(Warning ⚠️ Dark chapter⚠️ Violence⚠️ Trauma ⚠️Proceed with caution⚠️)
Maidenpool, 296 AC
Several days passed in a dream of mischief and meadow-wind.
Arthur rode each morning with Marie and Faith, the little girl chattering like a brook, Marie laughing as Midnight, once wild as storm-surf, began to heed her hand. They built a secret world of lessons and stolen hours. Marie taught him how to slip unseen through Maidenpool's streets, how to throw his voice like a dockhand, how to pick a simple lock with two needles and patience. Arthur stumbled, cursed, learned, and laughed more than he had in years.
But that morning, they had not come. At first, Arthur smiled, thinking them late. Then the hour deepened, sun climbing. By midday, his patience had ran out. Tomorrow the tourney banners would be raised. And the day after, Arthur would leave for the north again.
Arthur had meant to ask for Marie's favor, to ride hidden beneath helm and visor, a mystery knight for a girl without a house, without name or silk, yet richer in spirit than half the ladies in the realm. He had practiced the words in his mind, awkward, earnest things unbecoming a lord and yet truer than courtly speech.
Arthur saddled Midnight at last, jaw clenched, and rode for the hill. Faith's hill, he called it now, softly, to amuse the child, to see her beam. A place of tales, cheese, and sunlight.
The breeze seemed to have died long before he arrived. There were people gathered atop the rise, smallfolk, guards, faces pale and drawn. When he approached, a hush rolled like a grim tide. Arthur saw one of his men, Sergeant Kennet, usually hard as oak, step forward, eyes red, voice breaking.
"M-milord," he stammered, desperation clawing his throat, "A terrible thing… gods forgive us… a terrible—"
Arthur dismounted, boots sinking into soft grass that suddenly felt like grave-moss. He set a steadying hand upon the man's trembling shoulder. "Easy, man. Tell me what happened?"
Yet Kennet could not. He only lifted a shaking finger toward the old elm.
The crowd parted as Arthur walked up the hill, breath thinning, world narrowing to a single terrible line in earth, like a wound in time. As soon as he saw the sight, Arthur fell to his knees.
Little Faith lay where she had once chased dandelion seeds, where she had laughed, pouted, licked honey from her fingers. Her small body sprawled like a cast-aside doll, dress sodden scarlet. Her sweet, bright face, now ruined beyond mercy, beyond prayers.
Sound fled him. Sight narrowed to blur. The hill, the river, the people, they swam in a red haze. Only the little body remained sharp, cruelly real. Warm grass scented with blood and tears filled the air.
A wail shattered the quiet, raw, human, unbearable.
Tim came scrambling through the crowd, mad with grief, five guards straining to hold him. Tears streamed through the dirt on his face. He roared like a wounded beast.
"WHERE IS SHE!!! Where's my girl! My Faith! Let me—LET ME—"
He clawed, kicked, swallowed dirt, trying to reach her, every heartbeat a scream. The guards grunted, barely restraining him. His voice cracked into something small, broken.
"Gods… gods no… she's—she's just a babe… my Faith… my sweet girl… gods have mercy…"
The hilltop trembled with his grief.
Arthur could not speak. Could not steady his breath. Could not comprehend how a sunlit place could birth such horror. He reached trembling fingers toward the slain child but stopped short, afraid to disturb her, afraid to break what little dignity death left.
I should have been here. I should have kept her safe.
Arthur rose on unsteady legs and went to Tim. Five of Arthur's guards fought to hold him back as he twisted and howled. He thrashed against their hold, cursing gods and men alike, until Arthur took him in his arms.
"Tim," he said softly, his voice breaking. "She's gone… she's with the gods now."
"She was only a child… my little girl…." The father sagged against him, sobbing into his chest, "She….. she didn't do no one wrong."
Arthur held him tighter, feeling the man's grief like knives beneath his ribs. There were no words for it, no comfort to give.
When at last Tim's strength broke and he crumpled in Arthur's arms, the young lord lowered the man to the earth with care, his hands trembling despite himself.
