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she had a way of seeing the beauty in others, even and, perhaps, most especially, when that person could not see it in themselves.
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The sky is painted in hues of pink, orange, and lavender, a gentle canvas of colors that pierce the chaotic symphony of war below. The sun, muted and weary, filters through the dense canopy of leaves, casting a warm, soothing light upon Arthur's flushed cheeks as he reclines on the forest floor.
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"Get up, Rook!"
Theon's sneer is a grotesque mask of crooked teeth and bulging eyes, his laughter a jarring sound that pierces the air. He revels in his power, his voice a cruel echo among the jeering men. It had been only a handful of sessions since Theon had begun his pretentious crusade to "improve Robb's army," but Arthur saw through the charade. For Theon, it was not about improvement but about indulging in the perverse pleasure of demeaning those he deemed beneath him.
"'Ave you had enough?" Theon cackles, his spit a foul mist that splatters across Calum's face. "Tired already, Rook? Get 'im out 'n onto the next one!"
A burning rage rises within Arthur, its heat suffusing his entire being. His teeth grind together, and with a fierce determination, he hauls himself up, pushing through the searing pain in his ribs and thigh. His gaze is fixed on Theon's back, arrogantly turned, boasting to his mindless followers. Arthur charges forward, his sparring sword striking the back of Theon's knees with a satisfying thud, knocking him off balance. With a swift, practiced move, he presses the point of his sword against Theon's adam's apple. "Had enough?" he retorts. "That's one."
