Sudden appearances drew the wrong kind of attention.
When the townsfolk saw the carcass, cheers went up.
A couple of hunters just stared, mouths open.
“How the hell… it’s already dead?” Aragorn told them he only wanted the antlers and hide.
The meat could go to the town leader.
The man didn’t hesitate.
“Call it a gift from the old gods.
We feast tonight.” Butchers moved in fast, knives flashing.
That evening the Smoky Hearth was loud and warm.
The owner kept refilling Aragorn’s cup with his best wine and talking with his hands about how much damage the giant stag had done to crops and livestock.
Midway through the meal Aragorn felt the system ping—someone touching his horse.
He stepped outside and found a red-haired, freckle-faced boy stroking the animal’s neck.
The kid had helped butcher the deer earlier.
The boy’s face went scarlet the second he saw Aragorn.
He jumped back like the horse was on fire.
“Ser, I wasn’t—I didn’t mean—” “Don’t go near a man’s horse like that,” Aragorn said.
“You’re lucky he’s calm.
Most would’ve put you through a wall.” “Sorry, ser.” “It’s fine.
Just be careful.” Aragorn turned to head back inside.
“Ser… could I be your squire?” Aragorn stopped.
“Thank you, but no.” “Every knight needs one.” “I’m not a knight.
Go home.
Live a quiet life.
Following me around will only get you hurt or killed.” The disappointment on the boy’s face was sharp and sudden.
Aragorn felt it but didn’t soften.
Some dreams were safer left alone.
— Snow fell again the next morning, thick and wet.
Aragorn stood by the window in a white shirt, watching it come down.
The fire in the hearth popped and hissed.
The room stayed warm.
He stretched, ran through sword forms until his muscles burned, then checked his bowstring and oiled the blade.
After that he poured hot tea and ate.
The snow kept falling.
The window was a blur of white.
Footsteps crunched outside.
Three quick knocks.
“Come in.” The door opened.
A small girl with wild brown curls stood there, cheeks pink from the cold.
She couldn’t have been more than ten.
“Is this the right place?
Mycah said it was.
He wouldn’t lie.” She looked half-frozen and completely determined.
“You lost, kid?” Aragorn let her in and poured her tea.
No sense leaving a child standing in a blizzard.
“You’re the Animal Killer, right?” Aragorn nearly choked on his drink.
The townspeople had slapped that name on him after the stag.
“Yeah.
That’s me.
Snow stops, I’ll get you home.” “I’m not lost,” she said.
“I came to find you.” He raised an eyebrow.
“Why?” “I want you to teach me.” Aragorn blinked.
“Teach you what?
Hunting?” “No.” She met his eyes without flinching.
“Archery.” He laughed once, short and surprised.
“That’s just talk, girl.
Rumors.” “It’s not.
Father saw it.
Robb and Jon saw it too.
You hit that tree from so far away nobody believed it.” Aragorn studied her face—the stubborn set of her jaw, the way she stood like she was ready to fight the whole world.
“You’re Arya Stark.” She didn’t deny it.
“How’d you know?” “Only a Stark would call Robb by name without the ‘ser.’ Sansa’s too old.
So it’s you.” Arya made a face.
“Sansa just does what she’s told.
She thinks I’m embarrassing the family again.” Aragorn rubbed his temple.
“Lady Arya, you’re safe here.
Once the snow clears I’m taking you straight back to Winterfell.” Her eyes flashed.
“I’m not going back.
I’m not staying with her.” The story came out in a rush—Ned mentioning the shot at dinner, Arya burning to meet the man who could do that, Sansa sneering at her for wanting to know a “common traveler,” the fight, the ruined dress, Arya slipping out while everyone was distracted.
Aragorn listened and tried not to sigh out loud.
A highborn girl, barely ten, running alone through the North because she wanted to learn how to shoot.
Her family would be losing their minds right now.
He looked at her—small, fierce, already half in love with the idea of the bow.
She wasn’t going to leave easy.
“Lady Arya,” he said quietly, “you want to be a real archer?
It’s not just pulling a string.” She leaned forward, eyes bright.
“It starts with the body,” he told her.
“You need strength in your arms, your back, your gut.
You can’t even draw a proper bow if you’re weak.
And stamina.
Hunting means moving all day, sometimes in worse weather than this.
You quit halfway and you’re dead or starving.” Arya nodded fast, drinking every word.
“I can teach you,” Aragorn said.
She shot to her feet so fast the chair almost tipped.
“Really?
You mean it?” “On one condition.” She froze, waiting.
“You do exactly what I say for two years.
No skipping.
No excuses.
Rain, snow, whatever.
You do the work every single day and then—maybe—I’ll teach you how to shoot like I do.” “What work?” “Fifty push-ups.
Fifty sit-ups.
Fifty squats.
One lap around Winterfell.
Every day.
Two years straight.” Arya’s eyes went wide, but she didn’t hesitate.
She clenched her small fists.
“I can do it.” “You sure?
It’s going to hurt.
You’ll want to quit.” “I won’t quit.” Aragorn studied her for a long moment, then nodded once.
“All right.
Two years.
You keep your end and I’ll keep mine.
But right now we’re going back to Winterfell.
Your father’s probably got half the North looking for you.
I’m not explaining to Eddard Stark why his daughter ran off to train with a stranger.” Arya looked like she wanted to argue, then thought better of it.
She gave a tiny, reluctant nod.
Outside the snow kept falling, soft and endless.
Inside, a bargain had been struck that neither of them fully understood yet.