GOT: P Chapter 25

Hounds first. Always the hounds.

They catch the wrong scent. Too late. I slide in low and fast- one pass, clean. No bark. The body folds like a sack. I don’t look back.

Next pair at the pickets. Same way, different height, aerial ace. Wing-edge, spine, done. Fuck noise.

Posts after that. Men bored, boots kicked out, one with a horn near his knee. I don’t touch the horn. I take the men. Quick Attack from the dark, heel to jaw, talons riding the neck, twist- clean. Bodies slump soft when you catch the weight right.

I move camp edge to camp edge, counting fires, counting gaps. Every path to a shout goes quiet. When the last tower man blinks and never opens again, I breathe once.

No one’s coming to help you now.

I climb through smoke to the black, let the heat hide me, and check wind. North-northwest. Good. That takes it away from the fodder and the ration line if I’m careful.

Across the river, faint horn- our side, not theirs. Time.

I drop to the captain’s row and lay a thin Fire Spin along the ridge seams- small, fast, no show. It crawls just enough to kick men out of beds and into the dark where blades are waiting for them. Better a fast sword than a slow burn.

Engineer shed. Ropes, tar, and a siege frame they have been working all week. I ring the legs with heat and kick once. It leans into its own fire and dies quietly. One fewer headache tomorrow.

I keep off the fodder. Skip the ration wagons. I want terrified men, not starving captives. I cut down a few guy lines so running men don’t clothesline themselves and collapse in dumb piles. Let them run the lanes I want.

Officer tents get three touches- crown to crown. Flame steps across like a lazy cat. Figures stagger out into shields that weren’t there a breath ago. They are now.

A bow comes up at me- good grip, wrong timing. The heat-snap takes his string. He stares like his hands betrayed him and an Umber men's blade goes through his surprise. That’s on him.

I push a Tailwind tight to ground and roll smoke sideways into the south sentries so they cough instead of aiming. Bolton men's shadows slide in without a word. Of course Roose wanted it this way. He hates noise.

Big lion tent near the center. I give it a quick Flame Charge scrape- just enough to wake the proud slow and mean. They come out blind, coughing, and meet Karstark and Riverlord's men. The axes are faster.

A runner bolts for a horn by the cookfires. I clip his neck and take the horn with me, drop it in the river on the next pass. No alarm for you tonight.

Prison pens. I don’t touch them. I burn a black ring around so stray sparks don’t drift in, then leave them to the Tully men who know what to do next.

I climb for a look. The pattern’s good. Fire where it helps, dark where the North needs it. Keep it tight. Don’t paint the sky.

Below, the camp breaks itself. Half run into our lines and fold. Half fight and die tired. A few drop to knees with hands up. They live if the man in front of them isn’t another mad man. That’s just how the world works.

On the ridge: cloaks and helms. Robb, the Greatjon, Karstark, Mallister, Blackwood, Bolton. They watch. No cheering. First time seeing me work proper. Fear sits under their breath. Well hidden. They are brave. Indeed.

I make one last flight through the sky, finish off the last enemy silently, and calm myself down. The worst of it is done.

Anyway.

A single long scream from high- mine- pins a few last fools in place. Northern shields close. That’s that.

I stay up. Watching. Listening. Wait until the last sounds of enemy movement fade. Only then do I dare to look over the ridge to check if it’s safe.

Rhaenys stands a step back from their lords. Hood off. Face still. Not proud, not sorry. Just taking the sight. She watches the places I didn’t burn and the places I did. She knows this world and hates it.

Robb cuts her a sideways glance. He’s young, but he reads the ground. He’s also trying not to show that the sky bothers him now. Good. A little fear keeps men alive.

Murmur runs through the line low camp talk, not prayer. “That wasn’t a bird.”” “Mons...Monster.” “Never seen the like.”

Not a soul asks how. No one says thank you.

They try not to stare at her. They fail a little.

One of the men speaks, voice quiet and brittle:

“That thing burned half the camp and left the other half on purpose.”

Nobody answers him. They don’t have to.

They all saw the same thing.

It didn’t burn them. But it could have.

And that’s what stuck.

...

I stayed up until every men were quiet and no torch could start a fire. I scared a man into dropping their struggle. When the camp finally fell silent, I relaxed a little but kept watching the ridge. We got Riverrun back and kept the supplies. The other side knows the sky can kill them now.

And I'm the sky they fear.