Arthur surged forward like a storm, his swords cutting through the air with deadly precision. He didn't hesitate—for the first time since arriving in this world, he was fighting driven by raw, primal fury. Until now, his adaptation had been a game, a fun challenge. But what he witnessed now was not fun. It was brutality, a senseless massacre.
The invaders were poorly armed and disorganized, yet they attacked like cornered animals. The first fell to a direct strike from Arthur; the second had his throat cut before he could even raise his blade. Arthur was a swift shadow among them, dodging attacks and striking back with cold efficiency. There was no hesitation, only pure, calculated action.
Brandon Stark rode beside him, his sword gleaming as it cut down opponents. Adrenaline coursed through him, a fierce smile on his face as he fought. But with every strike, he noticed something he had never seen before: Arthur's expression wasn't one of pleasure in battle, but of controlled rage, something almost impersonal. Arthur was killing because he had to, not because he wanted to.
"Arthur, to your left!" Brandon shouted as an invader attempted to attack from behind.
Arthur spun swiftly, blocking the blow with one sword and piercing the man's chest with the other. Blood stained the white snow, and the invader fell with a muffled cry. Arthur didn't even glance at the fallen body, already moving toward his next opponent.
Benjen Stark was pale, watching the carnage around him. He had killed a man for the first time, still clutching his sword with trembling hands. When an invader charged at him, Benjen froze, his eyes wide with fear.
Seeing the young Stark in danger, Arthur sprang forward without a second thought. With a quick movement, he disarmed the invader and drove his sword into the man's stomach. The body collapsed at Benjen's feet, and the boy exhaled shakily, trying to regain control.
"Benjen!" Arthur said firmly. "Focus. Don't stop now. You can handle this."
The young Stark nodded, swallowing hard, and raised his sword again. "I... I can."
Arthur gave him a quick pat on the shoulder before returning to the fray. "Good lad. Now fight like a Stark."
The battle intensified, but the invaders soon realized they were outmatched. Ragnar, the direwolf, was a terrifying sight, attacking with strength and precision, knocking men down like dolls. Arthur and Brandon moved together, complementary forces—Brandon wielding brute strength, while Arthur was a sharp, quick blade, methodical and precise.
Finally, the last of the invaders tried to flee but was swiftly brought down by Brandon. The heir to Winterfell cleaned his sword, panting, but with a triumphant grin. "Looks like we finished them off," he said, satisfied.
Arthur glanced around, surveying the bodies scattered across the snow and the village ablaze. He took a deep breath, trying to control the wave of emotions that swept over him. What he felt wasn't victory; it was an emptiness, as if he had just extinguished a small flame in a darkness that refused to dissipate.
Benjen approached, his eyes still wide but now filled with newfound determination. "I did it, Arthur. I fought and survived."
Arthur nodded, placing a firm hand on the boy's shoulder. "Yes, you did. But remember what you saw here today, Benjen. This isn't a story of heroism. It's a lesson in what happens when we fail to protect our own."
Benjen swallowed hard, nodding slowly. He looked at the villagers, some still trying to crawl away, wounded and terrified. "I... I didn't know it would be like this. I thought it would be like the stories."
"So did I," Arthur murmured to himself before turning to help a fallen man.
Brandon approached, wiping the blood from his blade as he surveyed the scene. He looked tired but satisfied with the battle's outcome. "These men were savages. There was no other choice."
"Perhaps," Arthur replied in a tone that made Brandon frown. "But look around you. See what's been destroyed, what's been taken from these people. Never forget this, Brandon. To you, this may be just another victory. But to them, it was the worst day of their lives."
Brandon fell silent, absorbing Arthur's words. For the first time, he seemed to grasp the true cost of battle.
The group began to regroup, Winterfell's soldiers helping the survivors and extinguishing the fires. Arthur moved among them, offering assistance where he could, his rage slowly fading, leaving behind only a deep exhaustion.
By nightfall, the village was silent, except for the muffled sobs of the villagers. Arthur sat on a stone, watching the now-dwindling flames. Ragnar lay beside him, his muzzle stained with blood but his eyes calm, as if he knew the fight was over.
Benjen approached, sitting next to Arthur. "What do we do now?"
"Now we go home," Arthur said, gazing at the stars beginning to appear in the sky. "And we tell your father what happened."
Benjen nodded, his face serious but with a touch of respect that hadn't been there before. "I'm glad you were here, Arthur."
Arthur looked at the young Stark, giving him a tired smile