Snow fell in thick, relentless sheets, blanketing the icebound clearing like a shroud. Theon Stark's boots sank slightly with each step, his breath misting in the frigid air. Before him, the remnants of Rogar Snow's bandits quivered—some from fear, some from the cold—and their leader, Rogar himself, loomed large, gripping a sword in each hand. There was a dangerous elegance to his stance, the balance and menace of a man who had long trained in dual swords.
Theon's chest tightened—not with fear, but recognition. Of course.
A familiar cold precision stirred in his veins. He was Emiya, the Counter Guardian of Alaya. Wrought Iron Hero, Faker, Dog of Alaya. His skills with sword and bow were unmatched, able to rival even the greatest heroes and gods. In the past life, his twin swords—Kanshō and Bakuya—had sung death's melody in countless battles. Now, armed differently, he could feel the same cold whisper of steel in his hands. To others, a sword might mean defense, protection, or honor. To him, it meant death, judgment, and execution. Mercy had no place here.
He had long suppressed this side of himself, refusing to live as the embodiment of bloodshed and misery he had once been. But these bandits—chaos incarnate—had left no choice. They were predators without conscience, killers who looted, raped, and destroyed without agenda or honor. They were prey for justice, and Theon was the predator.
He walked forward, each step measured, each breath steady. Rogar's men flinched, their courage faltering as the boy approached. One had already been cleaved in two; snow and blood mingled underfoot.
"What are you gawking at, fuckers? Attack him!" Rogar screamed, snapping his men into action.
The bandits charged as one, shouting, weapons raised. Theon ran to meet them, a whirlwind of motion. His sword struck the first man, slicing through his torso like paper. Another attacker swung a jagged cleaver; Theon ducked, spinning, and drove his blade through the man's ribs. The snow beneath him was stained crimson almost instantly.
Around him, Roderick, Medrick, and Martyn fought valiantly, but their eyes kept darting to the boy lord. They had seen him best men twice his size, but this—the sheer speed, precision, and deadly artistry—was beyond comprehension. Even the mountain surveyors, bundled in furs, stared wide-eyed at the carnage.
"Gods be good…" Martyn muttered. "He's… he's executing them."
"No," Roderick said, his voice tight with awe. "He's death itself."
Theon moved fluidly, each strike calculated and perfect. A bandit swung a flail, but Theon twisted aside, letting it smash harmlessly into the snow, then drove his blade into the man's chest. Another lunged from behind, and Theon pivoted, slicing through arm and torso in a single, seamless motion. Blood splattered and snow mixed in a dance of horror and beauty.
Meiyun Dao clutched the wagon's side, trembling. "He… he fights like the god of death. The swords… they're alive, following his command."
Omero Seryn nodded silently, eyes wide. "Look at his eyes… no fear, no rage, only cold judgment. He is the law, the executioner. He judges and condemns without hesitation."
The raiders faltered, panic replacing fury. Even Rogar's closest men began to hesitate. But their leader's face twisted in rage.
"You motherfucker!" Rogar shouted, fury and fear mingling. "You killed my men! I'll kill you today! I'm not afraid of you!"
Theon did not speak. He walked forward slowly, his sword steady. Rogar's chest heaved, anger surging into a frenzy. He swung his axe in a massive arc, screaming as if he could intimidate death itself. But before the blade could strike, Theon's own sword flashed, cutting clean through Rogar's abdomen. Blood poured forth like a crimson river.
Rogar staggered, clutching the wound, his legs rooted in the snow while his upper body sagged. His eyes widened in disbelief as his life drained away. Theon's step was silent, deliberate, each movement final.
"The last thing you will remember," Theon said, voice low, ice-cold, "is my sword cutting you in two."
Rogar's scream was muffled by the snow as his body collapsed, the last of his defiance extinguished. Silence fell over the clearing. The women, the mountain surveyors, the soldiers—all stared, breathless, as the boy who had just danced death across the field stood unscathed, calm, and resolute.
Roderick's voice was rough, trembling with awe. "By the old gods… he fights like a man who's carried a thousand winters."
Theon's gaze swept the field. Not a single bandit remained standing. Bodies were scattered, weapons broken, snow stained dark with blood. He sheathed his sword slowly, almost reverently.
Medrick remembered the sparring yard back at Winterfell. You didn't use your full potential then… he thought, mouth agape.
Theon turned, eyes cold and unyielding, scanning the clearing. He had used his skills not for glory, not for terror, but for justice—for punishing those who lived only to prey upon the innocent. In the midst of the North's icy winds, Theon Stark had shown the world a glimpse of something ancient, something terrifying: the wolf that winter itself had tempered, and the man he once was—Emiya—lurking beneath, watching, judging, and executing with absolute precision.
The clearing was silent except for the wind, the snow falling steadily, as though the forest itself had paused to witness the young lord's judgment. Theon's furs were dusted with red; his small hands held the sword with the calm authority of a veteran warrior. He was no longer just a boy. He was a force, a predator, and a protector.
And all who had survived—or who would later hear of this day—would know the name: Theon Stark, the wolf of Winterfell, the boy who could wield death itself. The snow lay thick, but now it was streaked red, crimson soaking the white like ink dropped in water. The clearing was silent except for the soft hiss of falling snow and the occasional groan from those who had barely escaped the slaughter. Theon Stark's small figure stood among the chaos, sword still in hand, eyes scanning the frozen forest as if expecting another ambush.
