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POV: Wildling King Hrok
Location: Frozen Tundra – Near the Shivering Lake
The wind howled across the frozen plain, driving snow like shards of glass against Hrok's face. He stood atop a wind-scoured ridge, his boot planted on the cracked skull of a deserter from the Night's Watch. Behind him, his warriors picked through the dead, stripping them of anything useful—iron, leather, the occasional unbroken blade.
Hrok turned the axe in his hands, feeling its weight. The steel was too fine for wildling make, the edge honed to a killing sharpness. The hilt bore the mark of a red eye, barely visible beneath layers of old blood.
Ironborn work.
"Dagmer's gifts cut deep," he muttered, running a calloused thumb along the blade.
The weirwood amulet at his throat pulsed faintly, warm against his skin despite the cold. For a moment, the trees around him seemed to lean closer, their branches creaking like old bones.
He wore the amulet openly, daring southern eyes to see it, but he never touched it when Dagmer spoke. The thing whispered in dreams, and he knew better than to stir it awake with hands.
Later, by firelight, when Dagmer Black-Tide barked orders to the raiders clustered around salt-warped maps and bone charms, Hrok stood silent.
Then, without turning, he spoke—his voice low, but meant to cut.
"Your god drowns men, priest. Why does he now whisper of alliances?"
Dagmer paused, lips twitching beneath his salt-crusted beard. "The Drowned God moves through tides and blood alike."
Hrok didn't answer. He only stared at the axe in his hands, fingers curled loosely around the haft.
He grinned. Soon, the wolves would bleed.
POV: Arthur Snow
Location: Rimehall – Northern Mountains
Rimehall was a corpse of stone, half-buried in snow and silence.
Arthur motioned for the others to spread out as they approached the ruins. The old watchtower had collapsed inward, its upper levels reduced to rubble. The eastern wall had split clean through, likely from some long-ago siege. The wind whistled through the gaps like a dying man's breath.
"Stay close," Arthur said, his voice low. "This place isn't as dead as it looks."
Sarra and Redna moved left, scanning the perimeter. Vaeren and Thom picked through what remained of the inner barracks, their footsteps muffled by snow. Maelen stood motionless, his hand resting on the back of a snow fox—his eyes distant, seeing through the animal's gaze.
Lyanna fell into step beside Arthur as they entered the main hall.
The air inside was warmer than it should have been. Not from fire—there were no fresh embers—but from heat lingering in the stone itself.
"Campfires," Lyanna observed. "Recent."
Arthur nodded. "They left in a hurry."
He crouched beside a half-burned torch, examining the ash. No soot stained the walls. No sigils marked the scraps of cloth scattered across the floor. Just the remnants of a hasty departure.
Redna's voice cut through the quiet from the tower ruins.
"Over here!"
They followed the call and found the bones.
A pile of them—some charred, others weathered by time. Scattered among them were torn Northern furs, burned boots, and a belt bearing the half-melted crest of House Flint.
And the axe.
It lay half-buried in the snow, its blade jutting upward like a grave marker. Arthur reached for it but stopped short. The steel bore an engraving—a circle with a red eye. Faint, but unmistakable.
Lyanna knelt beside him.
"That's not wildling work."
Arthur exhaled, breath curling in the cold.
"These crates didn't drift here by accident."
Maelen appeared in the doorway, eyes sharp. "I warged north. A seal on the shore saw longships."
"Whose?" Lyanna asked.
"Couldn't see the sails," Maelen said. "But they weren't wildlings."
Arthur's gaze moved to the axe again—the red eye catching what little light remained.
"Then we follow the metal," he said. "Find the hand behind the blade."