The moment Stao confronted him with that cold, accusing glare, Halson didn't flinch in the slightest. His expression remained stern, his back straight, and his voice unwavering as he repeated, word for word, with righteous conviction:
"I told you—don't ever let me see you bullying Miss Stark again."
"You failed to control your subordinate, Stao. So I handled it for you."
The bluntness of the statement hit Stao like a hammer. His face drained of color, jaw tightening until the veins along his temple pulsed visibly. His eyes flicked to the lifeless body sprawled on the ground—a corpse with bulging eyes, frozen in terror. Then his gaze shifted to Arya, curled beneath a tree, hands covering her trembling face, shoulders quivering as she suppressed her sobs.
Stao knew exactly what kind of man that dead soldier had been. It wasn't difficult to imagine the truth—an undisciplined brute, unable to control his lust, acting recklessly and forcing Halson's hand. In Stao's mind, the pieces fit too well. He cursed internally, knowing he had already guessed most of what had happened.
But understanding was one thing—accepting it was another.
Halson hadn't merely killed a subordinate. He had bypassed Stao entirely. He had made a decision over the head of the captain, in front of witnesses, and spilled blood without orders.
It was a slap to the face.
A public challenge to his authority.
And in front of so many eyes—men who would whisper, judge, and decide whether their captain was strong… or weak.
If he, Harag Stao, backed down now—how would he command respect again?
He had to assert his position. He had to show the men that authority remained with him, not with the bold fool who acted on impulse.
Clang!
His mind made up, Stao drew his longsword in one fluid, decisive motion, the steel gleaming in the firelight as he leveled it directly at Halson.
Before the tension could snap, Halson's companions rushed forward, forming a protective line beside him. Hands hovered over sword hilts. Teeth clenched. Muscles coiled, ready to strike.
Five stood against eight.
Numerically, Stao had the advantage—but barely. And the advantage was deceptive. Halson's men were seasoned fighters, notorious in Caho City for their prowess. If steel clashed tonight, victory would not come without heavy casualties, and even a win would taste like bitter loss.
Stao felt the weight of calculation pressing on him.
Damn it. Where was Reg? Why hadn't he returned yet?
His eyes drifted toward the darkened woods beyond the camp. A creeping anxiety wormed its way into his chest. Reg should have returned already. The distance was short—too short for a delay to be anything but ominous.
His grip tightened around his sword hilt.
After a long, tense moment, reason finally managed to strangle his anger. There was no point in escalating the situation now. Once Reg returned with his men, their numbers would be overwhelming, and then they could deal with Halson properly.
Grinding his teeth, Stao forced the words out, each syllable sharp and clipped:
"You and your men—go take over Val and Ryan's watch. Starting now. Until we return to Riverrun."
It was punishment disguised as duty—exile from the warmth of the campfire, the comfort of rest, and the privilege of movement among the company. It was a reminder of rank. A reminder of power.
In Stao's mind, it was the perfect compromise. His authority was preserved. Bloodshed was avoided. Order remained intact.
"Fine," Halson replied after a brief pause.
He knew killing a comrade, even a rotten one, was no small offense. Accepting the assignment was the reasonable path—at least until…
"W-waa… don't… don't leave me alone… please…"
"I want to go home…"
The fragile, trembling voice drifted through the camp like a ghostly thread. Arya's muffled sobs carried a rawness that pierced through Halson's hardened composure. His heartbeat thundered in his ears as he involuntarily turned his head.
Their eyes met.
Tear-streaked, frightened, pleading.
Boom.
Something hot surged through him—rage, protectiveness, duty, instinct, all tangled into one overwhelming impulse.
"I… I am taking her away," Halson said, voice low but steady.
Stao stared at him, stunned.
"…What did you say?"
Halson straightened, shoulders squared, and declared loudly, so everyone could hear:
"I am taking Miss Stark back to the North. Back to her home—Winterfell!"
"Are you out of your damned mind?!" Stao shouted, nearly choking with fury. "Moat Cailin is still held by the enemy!"
"We'll take a boat," Halson countered. "We can land at White Harbor—or Widow's Watch. One way or another, we will reach the North. I refuse to stand by any longer!"
"As a sworn soldier of the North, protecting a member of House Stark is my honor and my duty!"
"Honor? HONOR?!" Stao exploded. "So you're the righteous one now? You think you're the only man with a conscience? The rest of us are what—greedy sellswords?!"
He jabbed a finger toward him.
"Don't forget—Lord Rickard's vengeance remains unsettled! Robb Stark, that kinslayer, must pay!"
Halson gripped his sword, knuckles white.
"Vengeance is a man's concern. It has nothing to do with a little girl."
His eyes hardened.
"And all YOU care about is the gold. Isn't that right?"
For a heartbeat, Stao was struck silent—because Halson had hit the mark.
Halson pressed on, gesturing toward the bound figure hanging nearby:
"You can keep the Hound. Deal with him however you want. I don't want a single coin."
"My only demand is to take Miss Stark away. Nothing more."
He didn't wait for permission.
He turned to his men and ordered:
"Untie her."
The soldier obeyed instantly, stepping forward and drawing a dagger to cut Arya's bindings.
Stao's fury finally burst.
This wasn't defiance anymore—it was theft. Theft of authority, of command, of dignity. If Halson succeeded, the entire structure of obedience would crumble.
"STOP HIM!" Stao roared.
Steel rang out.
Swords were drawn.
Tension snapped.
But before blood could be spilled—
"ENEMY ATTACK!!!"
A sentry's desperate cry shattered the night.
Screams followed—short, sharp, panicked. Then came the heavy thud of bodies collapsing. The forest erupted with chaos—shouts, movement, the sound of steel being drawn from scabbards.
"For Miss Stark!"
"Kill them all!"
The voices echoed from the perimeter, wild and furious, and Stao froze, his mind racing. His gaze shot toward Halson—and suddenly everything made sense.
"You TRAITOR!" Stao roared. "You led them here!"
He lunged, swinging his sword at Halson with murderous force.
Clang!
Halson barely managed to raise his blade in time. Sparks scattered through the air as steel met steel. Their men collided behind them, and in seconds the camp dissolved into a whirlwind of violence—swords clashing, boots scraping against dirt, cries of pain cutting through the night.
The battle surged outward, scattering through the trees. Soon, only three corpses remained near the original confrontation—Halson's men, Stao's men, it was impossible to tell.
And Arya. Alone. Unnoticed.
"Haha… hahaha… HAHAHAHA!"
Perhaps it was fear. Perhaps exhaustion. Perhaps the release of days of suffocating tension. Whatever the cause, Arya stared at the corpses, and laughter burst from her lips—wild, breathless, shaking.
But then—
A voice slid into her ear, smooth and venomous.
"I must say… you cunning little she-wolf."
"Your growth has exceeded my expectations."
Arya's body went rigid. Slowly, she turned her head.
There, illuminated by the flickering firelight, st
ood a half-burned face—skin twisted, melted, crawling like maggots.
She froze.
Her laughter died.
Her heart pounded like a war drum.
And the night swallowed the rest.
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