The dawn was a pale wash of pink and silver, spilling across rooftops dusted in new snow. Chimneys exhaled thin ribbons of smoke into a sky so clear it seemed made of glass.
Naros stood outside his family's cottage, breath curling white as he listened to the silence.
Each exhale carried with it the memories of dozens of lives.
His clones had begun returning, their bodies dissolving in bursts of smoke, flooding his mind with glimpses of places he'd never seen. A roaring hearth in King's Landing. Salt winds on White Harbor's docks. The clink of coins in Braavos. Secrets traded in whispers across countless taverns and alleys.
Yet for all those fragments of knowledge, the same restless edge gnawed at him.
He longed to act.
---
It had started three days ago, with a ripple in his senses as one of his clones died in the Riverlands.
One moment, Naros had been carrying firewood. The next, memories slammed into him like cold water:
Men in mail arguing over grain shortages.
A minor lord cursing the crown for raising taxes.
Talks of bandits, of bridges burned in the night.
Nothing cataclysmic—but the feel of tension, like hair rising before lightning strikes.
Other clones returned in similar fashion:
In White Harbor, one reported an influx of ships fleeing some unrest further south. In King's Landing, another clone described lords snapping at each other like dogs over scraps.
There was no single disaster brewing. Just a thousand small frictions gathering weight.
Planetos was shifting beneath its snow-covered surface.
---
"Naros."
His father's voice broke the silence.
Joren stood at the doorway, dusted with frost, snowflakes clinging to his thick brown beard. His eyes were gentle, though a crease of concern often lingered there these days.
"We're headed to Winterfell. Lord Stark's steward wants the grain tribute early this season. Best we go today before another storm hits."
Naros blinked out of his thoughts. He forced a smile.
"Of course."
He ducked inside the cottage, where Lysa was already bustling around the hearth. She pressed a wool scarf into his hands.
"Wear this," she said, peering up at him. "And don't go looking for trouble, aye?"
Her voice held a hint of jest, but also worry. Lysa had always sensed when shadows darkened his thoughts, even if she never knew why.
---
The cart creaked under heavy sacks of grain as they trundled toward Winterfell. Snow fell in fine, sparkling dust, brushing Naros's hair with white specks.
Beside him, Joren hummed low tunes while snapping the reins. He looked tired, though the lines on his face softened each time he glanced at his son.
"Place seems quieter lately," Joren murmured. "People keep to themselves. Heard there was a skirmish near the coast. Lannisters and someone else, squabbling over tariffs."
Naros nodded.
He already knew. His clones had whispered it days ago.
---
By midday, the great gates of Winterfell loomed ahead, towering and frost-slicked, iron-bound and gray as ancient stone.
Steam curled from vents in the earth where the hot springs kept parts of the castle warm even in the heart of winter. Soldiers in Stark livery stood watchful, snow caked on their cloaks.
Joren steered the cart through the gate. Naros hopped down, stretching his legs.
Inside, the castle bustled.
Blacksmiths hammered at steel under flaring forges. Children chased one another across the yard, wooden swords clacking. Servants scurried past with baskets of laundry.
Yet beneath the routine, Naros felt tension. Bannermen clustered in quiet groups, voices low. Their eyes darted around as though measuring who listened.
---
Naros was helping unload grain when a quiet hush fell over the yard.
Lord Eddard Stark had emerged from the inner keep, cloak billowing behind him. Snowflakes caught in his dark hair, streaked with silver. He moved without haste, his face solemn as stone.
Though not a tall man, his presence commanded space around him.
Joren quickly bowed, and Naros followed suit.
"My lord," Joren murmured.
Lord Stark's eyes moved over them, pausing on Naros. For a moment, he seemed about to speak, then simply nodded.
"A good harvest," Ned Stark said. "I hear the fields near Winter Town have been thriving."
Joren hesitated. "Aye, my lord. The soil's been… generous."
Naros kept his gaze lowered, hoping Stark couldn't sense the truth behind their good fortune.
---
While Joren handled the steward's paperwork, Naros slipped away.
Curiosity—and caution—pulled him deeper into Winterfell's corridors. He passed soldiers, noble children practicing swordplay, maids bearing baskets of snow-damp linens.
