Guys, I wish I could write more often, but I just don't have much time for this hobby. I'll try to write as much as I can, but expect slow releases.
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they are right there, in front of me... committing brutalities... My blood began to boil with such intensity that I was practically growling; The fury consumed him.
"Milord... we are ready," one of my men said softly.
I looked around. I saw the fear in the victims' eyes, the gray of the tundra, the smell of sweat and misery. The waiting was over.
"Shoot the arrows!" He saw the fate of each one; none would escape.
The volley of bolts was a dry whip slicing through the silence. A chorus of painful screams arose. The carnage had begun.
My mercenaries quickly put away their crossbows and took out their swords.
"Attack!" I gripped my sword firmly and advanced. The blade felt like a cold extension of my arm.
The first bandit barely reacted to my advance. The horizontal strike was quick and low. A spray of warm, dark blood splattered onto my face before the body fell. The head rolled on the dirt.
Three bandits who were tormenting a young woman stood up and came towards me, shocked, striking in a disorganized manner.
"Too slow..."
I parried the first blow with the side of my sword, the metal sang. I cut the attacker's throat in a quick, messy strike. The sound of air escaping through a torn hole. He raised his hand, surprised. I kicked him in the chest, sending him flying over the third one.
The third one tried to flee, terrified. I reached him in two steps. I plunged the sword through his back, from the nape of his neck to his mouth.
Fear froze in everyone's eyes. I pulled the blade out, tearing what was left.
"Kill them all!" His voice came out in a hoarse, grave roar.
The second bandit got rid of his friend's body and tried to grab the axe stuck on the corpse. I struck with the sword; he tried to defend with his forearm. I lifted the blade slightly so as not to dismember him... The arm was held by a thread of flesh.
"Aaaaaaaaah!" The sharp scream was his last word. I stabbed the blade into his throat.
The brief silence after the blow was punctuated only by the clang of iron and the final screams of the wounded. I was covered in blood, standing over a pile of bodies. Voices of shock from the adversaries were heard and praises from my men as well.
A remaining bandit, his hand trembling, held a woman and pressed a knife to her throat. She had lifeless eyes, dark as pitch, a poorly dressed body...
I took a step forward. He looked at my blade, which was dripping the blood of his friends. He saw death in my eyes, not a chance for negotiation.
"I'll kill her if you come closer!" the panicked bandit yelled.
I looked around. All the other bandits had been cut down. The rescued women were gathered together; all were in terrible shape.
One of my men approached, looking at the bandit. "Milord, everyone has been killed, and the women... have been rescued."
I looked at him and nodded slightly. "Excellent."
"Let me go! Or she dies!" The bandit, desperate now that he was alone, shouted, pressing the blade against the woman's neck.
He was already dead... he just didn't know it...
"Release her and you live..." I spoke slowly, my eyes fixed on his.
"No! She comes with me!" He tried to walk backward, but my men surrounded him, closing the trap.
"Get away from me!" he yelled in despair.
"Release her and you live..." I repeated, now approaching step by step. He flinched, terror finally breaking his resolve.
"You promise?" he spoke in despair. "Swear by the Old Gods and the New!"
I spit on the ground and handed my sword to the captain of the mercenaries beside me. "Clean the blood." He nodded. "Of course, milord."
Now, bare-handed, I approached. "Drop her."
The bandit looked desperately from side to side, spinning with the woman still in his arms, and then looked me in the eyes. He looked for mercy but only found Willian's coldness.
"I'll let go, but swear!"
"I don't swear to vermin... Release her now."
He let go of the woman and pushed her toward me. My guard intercepted her and held her in his arms. I nodded to him in thanks.
"Now let me go!" the bandit clutched the knife in complete desperation.
I looked around for someone... There was the old man with the scar on his ear. "Arwin, you worked for the Boltons..." The man stepped forward, with a dry smile. "Yes, milord, but now I'm in your service."
"Excellent. I suppose you have experience with Bolton things, then..." He nodded his head, understanding what I was getting at. Arwin's smile widened.
"Let me go! Your lord promises..." Sound of a punch. "Shut up, worm!" The cry of one of my mercenaries.
"Make him suffer." I started walking toward the women.
Soon, a cacophony of cries of despair arose from the bandits' camp. I looked at the women who were huddled in fear... Among them, a younger one, better dressed, but still horrified by what she went through...
"It's over now, I'll take you to White Harbor," I said as peacefully as possible, but the bandit's piercing scream seemed to break my intention of appearing as a savior.
Willian turned his back on Arwin's screams and walked slowly toward the group of reunited hostages, trying to wipe the coagulated blood from his face with his gloved hand. The heavy air of the camp, previously filled with fury and fear, now smelled only of iron and smoke.
The younger, better-dressed woman stood out. Her dress, though torn and dirty with mud, was of fine fabric, perhaps dark silk. She was sitting on the ground, her knees to her chest, and trembling, but her eyes, blue or green, were not empty. They were fixed on him, full of dread, but also a glacial intelligence. She had resilience; she managed to endure the horror without breaking.
