The ship with the slanted black sails seemed to emerge from the grey-blue haze, its hull gliding softly over the waves, leaving a trail of white foam behind.
It felt as though the vessel itself was part of the sea, wild, free, and unreachable.
Arthur was gradually growing accustomed to life aboard.
The rough wooden planks, soaked with salt water, creaked beneath his feet, and the air was thick with the sharp smells of tar, fish, and the sea.
The wind humming through the rigging had become familiar music to him.
As a cabin boy, he rarely knew rest: scrubbing decks, polishing brass fittings, raising sails, hauling crates of supplies, or tying knots.
There was always something to do on a large ship.
But the more he worked, the more confident he felt in this new life.
The days passed in a monotonous bustle, yet the sea offered surprising variety.
Each day revealed something new: calm azure gave way to leaden waves, and small islands barely visible on the horizon beckoned with the unknown.
Occasionally, different ships appeared on the horizon, but the Black Beta held stubbornly to her course, making only one stop near Dragonstone, never entering ports or contacting other vessels.
Through constant work, training, and regular meals, the skinny Arthur grew stronger and taller.
His shoulders broadened, and his muscles filled with strength.
He could feel the changes himself, most vividly when his gaze fell upon the shimmering symbols at the edge of his perception, which appeared whenever he focused.
Name: Arthur Snow
Level: 2
Physical Strength: 2
Agility: 3
Health: 93/100
Intelligence: 2
Endurance: 3
Magic: 40/100
Magical Power: 1
Luck: 2
At first, Arthur had tried to ignore these signs, hoping they would eventually disappear.
The fear that they might be a curse, or part of some soul-stealing spell, hadn’t exactly motivated him to examine the strange texts closely.
But the symbols refused to vanish.
On the contrary, they kept changing, and new ones kept appearing.
Was this sorcery?
A gift from the Seven?
Why him?
These questions tormented him every night before sleep.
In truth, he had nearly convinced himself it was some ancient curse, attached to him since that cave…
Yet over time, his wariness began to fade, and his natural curiosity, which had been suppressed by recent events, returned.
He even started noticing patterns in how they changed.
After each training session, after every effort, his abilities improved.
The “One-Handed Weapons” skill, which he’d been honing with Matthis, had already reached thirty.
Some numbers changed daily.
Health, for instance, dropped whenever he got bruised during training with Matthis, and recovered when he slept well.
Other numbers were interesting too.
Though Arthur might have argued with the single point in intelligence, he rationally agreed that his agility far exceeded his strength.
And he’d always been enduring.
The only thing he didn’t understand was the “magic” line, which filled painfully slowly and produced no noticeable effect.
Of course, Arthur hadn’t forgotten the mysterious sorcerers across the Narrow Sea, or the tales of magical creatures and dragons.
Yet he sensed no magic within himself, apart from these symbols themselves.
And if they were a curse, he’d yet to suffer any harm from them.
What pleased him most was the recent addition of another point to “intelligence.” Though he didn’t know how he’d earned it, and didn’t feel any different from when he’d first gained a point in strength.
He simply woke one day to find a two instead of a one.
But what had he done to earn it?
None of his actions seemed significant enough…
and he didn’t feel any smarter.
When strength increased, he’d felt it clearly.
But this?
Another advantage of his strange abilities was seeing people’s names and occupations.
Only the strange symbols where “level” should be stubbornly refused to disappear.
Arthur was genuinely curious to compare his own level with the rest of the crew’s.
He suspected Captain Davos or Ray’s levels were certainly higher.
But by how much?
As always, more questions than answers.
Still, he was simply happy with his freedom, the filling if monotonous meals, the new though worn clothes, and being part of a ship’s crew on an important mission.
Despite the grim signs of war, it all seemed as distant to him now as the mysterious Empire of Yi Ti, about which Paul had once told him.
Though he’d never been there himself.
So Arthur was content with his new life.
And the war was somewhere out there, still far away.
It didn’t trouble him much.
What concerned him far more was whether he’d ever beat Matthis at least once, so the second bosun would give him some lessons.
Or whether supper would offer anything besides the tiresome fish.
