Chapter 4: Ena Snow
Arthur left Wintertown and entered the Wolfswood with his new skinning knife, his axe, his shield, and the hunting bow he did not trust. The forest stretched before him, thick with pine, shadow, and snow. It looked quiet, which was usually how dangerous places pretended to be harmless. The North had a talent for that. Everything seemed still until it bit.
He had already tried hunting with the bow once.
It had gone badly.
Arthur had aimed at a rabbit crouched beneath a bush. The rabbit had been still, soft, and completely unaware of his heroic intent. He released the arrow. The rabbit survived. The arrow flew as if insulted by his aim and struck a brown bear in the backside.
The bear had taken offense.
Reasonably.
Arthur had run half a hill with the beast roaring behind him, branches whipping his face, his lungs burning, and his dignity somewhere far behind him in the snow. A Winterfell patrol had found the scene and saved him with crossbows. Since then, Arthur had developed a deep respect for bows. Respect, in this case, meant not using one unless death had become the better option.
This time, he chose traps.
He found a clearing where animal tracks crossed through the snow and dirt. Deer, boar, perhaps wolf. He was no master hunter, but the system's basic survival knowledge helped him notice enough to avoid looking completely useless. Digging the pit was worse than he expected. The ground was hard, the roots stubborn, and his hands ached before he was halfway done. He sharpened several stakes and set them at the bottom, then covered the opening with branches, dead leaves, and snow.
After considering his luck, he found a board.
With charcoal, he wrote:
Trap. Keep Away.
The letters were ugly, but readable. He set the board near the pit in the most obvious place possible. If someone fell in after that, Arthur decided the gods themselves would have to share the blame.
Then he climbed a pine tree.
Waiting was worse than digging. The forest was quiet except for the wind moving through the treetops. Sunlight fell through the branches in pale strips. Arthur leaned against the trunk, intending only to rest his eyes for a moment.
The world disappeared.
He woke to cursing.
"Which gods-cursed bastard dug a hole here?!"
Arthur jerked awake and nearly slipped from the branch. He grabbed the trunk, cursed under his breath, then looked down. A figure stood at the bottom of his pit, covered in mud, snow, and anger. The person tried to climb up, slipped, cursed again, and looked ready to kill the first living thing that offered itself.
Arthur climbed down quickly and approached the edge.
It was a girl.
Sixteen or seventeen, perhaps. Grey-brown eyes, leather armor, hair in disarray, face smeared with dirt. She looked furious enough to forget embarrassment.
Arthur pointed to the sign.
"Did you not see the board? It was not subtle."
The girl followed his finger. She saw the sign. Her face reddened.
For a moment, the anger had nowhere to go.
Arthur reached down and offered his hand. She hesitated, then took it. He pulled her out with some effort. She stood, brushed mud from her leather, and looked him over. Her eyes lingered on his woodland armor, his boots, his axe, and finally his face.
"You do not know me?" she asked.
Arthur blinked.
Should he?
"No," he said after deciding that honesty, in small amounts, was less dangerous than pretending badly.
The girl raised an eyebrow. "What clan are you from, then? I thought everyone nearby had heard my name by now."
Arthur's thoughts moved quickly. A lie was already forming before caution could complain.
"I am from Battania," he said. "My name is Arthur."
"Battania?" She frowned. "Never heard of it. Some small clan from the mountains?"
"Something like that," Arthur replied.
She studied him a moment longer, then seemed to relax. Perhaps being unknown to him pleased her. That was interesting. A person who liked not being recognized was either hiding, avoiding trouble, or both.
She extended one rough hand.
"Ena Snow."
Snow.
A bastard's name in the North.
Arthur shook her hand. Her palm was calloused, the hand of someone used to bowstring, blade, and travel. She was no sheltered girl playing hunter because the songs made it sound charming.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The wind moved through the trees. Somewhere far away, a bird called and received no answer.
Arthur pointed toward the trap.
"I still need to hunt here. I have a task to finish. If you have nothing else to do, perhaps avoid falling into my pit again."
Ena looked at the bow on his back.
"You carry a bow and hunt with a hole in the ground?"
Her face did not change much, but her eyes did enough. They called him an idiot with admirable clarity.
Arthur's mouth twitched.
"I cannot shoot straight," he admitted. "I tried. A rabbit survived, and a bear nearly killed me."
Ena stared at him.
The silence grew insulting.
Finally, she sighed. "I am lost."
Arthur looked at her.
She looked away, annoyed by the admission.
"I will help you hunt," she said. "When we are done, you take me out of the Wolfswood."
Arthur nodded at once. He was not proud enough to reject competence when it presented itself after falling into a hole.
With Ena helping, the hunt became something close to efficient. She knew the forest paths, the animal trails, the places where deer passed and boars rooted beneath the snow. Her archery was clean and quiet. Nock, draw, release. The arrow went where she wanted. Arthur watched with some bitterness. The bow in her hands looked like a weapon. The bow in his hands became a diplomatic incident with wildlife.
In half a day, they had five deer, three boars, and two wolves.
