The cold bit at his skin as he lay in the snow. His cheeks were red and the gloves on his hands did nothing to stop the cold from seeping in. His breath was visible. The warm air from his lungs leaving his body as he exhaled. In his hands was an instrument of death. A Lee Enfield Rifle, No. 4 MK I. A round in its chamber with nine more ready in the magazine. His eye was seemingly attached to a scope attached to the rifle, the other remaining closed as he surveyed the scene through his scope. A crowd of thousands gathered in the town square. Men, women, children and babies looked forward to a hastily made stage. On either side of there was a Tiger tank. Painted white to camouflage them as the snow fell. The front of the stage was surrounded by soldiers wielding either an MP40, Karabiner 98K or an MG 42. Weapons that the Nazis had given to the occupying force.

His sight moved along the line of soldiers, counting at least twenty, possibly more in the crowd that he could not spot. But no matter. The hill he lay on was far enough away from him to get away safely. He was there to do a mission and get out without getting killed, or worse, captured. But that did not matter now. His crosshairs moved over to the wooden lectern on the stage. The symbol on the front was that of the occupier. A flag with a white background, each side flanked by leaves with small white flowers on each end of them. In the centre was the unmistakable symbol of the cancer that had spread across Europe. The Swastika. Even from a distance, it was menacing.

A lone man walked to the lectern and the crowd that was once loud fell silent. He was dressed well. The unmistakable garb of a General. He was decorated with medals, too many to count due to the distance. The General stood straight and stiff, his presence was intimidating. His black hair uncovered from the harsh weather. The black uniform he wore was dotted in white, but it seemed as if he did not recognise the cold. He did not shiver, nor did try to gain any more warmth than what he had, it was eerie.

Speakers suddenly came to life. The General tapped on a microphone on the lectern before everything fell silent once again before his voice roared to life.

"Citizens of Arendelle!" His voice boomed throughout the town. "I present to you, King Hans!"

The General stepped to the side and a new person took his place on the lectern. His auburn blew in the winter wind. Sideburns stretched from the bottom of his hair to his jaw. His apparel was regal by any definition. He wore a white blazer with epaulettes of gold and red. A yellow shirt was worn underneath paired with a red sash. He also wore white trousers and black boots. On his right arm was an armband with the same design as the one on the lectern. He gazed at the crowd below him with green eyes. A smirk had formed as he cleared his throat.

"People of Arendelle." His voice was powerful and that of a man with military history and of royal blood. "You all may believe that we have come here as invaders. To strip you of your freedom. To put you under our boot. But all of this is not the case. We have come to you, Arendelle, as saviours, liberators and free minded. Your Queen had lost her ways. Her mind became poisoned. Poisoned by her own sister. Your Princess. It was them that forced us to bring out might here. To wipe away the filth that they carried out with each other in their bedroom. You may believe that we are the monsters. But it is not. It is your so called Queen and Princess. They betrayed you. They caused this. This is a war that they had brought upon themselves. And this is a war we will swiftly end!"

The wind began to calm. No longer would a bullet stray too far from its path. He slightly adjusted his rifle. From a mile away, bullet drop need to be taken into account. He shifted his scope upwards, the King still in his scope. His breaths began to slow. Inhale. Exhale. Be wary of the wind. Wait for the most perfect moment, hold your breath and then finally, pull the trigger.

The shot was loud but still unheard from the stage. The .303 round travelled through the freezing cold air. Its path had been carefully plotted. This was the bullet's sole purpose. Six long seconds passed before finally, the bullet hit its mark. The King fell limp and lifeless as the bullet drove itself into his forehead. Then the soldiers ducked behind cover and the citizens began to flee. The King was dead. His mission was complete. His mark on history had been made. He was Corporal Jack Emery of the Special Operations Executive. And his mission was to liberate Arendelle. Whatever the cost.