Games of Thrones: The Heavenly Demon of North

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The road east curved toward Maidenpool, where the air carried a faint salt tang of the sea. The town bore scars of better days—warehouses half-empty, sails rotting in harbor, and narrow streets lined with shops that opened late and closed early.

Once-prosperous, Maidenpool now sagged under tariffs demanded from King's Landing. Dockside talk spoke of Lord Mooton wavering in his loyalty to the Iron Throne, his ships rumored to be drifting toward quiet compacts with the Reach. Some said trade with Oldtown's merchants offered better coin than the king's burdensome levies. Others whispered that the Mootons themselves would bend whichever way the strongest wind blew.

Arthur passed silently through the narrow lanes, cloak drawn tight. His horse drew the gaze of passing beggars, its flanks dust-streaked but strong. Children whispered to one another, guessing whether the stranger was a sellsword, a merchant's guard, or a thief wrapped in shadows.

The docks carried the pulse of the town. Fishmongers hawked baskets of cod and herring, their cries drowned by gulls wheeling overhead. Sailors cursed at rigging, and the smell of tar and brine hung thick. Yet beneath the daily noise was unease. Men gathered in knots, voices low, glancing over shoulders as though words themselves might draw noose or knife.

At a tavern door, Arthur slowed as two men argued:

"King's coin bleeds us dry," one spat, the rim of his tankard frothing with ale. "Lord Mooton ought turn to Oldtown. At least the Reach pays fair for grain."

His companion, older, shook his head, gray beard matted with sea salt. "Aye, and when the king hears of it? We'll have goldcloaks crawling our quays like lice. Best we suffer, lest worse come of it."

"Worse?" the first scoffed. "Starving's worse. Tariffs take the bread from my girl's mouth. Tell me the king'll feed her?"

Arthur moved on, words clinging like smoke.

At the piers, he came upon a commotion. Three guards, drunk on sour wine, had cornered a girl against a piling. She could not have seen more than sixteen summers. Her shift was thin, patched thrice over, and her bare feet skittered on the damp planks as she tried to twist away.

One guard shoved her hard. "Hold still, you little eel."

"Ser, please—" she cried, voice raw.

Another laughed, his teeth brown with rot. "Ain't no ser here, girl. Just coin for a bit o' warmth."

The third tugged at her sleeve, tearing fabric with a rough hand. Passing sailors glanced, frowned, but moved on. None wished quarrel with men wearing the king's badge, drunk or not.

Arthur watched from the shadow of a wagon.

The piling's mooring rope creaked in the sea-wind. With the faintest breath of will, a knot gave way. A heavy timber spar swung down like a pendulum, cracking hard against one guard's shoulder. He yelped, spinning into the water with a splash.

The girl shrieked. The other two lurched back, startled.

Barrels stacked along the dock shuddered. One toppled, then another, rolling loose across the planks. They crashed into the guards' legs, sending them sprawling in a tangle of limbs and curses.

"Gods damn it!" one roared, clawing for his sword as seawater lapped at his boots.

The girl stumbled free, clutching her torn sleeve to her chest. Her eyes swept the dock, wild, searching for her rescuer. She found only the milling crowd, sailors murmuring and pointing toward the barrels.

Arthur was already walking away, his hood low, steps silent amid the tumult.

The girl, breath ragged, called out hoarsely: "Who—who helped me?!"

No one answered. The guards scrambled upright, dripping and furious, glaring at the onlookers.

"You saw it!" one bellowed, pointing. "Which of you bastards—?"

But the crowd only muttered, shrugging, shifting back. A fishwife crossed herself. An old man spat into the sea.

A sailor near the girl leaned close, whispering. "Best hush, lass. Some things ye don't ask too loud. Not here."

"I—I have to thank him," she said, clutching her sleeve.

"Thank the Mother, then. Or the Stranger. Or whichever one walks our quays today."

The girl's lip trembled. She looked once more toward the retreating cloaked figure vanishing into the wagons. Her voice was barely a whisper. "He wasn't no man. Not truly."

The guards, muttering threats, slunk away dripping and humiliated, too shaken to press their luck further.

That evening, the story took root.

At the tavern where the two sailors had quarreled over Mooton's loyalty, the talk shifted.

"I saw it with mine own eyes," a dockworker swore, slamming his cup down. "The rope snapped clean, like a knife had cut it—only no blade touched it."

"Gods' will," another said.

"Or a trick," grumbled a third.

"A trick that saves a girl from them king's dogs? Then I'll drink to it."

The girl sat near the hearth, arms wrapped about her knees. She said nothing, but her eyes never left the flames.

A grizzled oarsman leaned toward her, lowering his voice. "He'll not be thanked, lass. Best you forget him."

"But who was he?" she asked.

The oarsman shrugged. "Some say a sellsword, others a lord in hiding. I heard a man at the quay swear he was no more than a shadow, sent by the Seven. Whoever he is—he don't want names."

Her lips parted, words trembling out. "He saved me. Doesn't he deserve one?"

"Aye," the oarsman said with a weary smile. "And he'll have one. Whether he wants it or no. They'll give him a name by nightfall."

And so they did.

By sundown, whispers spread through fishmongers' stalls and ale-stained taverns: a silent stranger on the Kingsroad, hooded and watchful, who righted wrongs and then was gone.

Some called him the hooded rider. Others, the shadow of the quay. But one name carried more than the rest, heavy as a prayer:

The hooded lord.

And far beyond Maidenpool's crumbling quays, that name would travel.

Arthur rode out by dusk, the salt wind carrying with it the echoes of his legend. He did not glance back.