. Arya immediately went on alert, her feet moving instinctively to prepare for anything, as he moved—launching one of his daggers toward her, catching her by surprise.

“Arya!!!”

Jill shouted, running as she saw it, the blade slicing through the air toward Arya. At the same time, Bari and Robb’s eyes widened. Sansa didn’t even understand what was happening fast enough to process it.

Arya quickly performed the movement she had learned so many years ago… She moved her body to the side as the blade passed her.

Jill stopped, letting out a sigh of relief, while Arya repositioned her feet so she wouldn’t fall, the assassin clearly frustrated by the failed strike.

“You bastard, I’m going to kill you!”

Jill shouted, drawing her sword.

“No!”

Arya told her, making her stop.

“He’s mine from the beginning. Stay out of this.”

Arya spoke with authority, forcing Jill to step back despite her anger at the assassin.

“Let’s continue.”

Arya said and charged at him. He tried to ready himself for the attack with a single dagger and his cut leg, barely able to stay balanced.

Arya made a quick move with a diagonal slash, the assassin barely managing to raise the dagger to block it, metal clashing hard against metal.

Arya was on the ship, training during the voyage from Westeros.

Arya was training during the journey through Essos.

She practiced and observed every skilled warrior she came across, seeing if she could learn from them—whether in Braavos, Pentos, Myr, or Tyrosh.

She found herself cornered in Volantis, losing her Arctican handmaiden and one of her best friends… It was her first shock of reality, and the day she took a life for the first time.

She stood beside Jon through the dangers of Valyria.

She advanced with Jon during the war in Yi-Ti and fought at his side.

She took part in the conquest of Slaver’s Bay.

She returned to the North and defeated bandits with ease.

She defeated anyone who dared challenge her to a duel.

And now she was here, fighting a skilled Faceless assassin—while pushing him back step by step.

It was at that moment that she struck with a clean slash, cutting the arm that held the dagger, before swiftly plunging Dark Sister into his heart.

The assassin fell backward, stunned… while Arya pressed him to the ground, blood spreading beneath him, his heart still touching the cold metal of Valyrian steel.

He began coughing blood, his expression indifferent as he stared at Arya—while she waited for him to die, not willing to be caught off guard.

Everyone fell silent, watching Arya pin him down into the snow with her sword buried in the man.

“What—what is the girl’s name…”

the Faceless assassin murmured, coughing.

Arya looked at him for a moment and then opened her lips.

“I am Arya Stark… of Arctic.”

She spoke those words with solid firmness.

“Valar Morghulis.”

It was the only thing he said before falling dead.

“You… you killed him?!”

Sansa stood up at that moment, next to a stunned Robb.

“Yes…”

Arya replied, wiping the sweat from her forehead, pulling the sword from the enemy’s heart, and looking at them, a bit tired.

Jill smiled as she saw her there.

“And you still doubted our princess?”

Bari left the question in the air while Jill teased:

“You were about to join me, or were you just going to watch her get hurt?”

she asked.

“Obviously I would’ve killed him if he’d made even a scratch on her.”

Bari replied.

“Where are they?!”

A sharp voice came from outside as Ned Stark arrived in his nightclothes, a massive sword in one hand—it was none other than Ice.

His eyes fell on the godswood, and he rushed in, seeing Arya a bit bloodied beside a corpse, with her guards and his two sons there.

“Arya!!!”

he shouted, approaching quickly, checking the corpse before making sure she was alright, his eyes begging that she hadn’t been hurt.

“I’m fine, Father… the Faceless assassin… has been dealt with.”

she said, wanting to clean her sword of her opponent’s blood as she pointed to the fallen man.

Her father stood there, stunned, inspecting the dead man.

“He really got into Winterfell’s guard…?”

he asked, deeply concerned.

“Yes… you can verify it by peeling off the skin over his face. That’s where his real face is.”

she said.

Guards began pouring through the gates, with Jory leading more than twenty of them, ready for a fight—but it was already over.

In the end, they removed his face, confirming he was an assassin, and Winterfell was anything but calm that night.

Sansa looked a bit traumatized after seeing her sister fight and kill a man. Robb didn’t know what to say or do, while Arya’s guards remained at her side.

Jojen showed up later, surprised that Arya had set a trap just to fight the Faceless assassin herself.

“You yourself said I’d be fighting him… so I just made your prediction happen.”

was her response and excuse for the reckless act.

Her father glared at her furiously for putting herself in danger and even dismissing her guards. But Arya didn’t care as she finally sheathed Dark Sister after wiping it clean.

Either way, while they tried to quickly regain control of the situation—with the entire castle now awake after hearing there was a Faceless assassin inside—a raven watched from atop a tree, observing all the commotion.

Arya turned to it curiously, knowing it was watching her.

“Jon…”

she murmured, knowing full well who was behind it and surprised that Jon had warged into Winterfell—it meant he was already south of the Wall…

At the same time, beyond the Wall, Eragon soared forward with Jon on his back, heading south—smiling with relief after all he had just seen in Winterfell.

————-Nexts Chapters —————-

Chapter 273 – Ártica Isolates Itself and Prepares for War!

Chapter 278 – The King Arrives in Winterfell.

Chapter 288 – The House of Dragons.

Chapter 297 – The Trial at Winterfell 02.

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