For weeks, Naros had tried to push it aside.
That creeping sensation. Like an icy fingertip trailing down the back of his neck.
At first, he thought it was merely the side effect of his Sage Mode—his senses grown too sharp for a quiet life. Perhaps the shadows were not so dark. Perhaps whispers were just wind in the trees.
But he could no longer lie to himself.
Something was coming.
---
Winter Town lay quiet beneath the weight of fresh snowfall. Smoke curled from chimneys into a sky painted pale gray. Children chased each other through drifts, their laughter muffled by wool scarves.
Yet Naros felt the weight of silence pressing into his bones.
Each day, while helping Joren chop firewood or mending tools in the dim light of the forge, his mind drifted to distant lands. He thought of the Targaryen dynasty, of the dragons whispered about in tales, of the Lannisters' fabled gold. He remembered how talk of Robert Baratheon's hunts often overshadowed mentions of growing unrest in the realm.
He knew well that power never slumbered for long. Not in the Elemental Nations. Not here.
He tried to soothe himself. To be content with planting crops, sharing meals, and keeping his secrets buried.
But the feeling only grew.
He'd stand at the edge of the forest, eyes half-closed, Sage Mode unfurling around him. And he'd feel… tremors. Far away.
Movements. Tides shifting.
Like a storm gathering beyond the horizon.
---
One evening, Naros sat on the roof of their cottage, snowflakes landing like quiet kisses on his skin. Beneath him, the sounds of home drifted upward: Lysa's soft singing, Joren's low rumble as he recited a story from his youth.
He wanted nothing more than to stay there. To close his eyes and be only Naros, the Northern boy who helped his parents and kept his powers hidden.
But he couldn't.
The people of Planetos didn't even know a threat could exist beyond the Wall… or across the seas… or hidden in the shadows of their own courts. They had no chakra, no jutsu, no defenses against the calamities he knew could descend at any moment.
He was a shinobi, once. A protector.
And though he carried guilt like a wound, he could not turn his back on this world.
He exhaled slowly, mist spiraling into the night sky.
He would gather information.
Not bits and pieces, but real intelligence—who held power, who plotted in secret, who might become a threat. If chaos brewed again, he would know before it arrived on Winterfell's doorstep.
He'd always been reckless in youth, charging ahead without a plan. But now he was older, wiser. And in espionage, he'd been trained by masters.
He decided that very night.
He would become a shinobi again.
---
The next day, Naros rose before dawn. The cold bit at his cheeks as he stepped into the snow-choked woods.
He found a clearing beneath frost-crusted branches. Snow hung heavy on the pine boughs overhead. Silence filled the air like a held breath.
He inhaled deeply.
Time to see if these old bones remember…
He formed the seals. Fast. Precise. His fingers danced through the familiar motions.
"Kage Bunshin no Jutsu."
Smoke burst around him.
When it cleared, ten perfect copies of Naros stood in the snow, eyes blazing with identical blue fire. They looked older than any ten-year-old should look. Shadows beneath their eyes spoke of battles fought in another life.
The clones grinned.
"Good to be back," one said.
Another scratched his cheek. "Feels strange being this young again."
They all laughed, and for a moment, the woods felt like old times—Team 7 bickering under Kakashi's exasperated eye.
---
He dismissed them in a wave of smoke, then prepared the next test.
"Henge no Jutsu."
A swirl of chakra twisted around his body. His height shifted, his hair darkened, his skin took on the rough texture of an older man. In an instant, a traveling merchant in thick Northern furs stood where Naros had been.
He released the transformation, panting lightly. Even after years, his control was impeccable.
A small, bittersweet pride bloomed in his chest.
---
That night, he sat by the hearth as Joren dozed in his chair and Lysa hummed softly over her knitting. Flames flickered, painting the cottage in shifting amber light.
Naros stared into the fire, eyes unfocused.
He needed eyes and ears everywhere:
Winterfell's halls, where Lord Stark's bannermen gathered.
The Riverlands, where lords bickered over old feuds.
The capital, King's Landing, where secrets flowed like wine.
Across the Narrow Sea, where whispers of dragons still lingered.
And beyond.
If he were to protect his family—and perhaps this entire world—he needed to know everything.
---
In the days that followed, Naros trained relentlessly. He experimented with his chakra levels, refining the exact amount needed to sustain clones for weeks without fading. He tested how well his transformed clones could pass among crowds, blending into the rhythms of daily life.
He studied dialects, regional slang, and social customs. He mimicked the posture of a dockworker in White Harbor, the swagger of a hedge knight, the wary silence of a merchant's guard.
Then he gathered chakra into his palms and created several hundred clones at once.
They stood in neat rows in the snowy clearing, eyes glowing.
"All right," Naros said. "I'm sending you out. No specific identities. You decide who you'll become. You're shinobi—you know how to improvise."
The clones grinned.
"That's more like it," said one with a mischievous glint.
Another folded his arms. "So we're going full ANBU on this."
"Exactly," Naros said. "Adapt. Blend in. Listen. Send information back the moment anything seems off. And…" His voice grew softer. "Protect people where you can. But do it quietly."
The clones exchanged solemn nods.
In a burst of snow, they transformed—men, women, children, old crones, merchants, hedge knights, even beggars. Within seconds, the forest clearing was filled with strangers, each wearing new faces, new clothes, new voices.
Then they scattered into the trees, footsteps silent as falling snow.
---
That same night, in White Harbor, a fishmonger with golden-brown hair and a friendly grin began asking careful questions about trade routes and recent ship sinkings.
In the Riverlands, a scribe entered a lord's household, quietly copying letters before they were sealed and sent.
In King's Landing, a stable boy with straw in his hair listened to drunken noblemen boasting about secrets they should have kept silent.
In Pentos, a slender merchant's apprentice noted how often certain ships flew banners that matched rumors of dragon loyalists.
And through it all, Naros felt his network begin to stretch and grow—a web of information spanning continents.
---
One evening, Naros stood outside the cottage, watching the stars emerge over the frosted pines.
Part of him felt guilty.
He'd promised himself he wouldn't interfere in this world. He'd wanted to live as Naros, a simple boy of the North.
But he was a shinobi. And shinobi watched the shadows, even when they wished for the light.
He remembered standing beside Jiraiya, watching the world from rooftops. He remembered Shikamaru warning him: "Knowing is half the battle."
He could not leave this world blind.
---
At home, life went on.
Joren teased him about growing taller than any Northern lad had a right to be. Lysa fussed over new holes in his cloak. Neighbors praised the fertility of their fields, unaware that senjutsu chakra worked miracles under the soil.
Naros smiled and helped carry water, chop wood, and mend fences. But inside, he was once again the shinobi he'd sworn to leave behind.
He lay awake at night, watching moonlight spill through frost-silvered windows. In the quiet dark, he listened to countless memories and countless new voices whispering back to him.
---
Each day, Naros honed his skills further. He sent new clones toward Braavos, toward the Wall, even into the Free Cities. His network grew by the week.
He carried firewood into the house each night, smiling at Lysa's thanks, nodding at Joren's quiet pride. Yet behind his eyes, maps and reports and coded messages flickered like stars.
He was no longer only a boy.
He was a hidden force, watching over a world that didn't know it was under his guard.
And in his chest, amid sorrow and hope and fear, a quiet vow burned bright:
He would not let this world fall.