"Take him to the harbor," Arthur said, his voice hoarse but steady. "Bring the physicians. And the Silent Sisters. Treat her gently… with honor."
The guards obeyed at once, yet none could meet his gaze.
Arthur's eyes lingered on the small, broken shape beneath the elm. The wind stirred her hair, as if the gods themselves sought to make her breathe again.
"And bring dandelions," he added quietly, almost to himself. "She loves dandelions."
Arthur stood frozen beneath the elm. He felt rage, grief, and the terrible stillness that comes before the storm. There he saw Marie standing among the crowd, half-shadowed, half-burning. The wind tugged at her hair, and though she made no sound, he could see that she was trembling. Her eyes found his across the space between them, a shared grief too difficult to name.
For a long, wordless heartbeat, neither of them moved. Arthur wanted to go to her, to hold her, to speak something that could make sense of the horror before them. But he saw in her gaze the same torment that clawed through his own heart.
Her lips parted, as if to say his name, then closed again. She took a step back, her face pale and wet with tears. And then, without a word, Marie turned and walked away down the slope.
The physicians came first and then the sisters, their faces hidden, hands steady. They examined the small body in silence before taking her away. When they were done, their eyes told him all. One of them, a young man named Ronald, spoke, voice trembling.
"She was… violated, m'lord…. and..."
Arthur's jaw clenched until he tasted blood. The man did not continue, for the rage in Arthur's eyes made him shrink away. That night, the funeral pyre burned low, and his eyes were glistening in the firelight. But the fire of his rage burned hotter than the pyre.
When the ashes cooled, Arthur swore to Tim before the godswood that her killers would not see another sunrise.
Within an hour, Chataya's whispers brought him names. A knight of House Mooton, Ser James, brother to Lord Jon. And worse, the Archsepton of Maidenpool, pious in daylight, vile in darkness.
Arthur's blood burned hotter than any forge. "Keep it secret," he told Chataya. "No word leaves this room."
She inclined her head. "What will you do, my lord?"
"I will do what I must."
Letters penned in different hands, each bearing a false seal, each summoning the guilty men to the same place, a graveyard behind the sept, near the river. Each culprit believed they were meeting another to secure their shared silence, each one threatened by the other's supposed treachery.
At the edge of the graveyard, he kept Tim waiting, pale and hollow-eyed.
"Stay hidden," Arthur said, voice low as the wind. "You'll hear their cries soon enough."
Tim nodded once, too numb for words.
From the shadows, beside a crypt weeping with moss, he watched them arrive. Arthur stood there beneath a moon half-veiled in mist. He had drawn the runes himself, careful and precise, carved into his flesh and inked upon his sword. They pulsed faintly, burning with hidden power.
Arthur wore no steel, no mail. His breeches were his only covering. The runes upon his skin glowed a dull, bloody red. They thrummed with a dark energy, a cold fire that made his limbs feel light and yet stronger than stone.
In his hand, Nightfall seemed to drink the meager light. The runes upon it pulsing with a glowing darkness that felt like a void.
The culprits came in a nervous gaggle, their weak lanterns casting jerky shadows that made the tombstones seem to dance. James Mooton, arrogant even in his fear, shoved the priest.
"What is the meaning of this, priest?" Mooton growled, his hand on his pommel. "You dare threaten to betray me to my brother?!!"
Mathos, his fleshy face pale, bristled. "You're the one who had threatened me! Mark my words, boy, I know all your secrets!"
"Aye, of course you do, you bastard, you were there," James replied, his voice laced with contempt. "Why the hells did you write the letter?"
Mathos replied, confused, "I wrote no such thing. You are the one who asked me to come here."
"I did not," James growled, "Are you playing games with me?!"
Mathos replied, his voice trembling, "Then who brought us here?
"Deathdid."
Arthur stepped from the darkness. The runes on his body flared, casting his face in a demonic, crimson light. Nightfall seemed to smoke with a cold, black hunger. He looked less a man, more a judgment, a demon pulled from the Seven Hells. A Nightmare born of Vengeance.
"Death brought you to my doors. To pay your Dues!"
