Winterfell bustled as never before. Caravans rumbled in, horses steamed in the frosty air, and banners flapped like thunder against the castle walls. Naros watched from the crowd, hood drawn low, sensing the electric tension in the North. From the high stone walls to the muddy cobbled streets, every soul in Winter Town seemed to pulse with excitement, worry, and preparation.
Robert Baratheon's arrival was no quiet affair. The king's laughter rolled over the crowd like thunder as he rode in at the head of the procession, broad and regal, eyes glinting beneath his fur-trimmed cloak. He had grown heavier than the stories said, his beard more grey than black, but his presence filled the courtyard all the same. Behind him followed the golden queen, Cersei, her beauty sharp as ice, and her golden-haired children. They sat stiffly on their horses, eyes darting, absorbing everything.
Knights in shining mail clattered through the gate behind them. Banners waved in the wind: the crowned stag of House Baratheon and the golden lion of House Lannister. The stags rode with arrogance, the lions with cold calculation. Courtiers, servants, and an endless line of wagons and horses followed.
As Robert scanned the crowd, his gaze paused on Naros. A flicker of confusion crossed the king's face.
He has my eyes... and the queen's hair, Robert thought, briefly unsettled.
But the thought passed swiftly, buried beneath the king's booming greeting to Lord Stark, who waited at the top of the steps, flanked by his family.
Naros felt the shift in air.
Not the cold wind, but something darker—intent. He turned his head just in time to catch the shadow slipping between townsfolk and stable hands. A man in a worn cloak, moving too purposefully, too smoothly. A glint of steel beneath his layers confirmed it.
The target was Vayon Poole, Winterfell's steward. He walked just ahead, distracted, a scroll case tucked beneath his arm. He was unguarded, his back exposed.
There was no time for hand signs or drawn-out tactics. No flashy chakra to give him away.
Naros moved.
In one fluid motion, he stepped into the assassin's path. His shoulder brushed the man's cloak. A twist of the wrist, pressure to the elbow, and the dagger slipped free from the assassin's fingers before he even realized what had happened. It tumbled to the ground and vanished beneath a cart wheel.
Poole turned, startled, but saw only the back of a boy slipping into the press of bodies.
The assassin, unbalanced and spooked, retreated quickly into the crowd, vanishing.
No alarm was raised. No one screamed. But the threat had been real. A seed of silence, planted with deadly intent.
Later that evening, a whisper spread through the keep. Some said it was luck, others murmured of a ghost, or perhaps a silent protector in the crowd. No one named Naros. Just as he wanted.
---
The days that followed were a constant tide of activity. The royal party had settled in, and Winterfell, though massive, felt smaller than ever. Naros slipped through its halls and courtyards like smoke, listening, watching. His shadow clones continued their work, positioned across the continent. Some moved through taverns in the Westerlands and Riverlands. Others lingered near Oldtown and Gulltown, listening for anything tied to Jon Arryn.
Several had returned already with news that stiffened Naros's resolve.
Jon Arryn had been poisoned.
His death, claimed to be illness, was far from natural. The Maesters soothed the court with words of comfort, but the signs were clear. One clone, who had embedded himself in a minor retainer's household, overheard a drunken whisper: "He asked too many questions… about the seed."
Another brought back information about a squire dismissed hastily, and rumors that Lord Arryn had visited multiple brothels, always seeking children with black hair.
It was clear. Jon Arryn had uncovered a secret that someone wanted buried. And now, they were tying off loose ends. Vayon Poole must have been one of them.
---
Naros delivered his family's tribute to the castle with his father and mother that week. The mood in the great hall was lighter than he expected. Lord Stark greeted them with a nod, Lady Stark by his side, their children seated nearby.
After the tribute, as servants cleared the tables, Eddard Stark approached Naros discreetly.
"You've been to Winterfell before," he said quietly. It wasn't a question.
"I have, my lord," Naros replied calmly.
"You're observant. You walk like a soldier, not a farmer. And that day with the horses... you saw something, didn't you?"
Naros gave a polite shrug. "I try to be aware of my surroundings."
Lord Stark studied him for a long moment. There was no malice in his gaze, only caution and curiosity.
"If you ever have anything to say that might concern the safety of this house, speak to me directly. We look after our own."
"Yes, Lord Stark."
The lord of Winterfell nodded once, then walked away, leaving Naros to his thoughts.
---
Each night, Naros meditated beneath the stars outside their cottage. He no longer feared the Senjutsu Bead. He welcomed its energy, guiding it slowly through his system. He had grown beyond the limits of his former world. With no one else wielding chakra, his powers stood unmatched—but they also isolated him.
He had grown stronger over the past five years, and yet, with that strength came a gnawing unease.
The storm was coming.
That evening, after ensuring his parents were asleep, he sat with Lysa outside, wrapped in furs. The stars were bright, the air still.
"You're not the same lately," she whispered.
He looked at her for a long time. "Something is happening in the south. I don't know how long I'll be able to stay out of it."
Lysa's face tightened. "You're talking about leaving."
"Not forever. But... maybe for a time. If things get worse."
"Is it that bad?"
He nodded slowly. "Worse than anyone knows."
She was silent for a moment, then reached for his hand. "Then do what you must. But come back to us."
---
Dawn. Snow dusted the windowsill. A clone stepped through the door as the first rays of sunlight broke the horizon.
He didn't speak. He didn't need to. The memories transferred immediately.
The queen watches Lord Stark. She fears what he might find. And there's more... The bastards. Jon Arryn knew. He found them. Black of hair. Robert's seed.
Naros stood slowly, feeling the air tighten around him.
The line had been crossed. This was no longer a suspicion. It was a war of secrets—and one wrong step could plunge the realm into blood.
He looked toward the North, toward the quiet stones of Winterfell. And beyond them, the heart of a kingdom being strangled by its own lies.
He would not let it fall.
Not while he still drew breath.