The company pressed deeper into the icebound forest, where the trees rose like frozen sentinels, their branches heavy with snow. The crunch of hooves and wagon wheels echoed hollowly in the still air. To many, the silence of the North was suffocating—but to Theon Stark, it was alive with whispers.
Something gnawed at him. The boy's sharp eyes swept the tree line, instincts honed in another lifetime prickling the back of his neck. His breath misted white in the air, steady yet alert. Then—
Thwip!
A scream tore through the calm. One of the Stark guards staggered, an arrow jutting from his shoulder.
"Ambush!" Theon's voice cracked through the cold like steel on steel.
Chaos followed. Guards shouted, shields came up, soldiers ducked low as moralth arrows hissed through the trees. The sound was a deadly rainstorm, shafts splintering against shields, wagons, and bark. Horses reared in terror, their breath steaming like smoke from some great beast.
Another arrow whistled, straight for Theon's brow. Time seemed to slow. His hand rose, precise and unflinching, and he caught the shaft in mid-flight. The onlookers froze in disbelief—what sort of child could pluck death from the air as if it were no more than a falling twig?
Theon's expression did not waver. His eyes, sharp as forged steel, swept the treeline where shadows shifted.
"Form ranks!" he barked, sounding nothing like a four-year-old boy, but a commander born of fire and battlefield dust. "Shields front, protect the wagons. Riders—flank the trees!"
Steel rang as swords slid free, men moving into disciplined lines under the voice of the boy who bore Winterfell's blood. Snowflakes drifted, mingling with the first drops of blood upon the white earth, as the forest itself seemed to hold its breath for the clash to come.
Then the raiders came. Hundreds of them, spilling out of the snowy trees in a howling charge, their furs ragged, their faces wild with bloodlust.
"Protect the lord!" Roderick bellowed, sword in hand as he hacked into the first man who reached him.
The Stark guards locked shields around the wagons, where the smallfolk and the mountain surveyor huddled in terror. Medrick spurred his horse forward, cutting down attackers in a blur. But then—
A brute with a hammer as large as a man smashed into his steed. The horse screamed as it collapsed, sending Medrick crashing to the ground. He tried to rise, but the hammer-man loomed over him, bringing down blow after blow. Medrick raised his shield desperately—until the hammer shattered it and sent him sprawling.
The raider's boot pinned his sword-hand. He laughed, a maniacal grin splitting his face as he raised the hammer high. "Die screaming, boy!"
Medrick closed his eyes, bracing for death—
—and the raider was cut clean in two. His body toppled in halves, shock frozen on his face. Behind him, Theon Stark lowered his sword, its edge steaming with blood in the cold air.
The boy gestured with one hand. "Get up."
Medrick grabbed it, pulled to his feet, gasping. "My lord… thank you—"
"Not now," Theon said flatly. His eyes stayed locked on the next foe. "First, end this."
He moved like no child, no squire, no knight of the North. He was a shadow with steel in his hand.
The first raider lunged with an axe. Theon stepped aside, his sword whispering through the man's throat. A fountain of crimson painted the snow.
Another came screaming with a cleaver. Theon ducked, his blade driving up into the man's ribs. A spear thrust at him—he seized it, tore it away, and hurled it through another raider's chest, pinning him to a tree.
Every strike was fatal. Every motion perfect.
Roderick cut down an attacker, sparing a glance at the boy. "Gods… he fights like a demon."
Theon did not answer. He was already moving, already killing.
The forest thundered with death. Snow churned red beneath stamping boots and hooves. Raiders fell like sheaves before a scythe, their charge breaking against Stark steel. Yet still they came.
Medrick gasped between blows. "Seven hells… who are these men?"
Roderick snarled, cutting another down. "They're not soldiers. Not clansmen. These are the Bloodfang Bandits—outlaws driven from the barrowlands, killers, oathbreakers. Their leader's a bastard of the North… calls himself Rogar Snow." His blade split a man's helm, blood spraying hot against the snow. "Exiled for murder, rape, and worse. Now he preys on travelers and villages alike."
As if summoned by the words, a booming laugh rolled across the battlefield.
A massive figure strode from the treeline, clad in piecemeal armor and a wolfskin cloak, a great axe slung across his shoulders. His face was broad, scarred, his eyes cruel.
"Already lost, little lordlings!" Rogar Snow bellowed, voice thick with mockery. "Kill the men, take the women. Leave nothing but corpses for the crows!"
His raiders howled in approval, surging forward again.
"You'll regret this!" Medrick roared back. "To strike at the Starks is death itself!"
Rogar only laughed, a deep, ugly sound. "Starks? Piss on your wolf-banners. I don't give a fuck whose blood runs in your veins!" His gaze swept the field, then locked on Theon. His grin faltered as he saw the trail of bodies left in the boy's wake. "This… this child? He killed my men?" He spat, enraged. "You useless dogs, being cut down by a whelp!"
He leveled his axe at Theon, voice rising in fury. "Run, boy. Run before I take your head. Stay, and the last thing you'll remember is my axe splitting you in half."
Roderick surged forward in anger, but Theon raised a hand, stopping him. The boy's eyes were cold, merciless steel.
"No," Theon said. He stepped forward, his voice low and cutting. "The only thing you'll remember before you die… is my blade carving you to pieces."
Rogar barked a laugh. "You've got a filthy mouth, boy. Don't worry. I'll carve it off." He jerked his chin at one of his men. "Kill him."
The raider charged, roaring, sword raised high.
Theon didn't slow. He deflected the blow, ripped the weapon from the man's grip, and with a single motion, cut him clean in half.
Blood sprayed the snow. The sword dropped into Theon's hand as he kept walking, eyes fixed on Rogar Snow.
The bandits froze, horror in their faces. Even Rogar's mocking grin faltered.
The boy moved forward, silent, relentless—like death itself walking through the snow.
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