Games of Thrones: The Heavenly Demon of North

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The river never left his side.

The Green Fork wound south like a dull blade, its brown waters curling between sodden fields and alder groves. Mist clung to its surface each morning, rising in pale veils before the sun burned them away.

Arthur kept to the lesser paths where he could, following wagon ruts that paralleled the Kingsroad. His hood stayed drawn.

The tale of the Twins had already outpaced him.

At the first hamlet beyond the crossing, he paused at a miller's door for a cup of water. Inside, the woman of the house whispered to a passing drover:

"They say Ser Aenys Frey was knocked clean into the river, armor and all."

The drover snorted. "By his own men, aye. Too drunk to stand straight."

Arthur kept his head bowed, accepting his water in silence.

By midday, at a roadside smithy, another tale was told. A peddler leaned on his cart, swearing, "Wasn't no stumble. A knight in black put him down with a single blow."

The smith laughed, hammering hot iron flat. "Then why ain't the Freys hunting him? Sounds like tavern-muck."

"Because he vanished," the peddler insisted. "Vanished like smoke!"

Arthur rode on. By nightfall, in a riverside tavern, the tale had grown exaggerated still. A bearded farmer jabbed his cup at the firelight.

"A hooded rider," he declared, "who called the wind itself. I heard it from my cousin's wife."

The tavern laughed, but not all. Some leaned in closer, glancing at the dark corners of the room.

Arthur drank his ale quietly, the words washing over him. He had seen it before—how rumor reshaped truth.

On the third day, he came upon a shrine at a bend in the river. A crude stone altar bore carvings of the Seven; candles guttered around its base. Pilgrims knelt in prayer, heads bent, offerings laid out in copper and bread.

Five men blocked the way—helms rusted, axes chipped. The tallest, with a scar curling from jaw to ear, raised his weapon lazily.

"Coin for the Stranger's blessing," he said. "Every man, woman, and brat. Pay, or you'll meet Him early."

One pilgrim clutched his purse. "Please, ser—we've little enough—"

The scarred man struck him with the handle of his axe, dropping him to the ground. His wife shrieked, shielding him.

"Next one argues, I'll take your head," the bandit growled.

Arthur moved with the rest of the travelers, silent, unremarkable. But as the scarred man raised his axe again, a stone shifted under his boot. His heel slid, pitching him backward. He flailed, crashing into another brigand.

"Watch it, you oaf!" the second cursed, only for his own sword to fly from his grip as he stumbled.

The pilgrims bolted at once, scattering into the brush. One kicked the fallen sword into the river, another dragged the bleeding man to his feet. Shouts rose, curses tangled.

"What in the hell—" the scarred man barked, trying to stand.

"Seven save us," a pilgrim cried, voice high with awe, "the gods tripped them!"

"No gods," another whispered, eyes darting along the road. "Whatever that was."

Arthur was already gone, his stride carrying him past the shrine, the hood low over his brow.

That evening, he camped by the river. The fire was small, banked low, the water murmuring nearby. Across the current, he saw lights moving—torches of riders patrolling near Riverrun's fields.

By the seventh day from the Twins, the mists thinned. From a rise above the water, he caught sight of Riverrun at last—its red sandstone walls glowing faintly in the morning sun, banners of leaping trout drifting on the breeze.

At a crossroads below, a farmer argued with his son, their cart laden with barley.

"Lord Hoster won't march, I tell you," the father said, flicking the reins. "He'll keep his swords close while the South tears itself apart."

The son spat into the dust. "Then who guards the crossings, if not us? You'll see—we'll be the ones paying when raiders come."

Arthur watched them go, voices fading down the road.

He turned his horse south again, drawing his cloak tighter. The bells of Riverrun drifted faintly across the fields, carried by the wind.