And what story Paul would tell tonight…
That couldn’t last forever.
The midday sun blazed over the sea, its rays reflecting off the smooth water, blinding the sailors.
The wind filled the ship’s black sails, giving it a slightly ominous appearance against the serene blue horizon.
The ship, sometimes quickened by oars, rounded the continent, moving steadily along Dorne’s territories toward the famous desert Arthur hoped to glimpse at least once.
Suddenly, another ship appeared ahead.
At first it was just a dot on the horizon, drawing the lookout’s attention, who reported it to the captain.
Then the dark speck transformed into a magnificent, enormous vessel, racing toward them under full sail.
Bright as a living sunbeam, its sails adorned with a golden sun and crossed spears, it flew proudly in the wind.
This was a Dornish warship, fearsome and majestic, radiating not only beauty but also menace.
Arthur froze, unable to tear his eyes from the approaching vessel.
His heart pounded faster, his mouth went dry.
He didn’t know what the arrival of a ship clearly heading for them meant, but the ordinary sailors’ unease had spread to him.
Tension gripped the Black Beta’s deck.
The sailors exchanged glances but tried not to show their anxiety.
“Dornish,” Ray muttered, squinting.
“And not an ordinary patrol, by the look of it.
Their standard…
the Martells themselves are aboard, I’d bet all the gold in Westeros.”
The second bosun, who according to Matthis had fought as a mercenary in many conflicts before settling in Davos’s crew, rarely erred in his guesses.
The ships drew closer, and it became clear Ray’s guess was correct.
Davos Seaworth, emerging onto the upper deck, narrowed his eyes and silently watched the Dornish vessel stop, its crew nimbly lowering a longboat adorned with the Martell arms.
Davos’s crew quickly obeyed the signal to lower sails, showing their peaceful intentions.
“Blood and fire, it’s Oberyn Martell,” Ray muttered, frowning as the Dornish delegation stepped aboard.
Arthur, standing nearby, shot the second bosun a puzzled look.
The man’s unease was infectious.
When the longboat reached the side and its passengers climbed onto the deck, there was no doubt who stood before them.
Bright colors of House Martell.
A commanding, supple stride.
Oberyn Martell, Prince of Dorne, a figure both legendary and fearsome, stepped onto the deck with the ease of a man entering his own palace in Sunspear.
His gold and crimson robes, adorned with fine embroidery, shimmered in the sun, and every movement carried the grace of a deadly predator.
He was dark-haired, tall, and commanding.
Arthur had never thought about it before, but now he decided this was exactly how a lord should look.
The stranger surveyed the crew, his gaze lingering on Davos.
“Davos Seaworth,” he said, his voice a mixture of curiosity and hidden menace.
“A black ship on a pale grey field with a white bow on its sails.
The rumors proved true.
You clearly didn’t want to be noticed.
Yet here you are, in Dornish waters.
Why?”
Davos stepped forward and inclined his head respectfully.
“Your Highness, we are merely passing through, bound for our destination as determined by the Master of Ships, Lord Stannis Baratheon.
Unfortunately, I cannot reveal our purpose to you, but I was not aware that Dorne had closed its waters…”
A smile appeared on Oberyn’s lips, but it held no warmth.
“The ironborn have risen in…
rebellion,” he drawled, as if tasting the word.
“We’ve tightened control over the sea.
Rumor has it they burned the entire Lannister fleet at Lannisport.
What a pity I didn’t witness it.
I’m sure it was a spectacular sight.”
He swept his gaze over the crew, as if assessing their fighting capability.
“So you’ve received word of the coming campaign,” Davos stated.
“From the Red Keep and from Balon,” Oberyn replied curtly.
“My brother was quite amused reading the latter.”
“Then your presence here means…”
“Only that I was curious what a ship under black sails was doing near our shores,” Oberyn cut him off, correctly reading the Onion Knight’s implication.
“Dorne will not fight on the side of cowards and child-killers.”
Suddenly, Oberyn, who had seemed calm, flared with barely contained fury.
“But…”
“You, Davos, are said to be a man of honor,” Oberyn continued.
“What is it like fighting for those who murder children and rape women?