In the hall outside the Great Keep, he paused as voices echoed around a stone corner.
"…if they keep raising the levies, half the bannermen will rebel. The king spends coin like water!"
Another voice, older, rasping: "Careful. Ears everywhere in this castle."
Naros held his breath.
Then he sensed something else—a flash of sharp intent behind him.
He spun just as a young man lunged toward the speakers, a dagger glinting under his cloak.
Naros reacted on instinct.
In a silent swirl of movement, he grabbed the man's wrist, twisted it, and pressed him against the cold stone wall. The blade clattered to the floor.
The conspirators stared, stunned.
"Leave," Naros whispered. "Now. Take your talk somewhere safer."
He vanished before they could question him, blending into shadows until he slipped back to the courtyard.
---
Back in the yard, Joren waved him over.
"All done. Let's go, lad."
They left Winterfell, the cart lighter now, wheels creaking over snow.
Joren looked at his son thoughtfully. "You've grown quiet, Naros."
"I'm just tired," Naros said.
But in truth, his mind was racing. The North was a powder keg. And beyond the North, larger forces were stirring.
---
Days passed. The winds grew sharper.
At home, Naros tried to bury himself in ordinary things:
Chopping firewood under a steel-gray sky.
Mending fences.
Fetching water from the well, ice riming the bucket's edge.
He shared quiet meals with Joren and Lysa.
Lysa often reached out to touch his cheek, worry clouding her eyes. "You're far away, sometimes, even when you're sitting right here."
"I'm fine," Naros told her.
But he wasn't.
---
Each night, Naros sat beside the hearth, pretending to listen as Joren told stories. But part of him sifted through memories flooding back from his clones.
In Braavos, a clone had watched mercenaries stockpile weapons.
In White Harbor, merchants whispered of rising tariffs and pirates preying on shipping lanes.
In King's Landing, tension simmered under the crown's golden facade.
Individually, none of these things spelled doom. But Naros felt the weight of every rumor, every name, every shifting alliance.
This world was a powder keg.
---
One night, Lysa found him outside, staring up at the stars. The snow was falling gently, as though trying to hush the world's troubles.
She wrapped a cloak around his shoulders. "Your eyes look older than they should."
Naros swallowed hard. "There's so much I wish I could tell you."
Lysa pressed her palm to his cheek. "I don't know what burdens you carry. But remember… we love you. No matter who you were before you were our son."
Naros blinked, startled.
Lysa smiled faintly. "A mother knows when her child carries secrets. You don't have to speak them. Just… don't carry them alone forever."
---
The next morning, Naros sat at the edge of the forest, knees drawn up, breath pluming in the cold.
He stared into the snow-laden pines, weighing his next steps.
He'd learned much. But his network was still incomplete. Too many blind spots.
He needed eyes beyond Westeros—into the Free Cities, into the lands of Essos. Not because he feared threats from his old world, but because he knew how ambition and greed could breed war anywhere.
He pressed his hand to the Senjutsu bead pulsing inside his chest.
This world deserves a chance to survive the storms I know are coming.
He stood.
---
That night, Naros gathered his chakra and summoned new clones.
He stared at the rows of identical faces, their gazes solemn under the moonlight.
"I'm sending you farther this time," Naros said quietly. "Braavos. Pentos. Volantis. Lys. Learn all you can. Blend in. And protect people quietly, where you can."
One clone grinned. "About time we saw some sunshine."
Another folded his arms. "You sure about this, boss?"
Naros nodded. "If there's trouble brewing, I want to know before it crosses the Narrow Sea."
In a burst of transformation smoke, the clones became merchants, sailors, courtesans, scribes. Then they vanished into the night, footprints fading in the snow.
---
Days later, Naros stood alone in the forest. Sage Mode unfurled around him, senses stretching outward.
He felt the North's heartbeat—the slow churn of rivers under ice, the rustling of pine branches, the distant echo of wolf howls.
Everything felt poised on the edge of something he couldn't yet name.
A tension humming through the land.
Not chakra. Not Otsutsuki. Just… the inevitable turmoil of men.
He opened his eyes.
Whatever came next, he would be ready.
Because though he was Naros of Winter Town…
…he was still a shinobi.