Author: Anonymous
Translation:
Cold.
It was so cold.
Arthur Snow pulled his tattered gray fur cloak tighter around himself, leading his small black pony, Shadow, along the dirt road winding from Winterfell into the Wolfswood.
The northern wind raked across his cheeks like a knife. Even though it was technically summer, the air bit deep, chilling him to the bone.
"Walking alone in a primeval forest like this… it's enough to give anyone the creeps," he muttered, scanning his surroundings with striking violet eyes.
The Wolfswood was a dense tapestry of oak and sentinel trees, tall and gloomy. The faint light filtering through the canopy only made the forest seem deeper, darker.
The reason this road between Winterfell and the forest saw so little foot traffic was simple: the timber and game here were the property of the high lords.
Felling a tree or hunting a stag without permission was treated as theft. Commoners wouldn't dare risk being branded poachers. If caught, a man might lose a knuckle, a finger, or sometimes an entire hand. The severity of the sentence depended entirely on the lord's mood that day.
After walking for about half an hour, a small creek barred Arthur's path.
He loosened the reins, letting Shadow—laden with bulging sacks and iron farming tools—drink and rest. Arthur pulled out his own waterskin to fill it.
The stream was crystal clear. After filling his skin, Arthur cupped his hands to splash his face. The water was freezing, sending a shiver rattling through his frame.
He wiped the droplets from his face with his sleeve and studied his reflection in the water.
Short, black-brown hair framed a face that was fair and still held a touch of baby fat—he was practically glowing with youth. But it was his violet eyes that made him unforgettable to anyone who met him.
Yet, Arthur felt the sigil stitched onto the chest of his tunic was far more eye-catching than his face: a silver-grey direwolf.
The sigil of House Stark.
Winterfell was the ancestral seat of House Stark, built over natural hot springs in the center of the North. Whenever the Stark words—"Winter is Coming"—threatened to become reality, the winter town outside the castle walls would swell with people seeking shelter from across the North, just as it had for thousands of years.
As an acknowledged bastard of House Stark, Arthur Snow didn't share the commoners' fears of the forest. Besides, he hadn't come to the Wolfswood to hunt.
After a brief rest, Arthur led Shadow across the creek and deeper into the woods. His destination was a grove of peach trees.
It was a grove that, against all logic in this freezing climate, could still blossom and bear fruit.
These peach trees, which had no business existing in the North, existed solely because of Arthur Snow—or to be more precise, because of a card from his mysterious "Warlord System."
[Oath of the Peach Garden]: Guarantees the survival of peach trees within a specific furlong radius and accelerates their growth. (The harsher the environment, the slower the growth.)
After trudging through a muddy patch, Arthur fished a large peach from his pocket.
The fruit in his hand was massive. Even in the fertile South—in the Reach, known for its bountiful harvests—it was impossible to grow peaches of this size.
Arthur ate as he walked. The peach was overflowing with juice, sweet and refreshing. But beyond the taste, this fruit possessed special properties.
[The Peach]: Manifested consumable. Fortifies the constitution, rapidly restores stamina and vitality, and mends deep tissue damage.
Two bites in, Arthur felt a warm current rise from his stomach, instantly driving the chill from his body. It felt exactly like stepping into a steaming bath in the dead of winter—that moment when the heat seeps into your bones and evaporates the cold.
In truth, Arthur hadn't been born in the freezing North. He was born at the southernmost tip of the continent, in the hot, arid deserts of Dorne.
While still an infant, he had been brought from Dorne to Winterfell by the current Lord, Eddard Stark, alongside another bastard, Jon Snow.
Jon Snow was Eddard Stark's acknowledged bastard. But Arthur's father was not the quiet Lord of Winterfell.
Arthur's father was the late heir to Winterfell, the man known as the "Wild Wolf"—Brandon Stark. He was the current Lord's older brother, a man whose veins had run with wolf's blood.
Unlike his cousin Jon, whose mother's identity remained a guarded secret, Arthur's lineage was known. His unforgettable violet eyes came from his mother, Ashara Dayne of Starfall. Tragically, overcome by grief and post-partum illness, she had taken her own life half a year after Arthur was born.
In Westeros, bastards had no rights of inheritance. They were denied their father's name and instead bore a surname specific to their region of birth.
"Snow" was the name given to all highborn bastards in the North. In Dorne, they were called "Sand."
Whether Snow or Sand, the social status of a bastard in Westeros was incredibly low. People generally viewed them as the products of lust and lies, believing they grew up faster than other children because their blood was tainted with treachery and wantonness.
As a transmigrator—someone with memories of a past life on Earth—Arthur Snow had lived in this world of ice and fire for nine years.
Between the books and shows he'd consumed in his previous life, and his nine years of actual experience in the North, he had a comprehensive understanding of the culture, hierarchy, and brutal lifestyle of this world.
Because he understood these things, Arthur was genuinely grateful for his status as a Stark bastard.
Yes, bastards were looked down upon, often treated with disdain or outright scorn. But compared to the smallfolk—who had no surnames, often went hungry, and whose very lives lay in the hands of their lords—his life was infinitely better.
Take the Dreadfort, not far from Winterfell. Its lord, Roose Bolton, had once taken a fancy to a miller's wife while hunting. He decided to practice the outlawed "Lord's Right" or the "First Night." He hanged the miller and took the man's wife beneath the swaying corpse.