The power of the runes twisted his voice, tearing it from his throat as a shrill, bestial sound that clawed at their nerves and stilled their hearts. The culprits were paralyzed by the sheer, unholy terror of the vision before them. Then, instinct took over. The priest and his guard turned to run, blundering into the tombstones.
Arthur moved like a shadow, a flash of crimson fire in darkness, like a tempest unleashed. Nightfall sang a solitary, keen note as it swept through the air. The priest screamed, a terrible, gurgling sound as he collapsed, both legs severed from the knee.
His guard, fumbling for his sword, only managed to get his hand on the hilt before Arthur's blade took it at the wrist. The man stared, dumbfounded, at the bloody stump before falling to the ground, howling.
James Mooton and his two remaining men had their swords out, the steel trembling. They backed away, muttering prayers, their eyes wide with the horror of what they were seeing.
"Gods save us," one of them whimpered.
"Gods have mercy," James whispered, his face ashen.
The prayers were a spark on dry tinder. The cold power in Arthur flared into a white-hot, righteous rage.
"Gods!?" The voice that ripped from him was barely human. "GODS!? You dare ask for their mercy!? You dare beg for salvation!?"
He advanced, Nightfall held low. "Did you hear her cries!? Did you hear her prayers!? You spat on the gods! You befouled their world! And they have sent me!"
James raised his blade, a desperate, clumsy parry. Arthur swung with all the unholy strength the runes provided. The sound of steel shattering rang through the graveyard. James's blade split in half. Yet Nightfall did not stop. It carved through the lordling's steel pauldron, sheared through the mail links beneath as if they were thread, and bit deep into the meat and bone of his shoulder. James collapsed, his sword arm hanging by a ruin of flesh.
The last two guards threw their swords down and tried to flee in opposite directions. Arthur was on them in a heartbeat. He did not kill them. Death was too kind. He moved between them, a flash of steel, and two more screams joined the rest. One man clutched the stump of his leg, the other the ruin of his arm.
Five men lay in the graveyard, broken but alive, writhing among the dead. Their agonized screams were the only sound in the night.
Tim, the stablehand, emerged from the shadow of the crypt. His face was a ghastly mask of grief, his eyes wide, drinking in the sight of the five broken men who writhed and wept in the dirt. He was a simple man, and this... this was a thing from a nightmare.
Arthur Manderly stood in the center of the ruin he had wrought, the bloody red glow of the runes on his skin pulsing in time with his cold, steady heart. He turned his head, his voice gave a shrill, icy rasp, like the sound of a blade being drawn over stone.
"What manner of death do you wish upon them?" he asked. "Painful... or agonizing?
Tim's body shook, not with fear, but with a sudden, visceral hatred that burned away his sorrow. His voice was a low, broken growl. "Agonizing, my lord," he choked out, tears of rage cutting new paths down his dirty cheeks. "Make them... make them suffer hell. A thousand times more than what they put my daughter through. A thousand times."
Arthur nodded once. It was a solemn, holy gesture.
He walked to James Mooton, who lay clutching the bloody ruin of his shoulder, his teeth chattering. Arthur drove Nightfall into the graveyard earth, the Valyrian blade sinking deep, a dark sentinel. From his belt, he drew a long, thin dagger with a serrated edge.
Kneeling, Arthur grabbed a handful of Mooton's hair, yanking his head back.
"Look at me!!!" he commanded.
James's eyes, wide with terror, met his. Arthur's lips moved, shaping ancient, guttural words that the Seven had long forbidden. He pricked James's throat and smeared the blood along the dagger's blade.
At once, the steel ignited, not with flame, but with a shimmering, bloody light, a heat that seemed to burn cold.
"You were a knight," Arthur's warped voice hissed, "Pledged to protect the innocent."
He used the glowing dagger to cut the straps of Mooton's armor, the unnatural edge shearing through boiled leather and mail as if they were silk. He tore the gambeson away, exposing the lordling's pale, trembling flesh.
"Instead, you chose to be a monster." Arthur declared. He laid the tip of the dagger on James' chest and began to carve. "People have nightmares about monsters in the night. And the monsters, they have nightmares about ME!"
