Support me on patreon.com/c/Striker2025
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Year: 266 AC (Early Spring)
Location: A nameless Northern hamlet
The thaw came late, turning snow to piss-yellow slush. Arthur stood barefoot in the muck behind Lysa's shack, a sharpened stick in his hand. His ribs jutted under his tunic, but his stance was firm—knees bent, shoulders square. A ghost of the Iron Mountain Form.
He thrust the stick at a gnarled pine. Thwack. Bark flew.
"Oi, Scrap Boy!"
Tomm, the miller's son, loomed with his pack of mud-streaked shadows. "Playin' at swords now? Think yer some lord's bastard?"
Arthur ignored him. Thwack.
Tomm kicked slush at his feet. "Heard Hobb say ye're cursed. That true? Yer mam died spittin' ye out—"
The stick froze mid-swing. Arthur turned, slow. "Say it again."
Tomm puffed up, but his friends edged back. "Or what? Yer just a bastard. No name, no—"
Arthur moved. Not fast—but right. Shoulder to gut, leg hooked behind Tomm's knee. The bigger boy crashed into the mud with a wet thud.
Arthur stood over him, stick pointed at his throat. "Next time, I use this."
Silence. Then Tomm scrambled up, face purple. "Ye're dead, Snow!" He fled, his pack trailing like whipped dogs.
Arthur spat in the mud. Weak.
The Well – Noon
He whittled a throwing wedge, his knife—rusty but his—peeling curls of wood.
Lysa's shadow fell over him. "What's that fool thing?" She shoved a bowl of gruel at him. "Eat. Yer bones're showin'."
"For trade," Arthur lied.
She snorted. "Ain't nobody want yer scraps. Old Meg says ye howled when ye were born—like a wolf. Bad luck, that."
He met her eyes. "Luck ain't got nothin' to do with it."
She crossed herself. "Demon," she muttered, but left him be.
Wolfswood – Dusk
The trees whispered. Arthur moved like smoke, wedge in hand.
A fox nosed through the brush.
Breathe. Wait.
The wedge flew. Crack. The fox dropped.
Arthur crouched, skinning it with quick cuts. Blood warmed his fingers. He tore into the meat, raw and rich. Strength.
The pelt joined his stash under the floorboards: nails, wire, a spoon bent like a claw.
Lysa snored. Arthur stared at his knife.
Trash. But it'll do.
Outside, the wind howled. Somewhere, Tomm seethed. Somewhere, Hobb cursed his burns.
Arthur smiled.
"Come at me," he told the dark. "I'll be ready."