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The night was thick and heavy, stars muted behind a low veil of clouds, the air carrying the faint tang of damp earth and river mist. A small clearing along the western bank of a tributary to the Trident had become a temporary encampment. Ten figures huddled around a flickering fire, their knives and short swords glinting in the firelight, mugs of cheap wine passing from hand to hand. Smoke curled lazily upward, carrying the laughter of men who believed themselves untouchable.
Pinned to a nearby log was a crude sketch, hastily drawn but unmistakable: the face of Arthur, labeled with a bounty. Some men scoffed at it; others muttered, "A boy? The Faith fears a boy?"
One of the assassins, a wide-shouldered brute with a hooked nose and a cruel smile, spat into the fire. "Ha! Let him come. One man, barely more than a boy, and the Faith calls him the 'greatest assassin of the Riverlands'?" He laughed, slapping another on the back. "We'll milk more coin if we catch him alive. Torture him for all the secrets he carries, eh?"
The others joined in, their laughter a low, dangerous chuckle. Another shrugged. "Who cares? As long as we get paid, I'll gut him like any other rat."
Unseen, beyond the trees lining the clearing, Arthur crouched in shadow. His senses sifted the night—the whisper of boots on dry leaves, the murmured names of each man, the map of their movements etched in his mind. Redna, ever loyal and resourceful, had spun a web of intelligence through the Order: names, numbers, positions, and the bounty itself—a sum issued by the Faith, ten skilled men tasked with capturing him alive as he journeyed south toward King's Landing. Her network, a quiet force beneath the realm's surface, fed him truths the Faith's spies could never grasp.
Arthur let the firelight paint the assassins' faces for a heartbeat, memorizing their positions, weapons, and weaknesses.
Then, as if the night itself had swallowed him, the fire flickered violently and died. A hush fell over the clearing, broken only by the crackle of the last dying embers.
Before the wide-shouldered brute could react, Arthur was upon him. Reaper whispered through the night, a ghostly gleam of steel, and a clean hole split the man's chest, as if dissected by a surgeon's hand. His scream cut off mid-word, and the others froze, terror cracking their faces.
"There's something out there!" a panicked assassin gasped, drawing his dagger, only to find Arthur already behind him. With a sweep of the blade, his arm was severed, clattering to the ground. Another lunged, and Arthur pivoted, slicing through leg and torso, turning the man's charge into a scream of agony.
Steel moved like smoke, faster than thought. One man was beheaded before he could shout, another cleaved from shoulder to waist, his body carved with chilling precision. Chaos erupted in the clearing, knives clashing with nothing, curses and screams mixing with the snapping of broken branches under heavy boots—or perhaps nothing at all, save the sound of death.
By the end, only one man remained, trembling, covered in blood, his face pale in the moonlight. Arthur stepped close, boots sinking into the damp earth, Reaper slick with crimson.
The man stammered, lips quivering, unable to speak. Arthur loomed closer, his form stretching over the trembling figure like a living nightmare.
"Tell me, Ronnar," Arthur said, his voice low and sharp, each word deliberate. "Do you remember the Blackstone raid? The village you burned? The children you laughed at while they screamed? You think a boy would fear you? No… you should have feared me long before tonight."
Ronnar's eyes widened in horror, tears mingling with the grime on his face. "H-How do you know my name?" he stammered.
Arthur's gaze hardened, Reaper catching the moonlight, its steel gleaming. "The bounty on me… do you know who posted it? It was Ser Halvar of the Faith. He sent you and your nine companions to hunt me, imagining I could be caught for coin. Do you feel clever now, Ronnar, serving a man who believes your skill could succeed where he cannot?"
Ronnar whimpered, shaking violently. "I… I swear… I didn't know—"
Arthur leaned closer, letting the shadows swallow him. "Your masters think you're clever. I think you're a corpse waiting to happen. Remember every name, every deed, and remember me. Tell Ser Halvar in hell what happens when someone crosses Arthur."
With that, he straightened and vanished into the dark woods, every movement measured, every step careful. The wound in his side throbbed like fire, yet he could not linger—not if he wished to see another day. Survival demanded speed, and the living had to leave the dead behind.
The clearing lay in ruin: fire smoldering in patches, knives scattered across trampled grass, blood soaking the earth, and ten assassins reduced to nine corpses and one terrified man. The river beyond murmured quietly, as if carrying away the whispers of the shadow that had struck with terrifying precision.
Arthur reached his horse, a shadowed steed tethered to a gnarled oak beyond the clearing. The beast snorted softly, sensing its master's urgency. Arthur's side burned, each step a reminder of the cost of survival, but he swung into the saddle with practiced ease. His fingers brushed the reins, steadying the horse as he cast one last glance toward the smoldering ruin. The air still carried the tang of blood and smoke, but the night was his ally, cloaking his departure.
With a low command, he urged the horse forward, hooves muffled against the damp earth. The path to King's Landing stretched south, through tangled woods and open fields, a journey fraught with peril yet driven by purpose. Redna's web had marked this path—her whispers of the great houses' movements, their schemes, their fears, echoed in his mind. The Faith's hunters would not relent, nor would the realm's eyes, now whispering of the "Hooded Lord" who struck at Stoney Sept and left men trembling. The name grew louder with every retelling, a shadow trailing him faster than he could ride.
In King's Landing, the great houses gnawed at one another: Tyrell fortifying the Reach, Lannister buying favor, Baratheon clawing for war, Martell waiting like serpents, Arryn weaving quiet strands, Tully guarding his rivers, and the North—silent, mistrusted, sharpening its own blade. Arthur carried their secrets, inked in Redna's map, a tapestry of a realm unraveling. His purpose lay in the capital, where answers and vengeance awaited.
The stars remained hidden behind clouds, but Arthur needed no light to navigate. His Powers were his domain, and with his horse beneath him and Reaper at his side, he rode on, a shadow among shadows, bound for King's Landing.