The cut was a slow, meticulous incision, tracing the line of the man's ribs. James's scream was a thing of pure, unadulterated agony, a sound that should have shattered his lungs.
"I am The Sword Of The Gods. I am their Wrath and their Vengeance. I rain Hellfire upon the Wicked. Now begins your Eternal Torment."
As the man's body convulsed, threatening to fall into the black mercy of shock, Arthur paused. He pressed his rune-covered thumb to Mooton's forehead, searing a single, glowing mark into his skin.
Arthur whispered, as the man's eyes rolled. "You will not die. Not until I permit it. Not until I reach your tainted soul itself."
Suddenly, a sharp thwack cut through the night. An arrow, black-fletched, struck Arthur square in the back. It did not pierce. The runes flared, and the arrowhead sizzled against his skin, deflected by the protective shield, clattering harmlessly to the ground.
Arthur rose, his head snapping toward the darkness beyond the crypts. A sixth man. An archer, hidden. He moved to attack, Nightfall leaping from the earth into his hand. But the man simply... fell. A shadow detached itself from the deeper gloom, and Arthur's heart, the one thing the runes could not freeze, seized in his chest. Marie.
Marie held a bloody dagger standing above the archer. She stepped into the dim, red light of the graveyard, her eyes finding Arthur. She saw the runes on his skin, the blood-fire on his dagger, the broken men screaming at his feet, and a cold dread filled him.
She sees the monster. She sees the truth.
But Marie did not recoil. Her face was hard, set, her eyes as cold as his own. She looked at the writhing form of James Mooton, then back to Arthur. There was no judgment, no fear. Only a silent, terrible approval. She gave him a single, sharp nod.
Arthur nodded back. The worry vanished, replaced by a grim, profound understanding. She, too, knew what it was to live in a world that demanded fear and blood.
He turned back to his work.
One by one, he moved through the remaining men. The runic barrier he had placed around the graveyard swallowed their screams, a ring of damnation that no sound could escape.
He was an artist, a butcher, a priest. He skinned them first, the blood-fire dagger peeling back their flesh while the life-rune kept them horribly, perfectly conscious.
Then, he cut the meat from their bodies and then broke every bone, listening to the wet crunches over their unceasing, silent screams.
They felt it all. They lived through every second, every cut, every snap, drowning in an ocean of agony, unable to die.
Only when the five men were nothing but ruined, flayed heaps of flesh and shattered bone, their eyes still wide with an impossible, living torment, did Arthur grant them release.
Arthur retrieved Nightfall from the earth. He raised the dark blade, and plunged it into their hearts. One by one, the screams finally stopped.
Arthur stood, breathing heavily, the red glow of the runes fading from his skin. He felt the barrier dissolve, the normal sounds of the city at night, a distant bell, the wind in the trees, rushing back in.
Arthur, Tim, and Marie stood alone in the carnage, bound by a secret written in blood and vengeance. Arthur looked at the six corpses, his promise kept, his honor satisfied, his soul... stained, yet body strengthened.
Arthur left the bodies for the crows. And vowed to himself, he would find them in the seven hells again.
The morning was grey and heavy with mist. Banners above Maidenpool hung limp in the still air, their colors muted, as though the town itself were mourning. Bells tolled from the sept, not for worship, but for the dead.
Lord Mooton had ordered an inquiry. The corpse of his brother, Ser James, had been found in the sept's graveyard alongside the others, broken, bloodied, and marked in ways no maester could explain. Fear rode the streets, and rumor with it.
Yet before Lord Mooton's men could twist the tale to their favor, evidence began to surface like bones from shallow soil. The septons came forth with confessions stolen from Mathos's own ledgers. Women and smallfolk whispered names in the ear of Chataya's agents, and soon the whole city knew the truth.
Ser James Mooton and his companions had taken their pleasures where they pleased, in shadows and silence, beneath the pretense of holy duty. They had stolen innocence and spilt blood. The revelation spread like wildfire through the town.
The people turned on their lord, hurling stones at Mooton banners and demanding justice his house had long denied. Even the septons, cowed for years, called the crimes abominable. Lord Mooton was forced to stand on the battlements of his own hall as the city below cursed his name.