Willian knelt at a respectful distance. The bandit's scream was almost unbearable, but he ignored it.
"It is over," he said, maintaining a low, authoritative tone. "I am Willian Corvinus, Eddard Stark's nephew. You are safe."
The woman recoiled slightly, as if Willian were about to strike her.
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"Your name," Willian insisted, softly, but with the authority that his blood-stained armor conferred. "I need to know who you are so I can return you to your home." He looked at the other women who seemed broken beyond repair, barely able to whimper.
'This world is fucked…'
She blinked, the terror turning to reluctance and, finally, resignation.
"I am Lina," she whispered, her voice hoarse, almost broken. "I was part of the Red Roses caravan, led by Amelia. I am a nobody."
Willian nodded, the surprise turning into relief and pragmatism. No political crisis...
His eyes turned again to the other women... his fists clenched tightly... it was one thing to execute a criminal, another to see the horror he caused his victims...
'It's not my fault, but... I'll find a place for them... maybe in the soap workshop...'
"Lina," Willian asked, "the leader of your company, Amelia. Where is she now? Where would your meeting point be?" Lina, still trembling, replied: "In White Harbor, Milord. We were going to meet her to close a deal. She is waiting at the port, in one of the taverns near the Manderly fleet."
Willian stood up, the decision made. The Red Roses caravan and its leader, Amelia, had been attacked in his territory. He would go with an apology and perhaps, a business opportunity.
"Gather everyone and bury the bodies," he ordered his mercenaries, his voice grave. "Our journey continues. We will go to White Harbor. We will find Amelia."
Two days later. White Harbor - Port District. Willian arrived, without fanfare, with his mercenary guard and the survivors, now sheltered inside the carriage, some taken to the workshops in an attempt to give them a dignified life post-trauma.
Willian was focused on his goal: finding the leader of the Red Roses. He scoured the taverns. Then, in the middle of the agitated crowd of sailors and merchants, someone bumped into him.
A fluttering red cloak. Long black hair. A beautiful young woman running.
Willian stared—not because of her beauty, but because of her strange resemblance to someone he had seen in another life. Another movie.
Stunned, he barely noticed the soft voice beside him. "Excuse me. My younger sister is a bit... excitable. She doesn't pay much attention to good manners," the woman said.
Willian turned—and was stunned again. She looked like another person he knew.
'How can people be so alike?' he wondered.
The woman noticed his expression. "My name is Amelia, of the Red Roses. Again, I apologize for my sister's imprudence," she said, extending her hand.
"Willian Corvinus. Pleased to meet you," he replied, looking at the girl in the red cloak running ahead—so similar to Selene, only younger, perhaps 14 years old. And Amelia? A mirror of Sonja.
"She is a good person. She just... acts badly sometimes," Amelia said, trying to soften her sister's behavior.
"Oh, don't worry. I have someone like that in my family. I understand. But you said Red Roses—the mercantile group?" Willian asked.
Amelia smiled, her gaze insightful. "Do you doubt a woman's capacity to be a merchant, Lord Corvinus?"
Willian quickly replied. "Not at all. I don't doubt a woman's capacity in any role. I was actively looking for you, Amelia. Your caravan, the Red Roses... was attacked in the North. And I also wanted to talk about business."
Her gaze softened, but a hint of shock and anger emerged.
Then came the interruption. "Sis, what audacity. But I approve. He's a hunk," the girl in the red cloak said, pointing at Willian with a malicious smile.
"What are you saying, Emilly? I was just apologizing for your rudeness, and he's too young for me," Amelia said, blushing.
"My rudeness? Don't lie, Amelia, I know when you're interested in someone," Emilly provoked. Then she turned to Willian, sizing him up.
"Nice... What do you think of my sister? She's a bit old, but you won't regret it," Emilly said, sounding like a playful madam.
Amelia lunged toward her sister, trying to silence her. "Excuse me, I need to go now," Amelia said, dragging Emilly into the crowd. She looked quickly at Willian, the shock of the news still evident in her eyes. "Let's meet now, Lord Corvinus. We need a quieter place to discuss the details... and the terms for my services."
'What services...? We haven't talked about anything yet...'
Willian watched them disappear into the sea of people.
'Nice ass...'
For a moment, he froze, his gaze fixed on the space they had left behind.
Sonja. Selene. The names echoed in his head, involuntarily. Faces from another life, another world—and yet, here they were, etched into strangers. The resemblance was too sharp, too precise to be a coincidence.
He clenched his jaw, not wanting to empower the thought. Perhaps it was just his mind, desperate to cling to what was gone, weaving illusions from coincidences. And yet... Willian had lived long enough to know that fate did not play dice aimlessly.
'I hope there are no vampires... things are complicated enough already.'
If the past was catching up to him, testing him through these mirrors, what would it demand? What role should these women play in this world of shifting loyalties and hidden daggers?
'To be my wives...? Well... who knows.'
With a long breath, he pushed away the ghosts. The streets were still bustling, and he had many things to deal with. But the weight of memory persisted, whispering that fate had just passed him by in a red cloak and a mischievous smile...