Chapter 41: The Cunning Little She-Wolf
Facing Stour's furious interrogation, Halsen didn't flinch in the slightest. He stared straight into Stour's eyes and, word by word, repeated himself—if anything, sounding even more righteous than before.
"I already told you—don't let me catch you people bullying Lady Stark again."
"You didn't keep your men in line, Stour," Halsen continued coldly. "So I dealt with it for you."
Stour's face instantly turned the color of iron.
He shot a glance at the corpse on the ground—eyes still wide open in death—then at Arya beside it, who was covering her face and trembling as her shoulders shook with sobs.
Stour knew exactly what kind of filth that bastard had always been. There was no mystery here—some idiot who couldn't control the animal between his legs had gotten blood in his brain and caused a disaster.
"Damn it…"
He cursed under his breath, essentially piecing together seven or eight tenths of the "truth" in a heartbeat.
But being in the wrong was one thing.
Halsen ignoring him—the captain—and executing a man on the spot was another.
That was a slap to Stour's face in public, a blatant challenge to his authority. With so many pairs of eyes watching, if Haragg Stour backed down now, how would he ever command this band again?
Today, Halsen had to be taught a lesson—even if it was just for show.
Shhk!
Stour drew his sword in one clean motion, leveling the blade straight at Halsen.
Yet at that exact moment, Halsen's men arrived.
The instant they saw the drawn steel and the boiling tension, they didn't hesitate at all. They surged forward and formed up beside Halsen, hands on hilts, eyes sharp—ready to spill blood.
In the blink of an eye, the standoff became five against eight.
Stour's side still technically held the numbers… but the advantage was so thin it might as well not exist.
And worse—Halsen and his men were well-known fighters from Karhold. If it truly came to blows, even if Stour won, his losses would be brutal.
Not worth it.
A vein pulsed in Stour's temple.
"Fuck… it's been over an hour," he snapped inwardly, unable to stop himself from glancing toward the forest beyond the camp. "Why the hell isn't Regg back yet?"
A cold, uneasy premonition coiled in his gut.
The other camp was barely a league away—by all logic, Regg should've returned long ago.
Stour weighed it all for a long moment… and in the end, reason crushed rage back into its cage.
Fine.
Let Regg return with his men. Let Stour regain absolute superiority.
Then he'd settle this score properly.
With that decision made, Stour forced down his fury. His sword dipped slightly as he pointed toward the darkness at the camp's edge and barked an order at Halsen.
"You—and your men—go relieve Val and Rynn on watch."
He sneered, voice hard as hammered iron.
"Starting tonight. And you keep doing it until we get back to Riverrun."
It was punishment, plain and simple.
A quiet exile.
He was stripping them of rest, stripping them of the camp's center—pushing them to the margins where they'd freeze in the dark like unwanted dogs.
In Stour's eyes, it was the best way to assert authority without starting a civil war.
Halsen didn't argue.
He simply met Stour's gaze and answered with a single word:
"Fine."
Halsen fell silent for a moment… and in the end, he still agreed.
After all, even he understood that executing a fellow soldier without orders was a grave act of overreach.
But just as he motioned for his men to lower their weapons and turned to leave—
A soft, broken sob rose from beneath the tree.
"Wuh… please… don't leave me here alone…"
"I want to go home…"
Arya Stark's voice trembled at just the right moment—small, muffled, desperate.
It struck Halsen straight in the heart like an arrow.
That fragile plea, that raw fear, wrapped around everything he called honor like a noose, tightening until he couldn't breathe.
As if possessed, Halsen turned back—
And met Arya's tear-filled eyes.
BOOM!
Hot blood surged straight to his skull.
That look—terror, pleading, the aching longing for home—made Halsen throw every calculation and caution into the fire.
"I… am taking her."
He stared directly at Stour and spoke with a firmness he'd never shown before.
Stour froze, almost thinking he'd misheard.