After he was finished, he told the miller's grieving kin that the man had failed to inform the Dreadfort of his marriage or ask for permission, so Lord Bolton was merely exercising his overdue rights.
In the North, this wasn't an isolated incident. The Umbers, staunch bannermen to House Stark who were rumored to have giant's blood, were also said to quietly practice this barbaric custom.
In the North, where most people kept the Old Gods, a commoner suffering injustice could only pray to the Weirwoods for protection, or beg for the mercy and justice of a high lord.
But if the injustice was committed by a high lord… well, that was a different story.
Of course, if a commoner—most of whom were illiterate—had the tongue and the courage to come to Winterfell to plead their case, there was hope. The Warden of the North, Lord Eddard Stark, was a man of rigid honor. He would investigate thoroughly and deliver impartial justice, executing the sentence himself with Ice, the Valyrian steel greatsword of House Stark.
The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. That was the Stark way.
Compared to the bitter, wild North, the kingdoms of the South were warm, wealthy, and fertile. But every house had its problems.
News had recently arrived from the South: Balon Greyjoy of the Iron Islands had rebelled, declaring himself King. The Ironborn had burned the Lannister fleet at anchor and were raiding the wealthy ports and coastlines of the sunset sea.
The Ironborn, who had once bowed to the Iron Throne, were following Balon's lead to return to the "Old Way"—taking what they wanted through steel and fire rather than paying gold. Paying the "Iron Price," as they called it.
Arthur recalled the outcome of this war. According to the history he knew, King Robert Baratheon would crush Balon Greyjoy, forcing him to bend the knee and give up his son as a hostage.
Balon Greyjoy wanted it both ways: to reave and rape like a pirate, but to rule as an independent king. He made too many enemies too quickly. His defeat was inevitable.
Arthur thought about it for a moment and shrugged. It fit his stereotype of the Ironborn: men who used their axes far more than their brains.
Clop-clop-clop…
Just as Arthur was fumbling with his pocket, ready to stash the peach pit, the sound of hoofbeats approached from behind.
Arthur's reaction was sharp. His body tensed, and his hand instantly went to the dagger at his waist.
He turned to the sound. Upon seeing the rider, he let out a long breath and released his grip on the hilt.
"Jon? I thought you were training with Robb in the yard. Why are you out here so early?"
"You know why. Father answered the King's call. He took the levies to fight in the Iron Islands."
His cousin, Jon Snow, was six months younger than him, but despite his age, he was already an accomplished rider. He pulled his horse up to Arthur and dismounted with practiced ease.
"This morning, a crowd of smallfolk came to petition the court. Lady Catelyn told Robb to sit in the Great Hall and observe. She said he needs to learn how to be a lord, how to rule."
Jon let out a frustrated huff. "I… I didn't want to be there."
Jon Snow looked very much like Lord Eddard—long face, dark brown hair, and grey eyes. The quintessential Stark look.
The heir to Winterfell, Robb Stark, took after his mother, Catelyn Tully. He had the red hair and blue eyes of the Riverlands.
"Ruling people? What do we know about ruling at our age? We'd be better off reading books," Arthur shook his head.
He knew exactly why Jon didn't want to be there, and he understood Lady Catelyn's intent perfectly. It was a declaration of sovereignty. Bastards might not have claim to the lordship, but their mere existence was a threat to the trueborn heir and his future children.
"No matter how delicious the peach, you have to be patient and wait for it to ripen before you eat," Arthur said metaphorically, dropping the pit into his pocket along with several others. "My first batch of peach brandy should be ready soon. Like I promised, I'll let you drink until you drop."
Jon's long face went rigid, looking remarkably like his father for a moment. "Bastards might grow up fast, but we aren't old enough to be drunkards, Arthur. I didn't come for wine!"
Then, Jon's serious mask cracked. He rubbed his hands together nervously, a shy, ingratiating smile creeping onto his face.
"Arthur… I want a sword. A real sword! Can you forge one for me? Father says I can't go to the Iron Islands because I don't even have a blade. The men in the yard laughed at me. They said I'm just a boy with no hair on his chin who knows nothing."
They aren't wrong. You really do know nothing, Arthur thought, watching Jon wring his hands like a pleading fly.
"Why not ask Mikken?" Arthur didn't refuse outright, simply taking the reins of his pony and continuing to walk. "He's a master armorer. His skill is far beyond mine. Besides, I haven't made many swords; I mostly forge farming tools and horseshoes."
Jon led his pony and fell in step beside him, looking indignant.
"He wouldn't do it. He said I'm barely taller than a bastard sword. He said I couldn't even hold a proper stance, let alone swing it."
"He's telling the truth."
The two walked shoulder to shoulder. Jon was half a year younger and hadn't hit his growth spurt yet; he was lean and wiry, barely taller than his pony. Arthur, on the other hand, was a full head taller than Jon and significantly broader in the shoulders.
"Jon, I can make you a real sword later. But holding a sharp piece of steel doesn't make you a man. I know you love Old Nan's stories, especially the one about the Young Dragon conquering Dorne."
Arthur stopped and looked at Jon seriously.
"The heroes in the stories are always perfect, brave, and honorable. But life isn't a story, Jon, and war isn't a game. If you keep thinking like that…"
Arthur almost said, 'If you keep thinking like that, you'll be bitterly disappointed.' But remembering Jon's destiny, the words changed on his lips.
"If you keep thinking like that, one day you're going to get an unexpected surprise."