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POV: Arthur Snow
Location: The Rills, Western Coast
The wind stank of salt, soot, and blood.
Arthur rode at the head of forty riders, their banners rolled, their cloaks damp from river mist. Below them, the coast of the Rills opened wide like a wounded mouth. Villages burned in the near distance. Smoke blurred the horizon, curling over charred rooftops. Birds circled overhead—gulls or carrion crows, no man could say.
He didn't speak. There was no need. The riders knew why they were here.
They had passed refugees on the road—fisherfolk with frostbitten hands, crying children wrapped in torn wool, old men dragging sleds of broken nets and empty buckets. Few spoke. Fewer looked up. But when they saw Arthur, most of them paused.
Some whispered prayers.
Some crossed themselves.
And one boy, no older than seven, pointed at the sword wrapped in black cloth across Arthur's back and asked his father, "Is he the one who killed the man in the gold cloak?"
The father hushed him quickly and didn't answer.
Arthur looked away and pressed his horse forward.
They came upon the first village just before dusk. It had no name that men remembered—just a ring of huts near a split in the shore where the herring would swarm in summer. Now, it was half ash. Smoke hung like a veil between the trees. They approached on foot, moving low, spears tight in hand.
The Ironborn were still there. Half a dozen of them stood laughing around a pile of kindling—wet and smoldering. A cart had been overturned and broken for wood. A man lay across it, still breathing. His wife knelt beside him, her hands bloodied, her voice hoarse from crying.
Arthur signaled with two fingers. The men behind him split in silence—ten to the left, ten to the right, ten to hold the road.
The raiders didn't notice them until the first spear flew. It caught the nearest man in the thigh. He howled and dropped. Then came the charge.
Steel clashed in the smoke. One Ironborn turned and raised a heavy axe—Arthur slipped past him, caught the inside of the man's arm, and slammed his palm into the man's throat. He dropped without a sound.
The others were not so lucky. Lindel's spear took another through the ribs. Harwin split a raider's skull with a hammer's second swing. The fight was fast and brutal—but not clean.
A girl died in the crossfire. Maybe sixteen, maybe less. She'd been hiding under the woodpile. No one saw her until it was over. Arthur found her when he circled back, her side torn open by a glancing axe. She bled into the snow, eyes wide, mouth frozen mid-breath.
He knelt beside her and touched her hand. Still warm.
The rest of the men gave him space.
When he stood, his voice was flat. "Burn what's left. Bury her properly."
No one argued.
They moved on at nightfall. No rest. No fire. Only marching.
Another village waited beyond the ridge—larger, closer to the sea. Scouts returned in the dark with word of ships offshore. At least three longships, their sails pulled and hidden in the dark. One still burned with lanterns. They were resupplying, unbothered.
"They think we'll wait until dawn," Harwin muttered.
Arthur stared into the dark.
"We don't."
He crouched beside a broken stone wall, traced the rough line of the hill, then jabbed a finger toward a stand of pine.
"We use the slope. Come down from the north. Light torches on my mark. Flush them toward the docks, not the sea. Set the road behind us on fire if you have to. We hold them between flame and frost."
"And you?" asked Lindel.
Arthur unwrapped the cloth around his sword's hilt. "I'll be where they bleed."
He disappeared into the dark without another word.
The rest followed.
When the signal came, it was not loud. Just a single spark in the trees.
Then flame roared down the slope.
The Ironborn scrambled from their tents in confusion. Men half-dressed, armor unbuckled, blades drawn too late. They stumbled toward the docks—but Arthur was already there.
He moved through them like smoke.
Not fast—precise.
He cut one man's hamstring from behind and dropped him before he could scream. Another lunged, and Arthur caught the blade with the flat of his own, twisted, and smashed the pommel into the raider's jaw.
He did not speak. He did not hesitate.
Only when one man grabbed a boy and raised a knife to his throat did Arthur stop.
The raider sneered. "Throw your blade, hero. Or I open him from ear to ear."
Arthur's voice was quiet. "Don't."
But he saw the man's eyes. Drunk. Desperate. Ready.
Arthur's hand flicked once. A flash of steel.
And the boy fell backward, untouched.
The raider stumbled, blood rushing from his shoulder. The nerve had been cut clean through. He dropped the knife and curled inward, twitching.
Arthur caught the boy before he hit the ground.
"Run," he said. "Back to the fire. Don't look behind you."
He stood slowly.
The rest of the Ironborn began to retreat.
That night, they lost none of the villagers. Not one.
And yet Arthur did not celebrate.
He sat on the rocks after, watching the tide roll in, blood still drying on his boots. The sword lay beside him, half-wrapped again, its edge faintly catching the moonlight.
Colm arrived at midnight with twenty more riders.
"You should have waited," the knight said.
Arthur didn't look up.
"They'd be dead if I did."
Colm paused. "You don't look victorious."
"I'm not."
He stood and sheathed the blade. His shoulders were tired, and the cold stung deeper than it should have.
"I fought to save," he said. "That used to be something I forgot."
Then he walked past the knight and into the dark.