Little Rhaenys would be about that cabin boy’s age now…”
He gestured toward Arthur, and the boy froze in confusion and shock at being singled out by a lord.
“I…
sympathize with your loss, Your Highness,” Davos said, carefully choosing his words, his brow furrowed.
“But with all due respect, I serve Stannis Baratheon, not the Lannisters.”
“Ah yes, I’d forgotten,” Martell said with a laugh, though his anger seemed merely hidden rather than gone.
“The elder brother, Lord of Dragonstone…
and the younger, Lord of Storm’s End.
Humiliating, isn’t it?” This story is hosted at g.com.
Davos said nothing to this, but a tense silence hung between the men until Martell broke it.
“Very well.
Dorne does not meddle in others’ quarrels.
Our spears stay clear of foreign blood.
But your passage depends on your answer to my question: why should I allow you to continue?”
Davos met his probing gaze, knowing every word would be weighed.
“Because I am no threat to Dorne, Your Highness,” he said calmly.
“I am following orders.
We move to defend the lands and people from the ironborn.”
Oberyn smiled, his eyes glinting as if he found the reasoning amusing.
“Brave words, Captain.
And honest ones.
I’ll give you a chance.
Only because you are Davos, a man of true honor, and your liege lord as well.
Unlike your King.”
He practically spat the last word, casting another mocking glance at the frowning sailors.
Then the prince turned, strode lightly back to the longboat, and departed without looking back.
His retinue followed.
Only when they had pulled away did the sense of impending doom lift from the crew.
The sailors exhaled, resuming their work on the sails.
Davos retreated to his cabin, frowning.
Arthur finally asked the second bosun:
“What was he talking about?”
“It’s not a pleasant story, boy…”
“Come on, Ray, I want to know!
Why did he point at me, and who is Rhaenys?”
Ray was silent for a long moment, weighing his answer.
He seemed reluctant to speak at all, but meeting Arthur’s insistent gaze, he sighed wearily.
“Alright, cabin boy, but this story isn’t for the faint of heart,” he began, staring at the horizon where the Dornish ship was already just a dim silhouette.
“Rhaenys…
she was a little princess, heir to the throne.
Her father was Prince Rhaegar Targaryen.
Her mother was Elia Martell, Oberyn’s own sister.
During Robert’s Rebellion, the Lannisters switched sides, and to prove their loyalty, they…” he paused, as if the words came with difficulty.
“They destroyed Rhaegar’s entire family.
Elia was raped and killed by Ser Gregor Clegane.
Rhaenys…” his voice dropped, “she was only three years old.
They didn’t spare her either, nor her brother Aegon.
Oberyn has hated the Lannisters and everyone associated with them ever since.”
Arthur felt his stomach clench.
He stared at the deck planks, as if they might answer the questions swirling in his head.
He’d never heard of such terrible injustice.
But why had the perpetrators gone unpunished?
And could a knight truly commit such…
acts?
He asked the bosun as much.
“Life isn’t fair, boy,” the man ruffled Arthur’s hair.
“Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch serve Tywin Lannister.
And he always pays his debts…
don’t ask me any more.
You’ll understand it all yourself, when you’re older.”
Arthur frowned.
He had more questions than answers, and he still couldn’t shake what he’d seen in the Red Keep…
“Alright, then why did he point at me?” Arthur asked finally.
The man shrugged, casting an amused glance at Arthur.
“I don’t know, Arthur.
Maybe you just happened to be a convenient example, the ages being similar…
maybe you reminded him of someone.
Targaryens, they say, all had silver hair and violet eyes, but the Martells…
they’re different.
And you, if you look closely, could easily be another bastard.
You’ve got too pretty a face for a gutter rat.”
The words stunned Arthur.
He’d never known who his parents were.
In fact, before now, he’d never really thought about it.
Oh, he’d wondered, of course, but Septa Unella, who always favored him slightly over the others, had told him he’d been deliberately left at the orphanage.
So he’d simply been abandoned, left with only a name and the surname “Snow,” a reminder of his own origins.
“Though,” Ray continued with a laugh, “you look too much like a Northman for that to be the case.
Anyway, enough chatter, cabin boy.
The deck won’t scrub itself.”