Winterfell pulsed with restless life. Wagons rolled through the gates, laden with barrels of fine Arbor wine, bales of cloth, and cages full of shrilling birds. Nobles in silks and velvets threaded through the muddy yard, trailed by servants and whispers alike. Banners snapped in the cold wind: the crowned stag of House Baratheon, the golden lion of House Lannister, and above all, the direwolf of House Stark.
Naros moved like a shadow among them, his hood drawn low. Though laughter and music poured from the Great Hall, the air crackled with something sharp and uneasy. Guards watched one another too closely. Noblemen spoke in cautious tones.
And in the spaces between, he heard the murmurs:
"They say there's a guardian in the streets."
"Some spirit… or a ghost come alive."
"Saved Lord Stark's steward from a blade under the king's nose!"
The stories grew wilder with every telling. And Lord Eddard Stark was listening.
---
On the third day of the royal visit, Naros was watching squires hammer wooden tilting barriers into place when Lord Stark appeared beside him.
"Walk with me," Ned said, his voice low.
They paced along the outer wall, boots crunching over frost. Naros remained silent, waiting for Ned to speak.
"I've heard the talk," Ned said eventually. "Of a guardian who saved my steward. Of shadows that move unseen."
Naros kept his eyes on the yard below. "Winterfell has many shadows, my lord."
"That it does." Ned paused, studying Naros's profile. "I've watched you. The way you carry yourself. You're no simple farm boy. Yet… you've harmed no one. Instead, you've helped when you could have stayed hidden."
Naros said nothing.
"I don't need your secrets," Ned said finally. "But know this: Winterfell looks after its own. And I think you belong here more than some might guess."
A rare warmth touched Naros's face. "If I can help, I will."
"That's enough for me," Ned said. He clasped Naros lightly on the shoulder and departed, leaving Naros to watch the banners whipping in the wind.
---
That afternoon, Naros found a quiet spot on the gallery overlooking the courtyard. Below, the royal children clustered near the practice lanes where knights tested their lances.
Joffrey stood apart, arms folded, chin high, eyes glittering with disdain. He barked orders at squires who scurried to obey. There was a brittle cruelty in the set of his mouth.
Tommen lingered near his brother, round-cheeked and eager, clapping whenever a lance splintered. His delight was honest and simple.
Myrcella, delicate and golden, stood with her hands clasped before her, offering shy smiles to those who passed.
Naros studied each face, noting the shape of their features, the color of their hair. Joffrey's jaw. The curve of his nose. The pale gold of his hair that was too bright, too Lannister.
The seed is strong…
Jon Arryn's echo filled his thoughts again, carried back to him through the memories of his clones. Robert's children should resemble Robert. But the pieces did not fit.
Naros let the thought fade—for now. Too many ears were listening.
---
Two days later, Vayon Poole pulled Naros aside near the stables, hidden in the shadows among bales of straw. The steward's eyes flicked left and right, as if expecting a blade at any moment.
"My… lord," Poole whispered, though Naros winced at the title. "Forgive me, but I must speak. You saved my life. I owe you that."
"I'm no lord," Naros murmured. "Speak freely."
Poole twisted his fingers. "Before Lord Arryn died, he sent letters here. Asking questions. About certain noble houses. Birth records. Lineages. And… ledgers. Money, debts. He was searching for something."
"Did anyone else see those letters?" Naros asked.
"I don't think so. But… there's men watching me now. Lannister men, I'm certain. Eyes follow me wherever I go."
Naros gripped his arm gently. "Keep silent. Speak of this to no one but Lord Stark. And me, if you must."
Poole nodded, swallowing hard. "Aye… thank you. Thank you."
Naros faded back into the press of stable hands and steaming horses, heart thudding.
---
When the king declared a hunt, Naros went with the royal party. He remained on the fringes, silent, unnoticed, eyes sweeping over every man in the company.
Robert rode at the front, barrel-chested and booming with laughter. His fur cloak flared behind him as he drank from a wineskin between roars of song.
"Gods, Ned!" he bellowed. "I'd give my kingdom for one quiet day without lions sniffing about my throne!"
Ned Stark managed a thin smile.
Further back, Naros drifted closer to a knot of Lannister knights speaking in low voices:
"If the boy hadn't fallen, he might've seen too much…"
"Accidents happen. And tongues can be silenced."
Naros narrowed his eyes. The shadows were thickening.
---
Two days after the hunt, Naros was returning from the outer walls when the air shifted—tense as a drawn bow. Voices rose in alarm.
"It's Bran!"
"The boy fell from the tower!"
Naros quickened his pace, sliding through the press of people. Servants wept. Lady Stark's wail echoed from the stone halls. Maesters hurried past with bundles of bandages and herbs.
That night, as Winterfell lay hushed and grieving, Naros slipped into the keep. No one marked his steps as he glided through shadowed corridors.
He found Bran's chamber dark and close. Maester Luwin slept upright in a chair, his head sunk forward.
Naros stepped to Bran's bedside. The boy lay pale and motionless, breath faint and ragged.
Naros hovered a hand above Bran's chest. Within the boy, he sensed not just a fragile spark of life—but something else. A distant thrum, like roots twisting through stone. A force older than any chakra. Wilder.
Naros drew back his hand.
If I try to heal him now… I might disrupt whatever is stirring inside him. Better to wait. To see what unfolds.
He left the room as silently as he had entered, eyes shadowed with worry.
---
That night, Naros stood in the snow beyond Winterfell's gates, gazing at the sky. The stars blazed like scattered diamonds, cold and eternal.
Inside him, the Senjutsu Bead pulsed gently, warning of storms yet to come.
One of his clones approached, eyes grim.
"The royal party plans to leave for King's Landing soon," the clone said. "The queen's men watch Lord Stark constantly. And there's more talk… about bastards. About black hair."
Naros stared upward, feeling the weight of a thousand secrets pressing down.
"I won't let this realm tear itself apart," he murmured. "Not while I still draw breath."
He closed his eyes, letting the Senjutsu's calm spread through him.
Not yet. But when the time comes… I'll act.
And the stones of Winterfell stood silent around him, ancient witnesses to secrets and fate.