"What did you just say?"
"I said—" Halsen straightened his back before everyone, voice ringing loud and clear. "I'm taking Lady Stark back to the North. Back to her home—Winterfell!"
"Go fuck yourself!"
Stour nearly exploded.
He jabbed a finger northward and roared, "Have you had your skull crushed by a door, Halsen?!"
"Don't forget the Neck is still held by those bastards!"
"We can go by ship!"
Halsen refused to yield an inch. "Land at White Harbor or Widow's Watch—any way will do. But I can't stand by anymore!"
"As a soldier sworn to the North, protecting House Stark is my duty and my honor!"
"Honor my ass!"
Stour spat the words like poison, glaring at him like he was a disease. "Oh, you're so noble. You're so pure!"
"So I guess you're the only saint here, and the rest of us are just villains, huh?!"
Then his voice dropped into a venomous snarl.
"Don't forget Lord Rickard's blood still isn't avenged. Robb Stark—the kinslayer—must pay!"
Halsen's hand tightened on his sword hilt.
"Revenge is a man's business. It has nothing to do with a little girl."
Then he stabbed the truth right into Stour's ribs:
"Besides—your real goal is the gold, isn't it?"
That single line choked Stour into silence.
Seeing him stall, Halsen pointed sharply at the figure dangling from the tree, swaying like meat on a hook.
"Keep the Hound. Do whatever you want with him."
"I don't want a single coin."
"My only demand is this: Lady Stark leaves with me. That's it."
With that, Halsen stopped arguing.
He turned his head and signaled one of his men.
"Untie her."
The soldier didn't hesitate—stepping forward immediately, drawing a dagger, ready to cut Arya's ropes.
That decisive motion made Stour's eyes go bloodshot.
He couldn't tolerate it anymore.
Halsen wasn't negotiating—he was taking her by force.
And if he succeeded, where would Stour's authority be?
Would it mean anyone could walk away whenever they pleased?
Would it mean the captain was nothing?
"STOP HIM!"
Stour bellowed.
Halsen roared back, and several of his men drew swords at once.
The air turned razor-sharp—
And then—
"ENEMY ATTACK!!!"
A sentry's scream ripped through the camp's perimeter.
It was followed immediately by short, strangled cries of agony—then the heavy thud of bodies collapsing into the dirt.
Before Stour or Halsen could even react, chaos erupted all around the camp.
Wild shouts exploded from the darkness:
"For Lady Stark!"
"Kill them all!"
The sudden upheaval made Stour's brain buzz like it was filled with hornets.
He whipped his head around, eyes locking onto Halsen—
And in that instant, every doubt snapped into place like a finished puzzle.
"You traitor!"
"You led them here!"
Stour howled and swung his sword at Halsen's head in a murderous slash!
CLANG!
Halsen barely raised his blade in time to block.
Steel crashed into steel—sparks bursting into the night.
With the leaders clashing, both factions instantly piled into the melee.
The entire camp dissolved into a brawling slaughter.
Blades rang. Shields slammed.
Metal screamed against metal as bodies surged, scattered, fell apart—fighting in knots, then breaking and reforming deeper into the forest.
Within moments, after three corpses hit the ground, the battle spilled away—
Leaving only Arya behind.
Alone.
She stared at the blood-soaked bodies for a heartbeat.
Then—
"Ha… hahaha…"
And suddenly, Arya Stark burst into loud, uncontrollable laughter.
Maybe it was the pressure of everything she'd endured.
Maybe it was the sheer madness of surviving.
But she laughed harder and harder, wild and triumphant—
Until a voice drifted into her ear from behind.
"I have to admit…"
"You're a cunning little she-wolf."
"Your growth exceeded my expectations."
Arya's whole body jolted.
She whipped around—
And in the firelight, half a face appeared.
Burnt. Twisted.
Like a mass of worms melted into flesh.
The Hound's ruined visage filled her vision.
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