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The Ironborn came at dawn, their longships sliding up the shallows of the Red Fork like wolves nosing for prey. Torches flared, and before the bells of the nearest village could be rung, the fields were already burning. Smoke rolled across the Kingsroad as men screamed, women fled with children clutched to their skirts, and the war-cries of the raiders carried like thunder over the river mist.
At Riverrun, word reached the lords before the sun had climbed the towers. Messengers burst into the council chamber, breathless and mud-stained. "Ironborn," they panted. "Three ships. More than a hundred men, maybe two."
The Riverlords crowded the oaken table, their banners drooping in the stale air. Lord Piper slammed his palm flat. "We must ride. If the villages fall, the crossings mean nothing."
"Ride with what strength?" countered Lord Vance, his voice heavy as stone. "Fifty spears here, another fifty at Atranta. We strip Riverrun too thin, and the wolves will be at our gates."
Ser Darry, pale with unease, spoke quickly. "Ravens must be sent. Lord Mallister, perhaps. The Crown, if they'll hear us."
Brynden Blackfish leaned forward, eyes sharp as the blade at his hip. "Ravens fly slower than fire spreads. By the time help comes, the Trident will be ash."
Numbers were counted, voices sharpened. Eighty men could be roused from Riverrun within the hour, another hundred from Piper's lands, but no more. Too few against too many. The chamber thickened with the dread of men who knew they were preparing for defeat.
And still, ravens were loosed into the sky. A prayer more than a plan.
Far from the council walls, Arthur had already taken the road south, his horse carrying him steadily toward King's Landing. The inn lay behind him, its firelight a fading memory, when the wind shifted. Faint at first—then sharper—came the cries of children, the ragged sobs of women, and the hoarse shouts of men. He drew the reins at once, the horse stamping in protest as the smell of smoke reached him. For a long breath he listened, head bowed, until the sound of steel clashing on steel cut through the morning air.
It was distant—five, perhaps six miles to the east by his reckoning—too far for any ordinary man to reach before the fighting ended.
Arthur swung down from the saddle. He stroked the horse's neck once to calm it, then tethered it to a low-branched elm where the leaves would keep it hidden. "Wait for me," he murmured, though whether to the beast or to himself, even he did not know.
Then he was moving. The air seemed to fold around him as he called upon his qi, his steps no longer bound by the weary pace of men. Forest and field blurred past, the ground thudding beneath him in a rhythm that matched his breath. His body grew lighter with every stride, the world slowing around him as though time itself bent to his will. He crossed gullies and streams as easily as stepping over roots, each movement precise, fluid, unbroken.
By the time the first plume of fire rose against the dawn, Arthur was already there—five miles swallowed like nothing, his shadow spilling across the edge of the battlefield where the Riverlords faltered and the Ironborn pressed. He had arrived in the nick of time.
By midday, the Riverlords' host stood on the Kingsroad, battered armor gleaming dully, spears trembling in unsteady hands. The Ironborn had already put the mill to flame and were pressing hard upon the village. Children wailed as smoke curled upward like black fingers.
"Hold the line!" Piper roared, but his words were swallowed by the clash. Men fell, shields splintered. They held, but barely.
They looked to the road, to the horizon, waiting for banners that never came. No Mallister knights. No royal riders. No one.
And in that breath—when the Riverlords began to falter, when fear hissed louder than courage—Arthur fell upon the Ironborn.
He came silent, the morning sun casting long shadows across the field, yet the raiders never saw him until the first strike. The air seemed to shiver around him as he drew Reaper, its blade gleaming like moonlight even under dawn. For a heartbeat, the Ironborn could not move, their laughter dying in their throats, confusion widening their eyes. Then, as if time had slowed, the blade whispered through the air, and they fell.
"By the Drowned God—what is this?!" one raider shrieked, stumbling back as his companion vanished under a single stroke.
"Gods! The shadow!" another shouted, raising a trembling spear, only to have it sliced clean from his grasp.