It might have turned to revolt had Arthur not come forward. He rode before the crowd in his sea-green cloak, the silver merman glinting at his breast. His voice was calm but cold as he spoke of recompense, gold for the bereaved, homes for the broken, and protection for those left behind.
Arthur did not call for vengeance, nor did he allow mercy for the guilty. He spoke instead of order, of justice done and balance restored. By sundown, the mobs had dispersed. The people hailed him as a true lord.
When the dust settled, Arthur pressed the advantage. In Lord Mooton's hall, the defeated lord sat pale and hollow-eyed, the weight of his brother's sins dragging him low.
Arthur's terms were spoken quietly, almost kindly, the right of a fort at the harbor, for keeping a garrison under Manderly command, and to ensure protection of the trade through the bay. Mooton signed without protest.
By nightfall, Maidenpool belonged more to White Harbor than to its lord. But Arthur found no joy in it. The tourney banners still fluttered in the distance, crimson, gold, and azure, yet he wanted no part in their pageantry. Victory would have felt like ash.
Arthur was in his chambers the next morning, overseeing the last of his trunks being loaded aboard Mermaid's Tears, when a knock came at the door. Tim entered, face lean and weary, his hands still stained faintly from the soil of the graveyard.
"M'lord," Time said, bowing his head low. "May I have a moment of your time?"
Arthur nodded, "Of course."
Tim's voice trembled, though his words were steady. "I beg your forgiveness, m'lord, I can no longer be your stablehand."
Arthur studied him for a long moment. He had feared this might come. Tim knew too much and seen what happened... what Arthur had done. Yet the man's eyes were not those of one who meant betrayal. They were tired, emptied of all but sorrow.
"What do you plan to do then?" Arthur asked softly.
Tim's lips curved into a faint, fragile smile. "M'lord, I have decided to go to the Quiet Isle. I shall devote myself to the Stranger, and spend what life remains to me in silence. There is nothing left for me here, save memories that burn."
Arthur studied the man before him, his heart sinking like an anchor in black water. Tim stood by the hearth, the firelight drawing lines upon his face, the face of a man who had aged twenty years in a night. His eyes, once kind and quick to smile when speaking of horses or his little girl, were now hollow, rimmed red from tears that would not stop coming.
Arthur spoke softly, though even to his own ears his voice sounded distant. "Why do you seek that, Tim? You can come with me. I'll see you given a proper station, a steward's post, perhaps. You've served me loyally. You could start anew… rebuild a life."
For a heartbeat, he thought the man might consider it. But Tim only smiled, that faint, broken smile of a man who had forgotten how to hope.
Silent tears welled in his eyes as Tim answered, "I no longer have a life, m'lord."
He looked into the fire as he spoke, the flames reflecting in his wet eyes. "I loved my wife and I still do. She died giving birth to my Faith, my little sun, my sweet, laughing girl. I promised her mother I'd protect her, raise her right, keep her safe."
His voice cracked, rough as gravel. "And I failed. I failed them both."
Arthur opened his mouth, but no words came.
Tim went on, each word heavy with the weight of loss. "If you had not delivered justice for her, m'lord, I'd have hanged myself from the elm where she died. The Stranger would've had me sooner. But you gave me… something. A final gift. And now I must find peace, if it can be found for such a man as me."
Tim drew a shaking breath. "I'd go to the Quiet Isle. There I will keep the vows of silence. I'd serve the Stranger until He comes for me. When He does, I'll beg my Faith's forgiveness, and her mother's too. I would finally be with them. I'd hold my girl again, and kiss her brow, and never let her go."
His voice trembled into silence. Only the fire crackled between them.
Arthur felt his chest tighten painfully. He looked down at his hands, the same hands that had wielded Nightfall in the graveyard. Hands that had dealt death and delivered vengeance, yet could not mend what was lost.
Arthur forced himself to speak, though his voice was hoarse. "You shall have what you seek. We sail on the morrow. The Mermaid's Tears will put you ashore at the Quiet Isle before turning north."
