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POV: Arthur Snow
Location: The Western Coast, Near Stonewatch
The second village had no warning.
By the time Arthur's scouts reached Stonewatch, the smoke was already thick in the trees. A black trail curled above the treetops, steady and slow—controlled fire. Not looting. Occupation.
They'd fortified the village.
He crouched in the frost with Lindel and Harwin beside him, the cliff above the coast giving a view of the harbor. Three longships beached at low tide. Wooden palisades hammered into the dirt. Smoke rising from hearths—not ruins.
"They're settling in," Harwin muttered. "This isn't a raid."
Arthur nodded. "This is a message."
Below, Ironborn walked the perimeter with spears. One towered over the others, bald, barrel-chested, commanding a group of half-armored warriors who followed his orders with haste.
Dagon hadn't left the coast. He was digging in.
Arthur watched their pattern. Six guards. Fixed routes. Gaps every eight heartbeats near the north post. Enough to breach unseen—if they moved before sunrise.
"How many villagers?" he asked.
"Thirty maybe. Mostly older folk. Fishermen. Some children."
He thought for a moment. Then pointed. "We go in quiet. Two teams. No fires. We take the well, then the south ridge."
Lindel frowned. "What if it turns?"
Arthur looked down again. "Then we take it back with blood."
He did not smile. He did not raise his voice. And no one questioned him.
The men moved at nightfall. Shadows under trees. Arthur's boots left no trail in the wet pine needles. He moved ahead of them, faster than the wind in the grass. He did not carry torches.
Near the palisade, he stopped. A child's voice echoed—soft and broken. Crying from one of the longhouses. An Ironborn guard yawned and leaned against the post near her voice.
Arthur crossed the distance in three steps. His hand caught the man's neck before the sentry saw his face. No sound. He lowered the body gently into the grass.
One by one, the other sentries fell. Not to steel. To silence.
The wolves of Winterfell moved like men.
When the breach opened, the team surged through. Harwin and his second squad climbed the fence from the south. Lindel seized the tower with three quick bowshots.
Arthur entered the center of the village and met the bald captain near the firepit. The man shouted something in Old Pyke-speak and drew a curved blade of bronze.
He was good. Quick. Heavy swings backed by muscle and experience. He nearly clipped Arthur's shoulder on the second pass. Arthur didn't retreat—he flowed. Shifted. Parried with the flat. Moved in close, broke the man's stance with a low kick.
The final blow wasn't showy. A clean stab under the ribs. Fast. Precise.
Arthur didn't speak as the man fell.
The villagers were freed soon after. One woman recognized a Winterfell banner and broke down sobbing. Harwin brought her warm broth. No one spoke of the dead—six in total. None were soldiers. None had to die.
Arthur stood at the edge of the village as dawn rose.
He held Reaper still sheathed, wrapped and hidden. Not once had he drawn it.
But it pulsed now—quiet and cold—beneath the cloth. As if it wanted to.
He exhaled slowly. Let the sound of the sea carry his thoughts away. Let the memories drift to silence.
There had been a time when he would've burned this entire village to ash for strategic advantage. A time when the Heavenly Demon had broken a kingdom to save one life.
That man was dead.
What stood now was colder. Sharper. But not cruel.
The boy he once was would have killed these men without thought.
The man he was becoming killed them because no one else could afford to hesitate.
That was the difference.
He turned back toward the sea. Wind touched his cheek, sharp