Roderick approached first, cautious, boots crunching over the bodies. His hands trembled as he lowered his shield. "By the old gods… I've seen many battles, many skilled men, but nothing like this… nothing," he whispered, voice tight with awe.
Medrick Manderly, still gripping his sword, wiped the blood from his face, eyes wide. "He… he didn't just fight. He danced. Each strike… it was precise… perfect. Like death itself had taken a boyish form." He shook his head, disbelief etched into every line of his face. "I… I've never seen anything like it. Not in the North. Not anywhere."
Martyn, breathing hard, surveyed the carnage. "They… they were a band of the worst sort. Rogar Snow and his kin have terrorized villages for months. And yet… every one of them fell to a boy. A boy!" His voice cracked slightly.
The mountain surveyors, bundled in furs and still trembling, emerged from the wagons. Omero Seryn's sharp eyes scanned the scene, unblinking. "Look at his eyes," he said softly, almost to himself. "No joy. No rage. Only… judgment. He did not kill for sport, for anger, or revenge. He killed because that was the law he embodies."
Corlys Veynar nodded. "It's… terrifying and beautiful at the same time. I have studied master swordsmen for decades, but I have never seen a display like this. Every move measured, every death exact, every strike… a sentence."
Lin Yueru, her hands gripping her cloak tightly, whispered, "I have never seen a child—or a man—fight like that. He is… he is something else. Something I cannot even name. He is not of this world."
Meiyun Dao covered her face, trembling. "Gods… he is like a god of death walking among men. The snow… the blood… the way the blades moved… it's like they were alive, singing at his command."
The soldiers began regrouping, forming a protective circle around the surviving women and the mountain surveyors. They were cautious now, eyes darting into the trees, half-expecting another wave of attackers. But the forest was silent, broken only by the soft hiss of the wind through the branches.
Theon lowered his sword slowly, sheath sliding home with a quiet hiss. His eyes, still sharp and calculating, swept the battlefield once more. Not a single bandit remained standing except for Rogar Snow's corpse, collapsed in the snow, half-buried in crimson. Theon's hand brushed the snow, leaving streaks of blood, and he took a measured step forward, as if even in victory, he must maintain order.
Roderick's voice was hesitant. "Theon… you… you didn't even break a sweat. How—how can a boy do this?"
Theon's voice was low, calm, and unnervingly cold. "I do what must be done. They left no choice. Justice is not mercy." He looked to the mountain surveyors. "Are you unharmed?"
Omero stepped forward, eyes still wide, the fur around his neck wet with snow and blood. "We… we are. Thanks to you, Lord Theon. Thanks to you, none of us were touched."
Meiyun Dao's hands shook as she finally looked up at him. "This… this is the North. It is harsh, cruel, and relentless. But nothing… nothing could have prepared me for you. You are… a force unlike any other."
Theon's eyes softened slightly, just for a moment, as he scanned the faces of those he protected. The cold judgment faded just enough to reveal the boy beneath the warrior. "This is why we prepare," he said. "Why we train. So that none are prey. So that no one suffers because of men like Rogar Snow."
Medrick stepped closer, lowering his sword. "And yet… how does one boy carry the weight of so much death? So many lives ended in minutes by your hands…" His voice faltered, a mix of awe and fear.
Theon's gaze hardened. "I do not carry it for myself. I carry it for those who cannot defend themselves. For the North. For Winterfell. For the people who trust us."
The silence of the clearing returned, thick and heavy. Only the wind and the occasional drip of melting snow disturbed the scene. Soldiers and surveyors alike began clearing the fallen, dragging bodies from the path, covering the dead with blankets, and checking the wounded.
Roderick leaned close to Theon, voice low. "The men you fought… their eyes, the fear… they said things would live in their memory forever. What will you remember?"
Theon's gaze swept over the fallen, the red-stained snow, the mangled weapons. He knelt briefly, pressing a hand to the frozen ground, feeling the blood soak through his glove. "I remember their choices," he said softly. "And the ones who left others to die. That is enough."
The mountain surveyors, still shaking, murmured among themselves. Omero turned to Theon. "I have seen many warriors in my life, from Braavos to Yi Ti. Some are legends, some are myths. But you… you are something entirely different. You are not a legend yet, and perhaps you should not be. You are… the storm of Winterfell."
Lin Yueru's voice, small and trembling, finally spoke. "In Yi Ti, we have stories of warriors who could kill without mercy, who danced with death and survived. But never… never have I seen one so young, yet so absolute."
Meiyun Dao nodded in agreement. "A child… yet a god of death. A protector… yet a predator. He is… beyond comprehension."
Theon rose fully, shoulders squared, breath misting in the cold air. His eyes swept the forest again. No more movement. Rogar Snow and his men were gone, reduced to lifeless forms in the snow. The boy lord's expression remained unreadable, but inside, a familiar echo stirred—a side of himself he had long tried to suppress. Emiya.
But Theon's lips curved slightly. "Not today," he whispered. "Not here. This is Winterfell. This is the North. My people are safe."
And with that, he turned, leading the survivors and the mountain surveyors further into the frozen forest, toward the mountains, the wind carrying the sound of silence and judgment, a warning to any who would dare prey upon the North again.
The snow continued to fall, red-streaked and unyielding, as the boy lord of Winterfell—Theon Stark—walked on, a predator among men, yet protector of all who could not fight for themselves.
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