Tim bowed deeply, tears tracing clean lines through the dirt on his cheeks. "You have my thanks, m'lord. I shall pray for you when I take my vows. I'll pray that you find what you seek."
Arthur looked up, for a moment, he thought to ask what Tim meant, but the words died in his throat. "Go then," he said quietly. "And may the gods grant you mercy."
Tim smiled one last time, small, weary, but real. "And may they grant you the same, m'lord."
When the door closed behind him, Arthur stood there in silence. The crackle of the hearth faded to a whisper.
The world outside was brightening with dawn, but Arthur felt no warmth in it. The sea waited below, vast and gray, the mists curling over the harbor like shrouds. He turned from the window at last, whispering to no one, "Mercy is for men who can still find peace."
And with that, Arthur went to get his horse.
The morning light spilled like pale wine across the stable floor. Marie stood beside Midnight, her hand brushing through the stallion's dark mane. The beast, once so untamed that even Donnel had feared his teeth, stood quiet as a lamb beneath her touch.
She looked up when Arthur entered. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her cheeks pale. Even now, there was a certain beauty about her, though it was a weary one. The kind that clings to those who've seen too much grief and learned to smile through it.
Arthur managed a small smile of his own. "Be careful, miss. The horse might want to take you home with him."
Marie's lips curved faintly, though her eyes did not brighten. "That would be a fine thing," she said softly, stroking Midnight's muzzle.
Arthur stepped closer, his hand resting on the stall's wooden gate. "How are you faring?" he asked, though he knew the answer.
Marie wiped at her cheek with the back of her hand. "As well as one can be," she said after a pause. "It's strange, isn't it? How one person, one little soul, can become so important to us so quickly..... I will miss her very dearly."
Arthur felt his throat tighten. "As will I," he murmured.
Arthur wanted to tell her everything, of the runes that burned like brands upon his skin, of all the blood that stained his dreams, of how he'd watched the life drain from those men's eyes and felt… their pain and sometimes quiet satisfaction.
But before he could speak, Marie turned to him. "Arthur," she said, her voice steady despite the tremor in it, "can you promise me something?"
He nodded. "Anything."
She held his gaze. "Promise me you'll stop when the time comes."
Arthur frowned slightly. "Stop?"
"Stop before you lose yourself," she said. "Promise me that one day you'll find a wife… build a home… raise little children, and have a beautiful life upon some hill. Promise me that when that day comes, you'll forgive yourself for the things you've done to get there."
Arthur's chest ached as she spoke. Marie stood before him, hands folded, the hay and sunlight framing her like a dream half remembered. She did not see the blood on his hands or the shadow that followed him; she saw only the man he could be, not the one he feared he already was.
He wanted to tell her that the home she spoke of could only ever be built beside her. But he knew what she would say. That her path lay elsewhere, always half in shadow, beside Chataya's secrets.
Arthur only nodded, his voice low. "I promise."
Marie smiled at that, softly, faintly, like sunlight breaking through the clouds. "Good," she whispered.
Then she turned and, with a smooth motion, climbed onto Midnight's back. The horse stamped once, snorted, then grew still under her.
"Will you stay a while?" she asked.
Arthur's lips curved despite himself. "Aye," he said.
They rode together that morning, through the green hills above Maidenpool, the sea glimmering far below like a sheet of glass. They spoke of nothing and everything all at once. When the sun began to fall behind the trees, painting the sky in rose and gold, Arthur knew it had been their last ride here in these silent hills.
That evening, aboard his flagship Mermaid's Tears, as the harbor lights dwindled behind him, Arthur sat in his cabin with parchment and ink. The candlelight flickered as he wrote, each word a vow, each line a memory.
"She spoke of a home with a gentle flame,
Where laughter lingered soft as a prayer,
A home of song and dance, under moonlit night,
Filled with the warmth of love and her shining light."
When he was done, Arthur folded the parchment carefully and sealed it with wax. Then he watched it burn in the candle flame until only ash remained. Outside, the sea was dark and endless. The ship groaned against the wind.
Arthur watched the smoke drift upward and whispered, "Someday, perhaps… upon a hill."