Games of Thrones: The Heavenly Demon of North

I sincerely apologize for the repetition of a chapter. To make up for it, I'll be releasing not just the corrected one but also an additional chapter as a token of appreciation for your patience

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The Green Fork curved southward, brown waters glinting under a pale sun. Arthur followed it for two days, passing villages hollowed by fire and ash. Roofbeams sagged where flames had eaten the timbers, and widows trudged with carts piled high with all they had left.

One afternoon he came upon a group of them at the roadside—three women, five children, their eyes ringed black with hunger. A ragged boy scowled at him as he drew near.

"Where are you from?" Arthur asked, his voice even.

"Lord Harroway's Town… it's gone now," the eldest woman rasped. "Fire spreading on every street."

"Not only fire," the boy spat. "Sellswords. Said they are fighting for some lord, but they stole and burned like madmen."

"Jory," the woman snapped, cuffing him lightly. "Mind your tongue."

Arthur dismounted without a word, unstrapping a leather pack from his saddle. He laid down smoked venison, two loaves, and a waterskin. The scent made the smallest child whimper, reaching.

"Eat," Arthur said, straightening. "Walk south. Leave the road when you can."

The woman's eyes brimmed as she bowed her head. "Seven keep you, ser. You're a true knight, a lord among men."

Arthur turned away without answering, swung back into his saddle, and was gone before they could look up again.

By dusk, the horizon broke open to the monstrous shape of Harrenhal. Its melted towers clawed upward, black against the reddening sky. The air around it shivered strangely, as though the stone itself remembered fire.

Arthur paused on the rise, eyes narrowing. He reached outward, tasting the qi that lingered in the ruin. It was twisted, warped, yet vast—like the scar of some divine creature's passing.

"Dragon fire," he murmured to himself. "So this world held them too."

In his past life he had hunted three of the four divine beasts. The Qilin, whose essence was clarity and dominion over the heavens. The White Tiger, embodiment of steel and death. And the Black Tortoise, whose shell carried the strength of mountains and the waters beneath them.

Each had brimming essence enough to remake a man, and Arthur had consumed them one by one, his body reforged, his soul sharpened beyond mortal bounds. Only one remained—the Imoogi, a serpent said to hunger toward the sky. Had he absorbed its heart, he would have crossed the threshold into true immortality.

But fate had not permitted it. His rise had drawn envy, fear, hatred. They came for him together—disciples, allies, lords, even those who once called him brother. Betrayal bled him out in a storm of blades and fire, and the final beast slipped from his grasp forever.

He pondered whether the gods in this place had made fun of him by providing him with an alternative route as he looked at Harrenhal's melted stone. It was said that the Imoogi will turn into a dragon after being tempered and matured by heaven's decree. And there used to be dragons in this world, but now there are none.

"A pity," Arthur murmured. "Had one lived still, half my power would already be mine again."

His thoughts drifted farther still. Perhaps in Sothoryos… a land whispered of in sailors' tales, teeming with fever, jungle, and monstrous beasts. He remembered the book Maester Walys had pressed into his hands years ago, a dry tome on the world's geography.

The maester's voice seemed to echo faintly in memory: "Beyond the Summer Sea, boy, lies Sothoryos. Few return from its shores, and those who do speak of scaled shadows and creatures the size of keeps. Beasts beyond reckoning."

At the time, Arthur had read the words with idle curiosity. Now, they struck differently. If the maester's word's were truth, perhaps there lay something worth hunting—something that might carry the essence he needed. Night had nearly fallen when they came out of the treeline—a ragged band of sellswords, blocking the road with spears and rust-pocked mail.

"We've seen you tossin' meat to beggars," their captain sneered, eyes on Arthur's saddlebags. "Must be a heavy purse to spare so much."

Arthur met his gaze without slowing. "I noticed you lot the moment you set eyes on me."

The man's lip curled.

"One man against twelve? Best give us the coin and the horse, before we take your life with them."

Laughter rippled through the band, harsh and mocking. Another stepped forward, his teeth brown and broken.

"Aye, and that face of yours—pretty as any maid. You'd fetch a fine price in the markets of Volantis!"

Arthur reined in, one hand resting on the black hilt of Reaper. "I don't think so."

A younger sellsword jeered. "Hear that, lads? Thinks himself a knight. Strip him, slow."

"Last chance," Arthur said flatly.

The captain spat in the dirt. "Kill him."

Steel rasped. Feet pounded the road. Arthur moved once.

Reaper sang free in a single, fluid motion. A ribbon of qi flared along its edge, brighter than moonlight. The stroke was so fast, so absolute, that for an instant the sellswords did not know they were already dead.

Then twelve bodies fell at once, lifeless thuds echoing into the trees.

Arthur exhaled, sliding the blade clean in the grass before sheathing it again.

High upon the walls of Harrenhal, a Whent retainer had been watching. His mouth hung open, knuckles white on the battlement.

"Twelve men, felled in one stroke… no man should hold such power."

Arthur's gaze lifted, sharp as a drawn bow. From across the distance, he raised a finger to his lips.

"Shhh."

The retainer froze. His breath caught, heart hammering. He saw me. From that distance… impossible.

Terror hollowed his face. He stumbled backward, pale as chalk.

"Monster," he gasped, crossing himself. "Monster. Stranger take me, I'll not tell it. Not a word. Not a word…"

He fled down the stairs, nearly tripping in his haste, vowing never to speak of what he had seen.

On the road below, Arthur drew his cloak tighter and walked on. Behind him, Harrenhal loomed in silence, its black towers twisting against the night sky.

By nightfall, the tale had already begun to spread. A band of hardened sellswords found butchered in the shadow of Harrenhal—slain with such precision that no man could say how it was done. Some claimed the Stranger did it, others said devils. Among the common folk, it would always remain a mystery: twelve men cut down in an instant, their deaths too clean to be understood.