Arthur handled the skinning. The system's basic survival knowledge helped, though his hands were clumsy and slow. Ena watched him for a while, then corrected him twice, each time with the air of someone explaining fire to a child. Still, the skins came away whole enough to satisfy Barro.
By dusk, the treetops burned red beneath the setting sun. Arthur and Ena returned to Wintertown carrying the prepared skins. Ena walked beside him, occasionally glancing at the bow on his back with visible contempt. Arthur pretended not to notice. Pride was expensive, and he was poor.
Barro accepted the ten skins after checking them with suspicious fingers. The system chimed in Arthur's mind.
Reward received: 100 dinars. 100 experience.
His personal panel shifted. With the experience from the bear incident and the quest, he reached level one.
[Upgrade Reward: Random skill extraction in progress...]
[Obtained: One-Handed Weapon, Beginner]
A warm current moved through his arm. It was subtle but clear. His grip on the axe changed. Not greatly, but enough. Basic movements settled into his mind: slashing, parrying, shifting weight, using the shield to open a line for the blade. It felt like remembering something he had never learned.
Arthur drew the axe slightly and tested the weight.
Better.
Much better.
He rented a small attic room in the cheapest tavern he could find, the Smoky Wood. The room smelled of old smoke, damp wood, and men who believed washing was a southern conspiracy. Still, it had a door, a bed, and enough privacy to study the system. He opened the panel again. Besides the level increase and the new one-handed skill, a new entry had appeared.
Renown: Unknown.
At the bottom of the previously locked Followers section, a name glowed faintly.
Ena Snow.
Recruitable.
Arthur touched his purse. After food, lodging, and small purchases, he still had a little more than what he had started with, but nowhere near enough for a follower. He closed the panel. First came coin. Then reputation. Then men. A kingdom, if he lived long enough, would have to wait in line like everything else.
Over the next few days, Arthur settled into the rhythm of Wintertown. He moved between the tavern, the market, and the forge, taking small jobs where he could. Carrying goods, sorting stock, polishing tools, helping men too old or too lazy to do the work themselves. The pay was poor, but copper was still copper. He listened more than he spoke. He asked about roads, houses, lords, taxes, bandits, and the habits of northern clans. Bit by bit, the gaps in his understanding began to fill.
Westeros was dangerous, but dangerous places still needed blacksmiths, merchants, hunters, guards, and fools to carry sacks.
Arthur could be useful.
For now.
That afternoon, he was crouched outside the forge of Old Harth, the most reliable blacksmith in Wintertown, helping sort a fresh delivery of pig iron. Harth had a temper like a kicked mule and the hands of a man who had been arguing with metal for fifty years. He liked Arthur, mostly because Arthur worked hard when he was paid, spoke politely when needed, and had bought him ale twice. In the North, that was enough to begin a friendship. Or at least a temporary lack of hostility.
"Boy," Harth said without looking up, holding a piece of red-hot iron with tongs before plunging it into water. Steam hissed upward. "Have you heard? Barro's taking his best furs to White Harbor. Looking for guards. Paying well enough to keep you drunk for half a year if you are sensible."
Arthur paused.
"White Harbor?" he asked. "Down the White Knife?"
"How else?" Harth snorted. "The roads are worse, and the hills have clansmen, broken men, and beasts. The river way is safer. Safer does not mean safe." He wiped sweat from his face, leaving black streaks across his wrinkled skin. "Hunters near the Wolfswood have seen signs of wildlings, or men pretending to be wildlings. Bandits too, along the riverbanks. Barro is a coward, but cowards live longer than brave men when they hire enough swords."
Arthur considered it.
White Harbor was the greatest port in the North. More trade, more rumors, more coin. If he stayed in Wintertown forever, he would become another odd stranger doing odd jobs until someone decided his story no longer pleased them. White Harbor meant risk. Bandits, wildlings, theft, suspicion. But opportunity rarely knocked politely. Most of the time it waited in the mud with a knife.
"Thank you, Harth," Arthur said, setting the last ingot down.
He was about to leave when the old blacksmith grunted.
"Wait."
Harth disappeared into the forge and returned with something wrapped in oiled cloth. He pulled the covering away, revealing a round shield. Its rim was bound in iron, the wood thick and dark, the center fitted with a raised boss. It was not ornate. It was not pretty. It looked like something made to keep a man alive.
"Take it," Harth said.
Arthur looked at him. "This is worth more than I can pay."
"I know." Harth shoved it into his hands anyway. "That little shield of yours looks like it was made to stop angry chickens. This one will take a blade or two. You owe me for it. With interest. If you die to bandits, I will have to collect from your ghost, and I doubt ghosts pay well."
Arthur held the shield. It was heavier than the system's small buckler, broader too. The weight was comforting. In this world, kindness usually hid a hook. Harth's did not seem to. That made it more dangerous in another way.
"I will pay you back," Arthur said.
"You had better. And bring me good ale from White Harbor if you come back alive."
"When," Arthur said.
Harth snorted. "Do not get proud. Pride leaks out quickly when a spear opens your belly."
Arthur slung the shield over his back and left for the market.
First came coin. Then reputation. Then men.
A kingdom, if he lived long enough, would have to wait its turn.