POV: Darian Snow
The Kingsroad is still, its silence broken only by the occasional creak of tree branches in the wind. Distant, a wolf howls. A herald of death. Perhaps of change.
Darian Snow crouches low behind a moss-covered ridge, his hands clenched around the hilt of a Westerosi steel longsword. It is fine, balanced, sharp—but it is not his.
He misses the weight of the slingBlade. Misses how it curved through the air like an executioner's promise. Misses the way it sang—not a knight's song, but a Reaper's requiem.
This steel is too light. Too proper. It cuts, yes, but it doesn't cleave. It doesn't remind men of the fear they buried under titles and banners.
Not yet.
"Three wagons," Halrik whispers beside him. "Eight outriders. Twelve guards in Lannister red."
Darian's jaw tightens.
The Sons of Westeros wait silently along the ridgeline—fifty in all. Some kneel with bows, others grip makeshift spears or sharpened farming tools. Men and women born to toil, bred to break, now dressed in brown and red. Rebellion colors.
Tonight, they make a statement.
The wagons come loaded with grain, spices, and silks—all meant for the Westerlands. Tribute paid in food while King's Landing's poor eat rats and bark.
"They hoard for a war no one's declared," Darian murmurs, almost to himself. "They think the world still belongs to them."
"Doesn't it?" Halrik asks, smirking.
Darian's eyes narrow. "Not for long."
A signal is passed down the line. Archers nock their arrows.
The convoy rolls closer. The guards ride easy, laughing. One of them—broad-shouldered and arrogant—throws an apple core into the woods. "Hurry it up," he shouts. "The lions want their silver on time."
Darian raises his fist.
The moment hangs. Then he slashes it downward.
The first volley is thunder in the quiet. Arrows rip into the guards. Two fall instantly. Horses rear. Screams tear through the trees.
Darian charges.
Steel in hand, cloak flying, he barrels toward the road like a storm. A guard meets him, sword drawn. Darian parries high, then drives his blade into the man's thigh and kicks him down.
Another swings—wild, panicked. Darian ducks, sidesteps, drives his steel into the man's chest with a grunt. The blade sticks for a moment. Not like the slingBlade. That would've gone clean through.
He yanks it free and turns.
Chaos erupts all around him.
The Sons flood the road like shadows unchained. Fire catches on the supply wagon. A horse screams and bolts. Men die—on both sides.
Darian fights with ruthless efficiency, but he feels it. The lack. His blade catches on armor. The weight of each swing drags his arm. He fights not like the Reaper of Mars, but like a swordsman trained in muck and blood.
And still, they win.
The battle is short but brutal. Within minutes, the surviving guards are either dead or on their knees.
Halrik limps forward. "Wagons are ours. Losses?"
"Six," Darian says. "Brenn's gone."
Halrik curses under his breath.
Darian looks at the prisoners. Most are boys. One's a noble's son, judging by his soft hands and softer jaw.
"Tell your father," Darian says, staring into the boy's terrified eyes, "that if he starves one more village to fatten a Lannister's purse, I'll feed him to the dogs myself."
He turns to the wagons. "Distribute the food to the villages east of the city. Leave the silks for the fire. Burn the banners."
A few Sons cheer. Others nod grimly.
Darian watches the flames begin to rise and exhales slowly.
He'd rather be sharpening his blade in the shadows, rather be alone with the steel and the screams. But this? This is the price of change. And he will pay it in full.
The world won't remember the battle. Not the names of the fallen or the gold that burned.
But they will remember what flew above the smoke.
The mark carved into the shield of one of the wagons.
A scythe. Crimson on black.Not a noble's sigil. Not a knight's crest.
A warning.