Arthur struck where the line buckled most, each movement precise, a flowing dance of death. Chaos bent to him, confusion shattered into terror. Men who had jeered and boasted mere moments before now screamed for their mothers, stumbling over each other in panic.
"Hold the line! Form ranks!" Piper shouted, rallying the Riverlords' men, though their eyes widened at the spectacle.
"Stay back, children! Hide!" a villager cried, dragging her daughter behind a burned cart. Another grabbed a pitchfork, only to freeze at the shadow moving faster than thought.
Reaper arced again, crimson streak its edge. One Ironborn turned to flee, only to collapse mid-step. Another reached for his sword, but Arthur's blade found him first, cutting clean through the confusion before the raider could blink.
From the river, the Ironborn captain's ship groaned under some unseen assault. Flames licked the timbers, and the deck split with a terrible snap as if some phantom hand struck from nowhere.
"Hold fast, men! Do not let this shadow frighten you!" the captain roared, his voice cracking with panic.
But before his orders could carry, men screamed and fell into the dark waters, their bodies flailing as the hull burned beneath them. "It's… it's no man!" one raider yelled, staring at the flickering smoke. "Some demon! A spirit of the river!"
Arthur had boarded the vessel under cover of smoke and shadow, his movements so swift and silent that no one could glimpse him clearly. Reaper flashed once, twice, and timbers splintered, ropes snapped, and the captain's own sword was knocked from his grasp.
"By the Drowned God!" the captain bellowed, stumbling back. "It—what is this?! How…?"
One by one, the raiders on deck were cut down or thrown overboard, their cries drowned by the roar of fire and river.
Two more longships, anchored too close to the Red Fork's shallows, suddenly caught flame from overturned torches and arrows—or perhaps from the same shadow's unseen hand. Their timbers cracked, decks collapsed, masts toppled.
From the banks, villagers hid behind carts and fences, eyes wide. "Look!" a woman gasped, clutching her child. "A shadow… it moves across the decks!"
"A ghost! By the Seven, it's a ghost!" a man whispered, peering over the wreckage.
Wide-eyed, they watched as three Ironborn ships sank into smoke and flame, the river carrying the screams of drowning men into the air. The captain's furious cries were swallowed beneath the roar of burning timber and rushing water.
From behind their shields, the Riverlords' men watched with wide eyes. "By the Seven! Did you see that?" Ser Darry whispered, shaking. "It's like it—it moves with the wind itself."
Some swore they saw only a figure cloaked in smoke, others only the sudden ruin of their foes. By the time they dared breathe, the raiders lay scattered in blood and ash, and the shadow was gone.
The villagers crept from hiding, clutching children, whispering of death walking the Kingsroad. Refugees fled south with the tale already twisting on their tongues. "A ghost on a black horse!" one cried. "A shadow with a sword of moonlight!" another swore. Whatever it was, the Ironborn were broken, and the Riverlands still stood.
When word returned to Riverrun, the lords sat heavy with unease. Vance muttered, "No mortal hand moves like that. It's impossible."
Piper, his usual bluster dampened, whispered, "The gods themselves have sent a champion, perhaps."
Only Brynden's voice held steady, though the shadow of doubt flickered in his eyes. "By the Sevens," he said, voice low, "what the hell is going on?"
Hoster sat in silence, staring at the Trident through the chamber's narrow window. Allies had not come. The Crown had not stirred. Yet something—or someone—had answered. He did not speak aloud what lingered on every tongue: perhaps it was folly to trust in the Sevens.
Southward, the river carried the whispers, faster than any raven could fly. And Arthur rode with them, unseen, Reaper sheathed now but still bloody with the memory of blood, leaving no trace but the silence of the dead and the terror of the living. He returned briefly to the elm where his horse waited, untethered it, and vaulted into the saddle. The animal snorted but fell in line with his stride, and together they resumed the journey to King's Landing the road ahead long, smoke curling in the sky.