Velken Borderlands, End of Frostfall
The wind didn't howl. That would've been too theatrical. It just cut—a low, constant bite that worked into your ears and never left. It moved like a blade, slipping between the seams of tents and armor, peeling warmth off flesh and dragging breath from the lungs.
Kaelor didn't shiver. Not because he wasn't cold—he was always cold—but because shivering made noise. And noise drew attention. Attention got you killed, or worse: put on latrine duty with a man who smelled like he'd swallowed a dead pig and kept it in.
So he sat still. Curled near a barrel fire at the edge of camp, hunched like a rat beneath a tarp of stitched-together banners. Torn, piss-stained, reeking of blood and mildew. They used to fly over proud houses. Now they barely kept out the wind.
The mercenary camp was barely that—twenty-three bodies, two wagons, a dozen rusted swords, and one grizzled veteran who pretended he used to serve a king. Everyone knew he hadn't. He was too smart to have survived a real war.
Kaelor had been there three weeks.
No name. No armor. No assigned tent. Just a borrowed tunic, a dull knife, and a cot behind the goat pen. The others called him "Boy," or "Rat," or sometimes "That One" when they couldn't be bothered to point. He kept his head down, listened more than he spoke, and stole only when he was sure it wouldn't be missed.
He hadn't killed anyone yet.
Not for lack of opportunity. The camp was packed with angry men and colder nights. Fights broke out often enough that no one remembered who started them. But Kaelor didn't fight. Not yet. He was waiting.
He didn't know exactly for what.
Maybe for the first moment someone made it unavoidable.
Maybe just for the right person to make it easy.
They'd been waiting on a caravan. Some lord's supply line, two days late and probably already robbed by the Blacktooth clans up north. Food was running low, tempers even lower. Men were gambling with their boots and knives, trading boiled roots for half a flask of piss-poor ale. A few of them had started eyeing Kaelor's corner of the camp like he might be next on the menu.
That's when Jerrik came.
Tall, broad, leather-armored and always half-drunk, Jerrik was one of the few who carried a steel blade and hadn't yet lost a finger. He'd been with the company for years. Claimed to have put a sword through a Targaryen bannerman once, but couldn't name the house. Everyone knew he was full of shit. Still—he was dangerous.
And bored.
The worst combination.
"Hey, Rat," Jerrik called out as he kicked snow over Kaelor's fire. "You earnin' your keep by freezin', or is that just your natural face?"
Kaelor didn't answer. Didn't move.
"What, gone mute now?" The big man stepped closer, boots crunching over hard dirt. "Maybe I should warm you up. Little bastard might squeak if I light a torch under him."
Still, Kaelor said nothing. He just looked up—slowly. Not challenging. Not afraid. Just watching.
And that, somehow, pissed Jerrik off even more.
Jerrik didn't draw his blade. That would've been too much effort. He just stood over Kaelor, breathing beer, smiling like a dog about to chew on something soft.
"Alright, Rat," he said at last, voice thick and lazy. "You're lookin' real comfortable over here. Like you forgot you're the camp's charity case."
Kaelor didn't reply.
"So here's your chance to earn your keep," Jerrik went on, louder now so others could hear. "Couple leagues east—past the dead pine ridge—there's a little shack. Bandit squat, maybe four or five bastards. Probably hungry, probably half asleep."
He leaned in. Grinning.
"Go clear it."
That got a laugh from the fire circle. One of the older mercs choked on his stew.
"Clear it?" someone called out. "By himself?"
"Why not?" Jerrik shrugged. "He's a Targaryen, ain't he? Pretty boy with a knife? Let's see if that silver blood's good for something other than whining."
Kaelor didn't argue. He stood.
No protest. No bravado. He just took the old dagger from his boot, checked the edge, and started walking.
The shack wasn't even a real building—just a collapsed wayhouse with a fire pit and a few wooden crates stacked for cover. Five men. Kaelor watched them from the treeline.
They were drunk. Armed. But not alert.
He circled for nearly an hour. No supplies. No horses. Just a hideout with one exit, and too many places to die.
He counted their blades. Counted the steps. Counted the breaths between their jokes.
Then he moved.
Kaelor didn't attack. He ambushed.
The first man didn't even see the rock coming. Skull cracked open like a melon. Kaelor took his axe, buried it in the second's throat, then shoved the corpse forward to slow the others.
The third caught him in the ribs with a blade—deep enough to burn but not enough to stop him. The pain snapped something in Kaelor's chest. Not panic. Not fear.
Rage.
Not wild. Not loud. Just sharp.
He didn't scream. Didn't flail. He moved low, fast, like a starving dog—and when he was done, the ground was red and his clothes were darker than before.
He wrapped his ribs with one of their cloaks. Ate half a stale loaf. Found two coin purses, a jeweled ring, and a silver flask. Took a small hunting bow. Burned the bodies.
By the time the sun touched the pines, Kaelor was already walking back, limping slightly, blood drying under his tunic.
He handed the flask and half the coin to Captain Darrick without a word.
The old man looked at him, then at the loot. "This from Jerrik's little errand?"
Kaelor nodded.
"Huh." Darrick didn't smile, but something flickered behind his eyes. He tucked the coin away. "I'll see you get fed tonight."
Kaelor just turned and walked off.
Later that evening, no one said much. Jerrik didn't laugh. He didn't speak at all.
But the men around the fire stopped calling him "Rat."
Now they just watched.