The midday heat settled over the deck of the Black Beta, heating the planks beneath their feet and making the air shimmer.
High above, sails flapped, their sound mingling with the crash of waves.
Yet Arthur barely noticed any of it his attention was fixed on the wooden sword in his hands and the figure of Ray standing before him.
The second bosun was more than just a sailor; he was a seasoned mercenary who’d survived dozens of battles.
He moved smoothly, without wasted effort, as if dancing, and in that movement lay a hidden power.
In his eyes shone patience, and a hint of mockery he already knew how this latest attempt would end.
Like all the boy’s mistakes.
“Relax your hand…
no, not like that!” Ray suddenly barked, and the next instant, the wooden sword flew from Arthur’s grasp, clattering onto the deck.
The boy stared at his empty palm in disbelief.
He’d barely felt the weapon slip from his fingers.
Ray sighed, shook his head, and bent to retrieve the sword.
“Remember, the hilt is held between the four fingers of your right hand and your palm.
Your thumb goes over your index finger, or presses against the hilt below the guard.”
He placed the sword back in Arthur’s hand, adjusting his grip, showing him the correct way.
“During rotations, hold the sword in the ring formed by your index finger and thumb; only tense your hand during an attack or defense.” Ray stepped back, gesturing for Arthur to repeat the motion.
“There, that’s better!”
The cabin boy, frowning with concentration, executed a few simple strikes, feeling how the weapon now sat more comfortably in his hand.
It no longer felt heavy or awkward.
Matthis had explained this before, but Arthur hadn’t quite grasped it.
The seasoned mercenary explained much better, and demonstrated clearly.
“Now let’s try again,” Ray said, raising his own practice sword and settling into a stance.
“Attack!”
Arthur lunged forward with a quick thrust.
Ray parried easily, but this time their blades didn’t separate immediately the boy held his grip and delivered a second strike.
A dull thud of wood against wood, then a third, a fourth and Ray’s expression shifted slightly.
“Now that’s something…” he muttered, dodging and raising his guard.
Arthur now struck with surprising force.
If yesterday his attacks had barely been felt by the aging but still powerful man, now…
Ray abruptly changed tactics, making a feigned retreat to test the boy’s reaction.
Arthur, without hesitation, pressed forward, delivering a powerful overhead strike.
Ray parried, but suddenly felt his sword waver under the pressure, nearly flying from his hands.
The bosun grunted in surprise, deflecting the blow, then put real force into his own strike, forcing Arthur to step back, wincing from the impact.
Pain shot through the boy’s arm.
Blocking the bosun’s strikes was clearly a bad idea.
“Stop, stop…” He studied the boy closely, as if seeing him for the first time.
“Did you spend all night hauling an oar, or what?”
Arthur, catching his breath, just shrugged.
After the first training session, when his new teacher had repeatedly said his strikes lacked mass and power, the boy had stared at the symbols before sleep, hoping to improve his “strength” as he had before.
And that opportunity had been there.
“Free attribute points: 1.
Distribute…”
This line, just as it had in his cell, had allowed him to become stronger overnight.
But if before he’d only guessed, now he was certain this sorcery manifested itself when he killed someone.
It was definitely not a gift from the Seven.
Name: Arthur Snow
Level: 3
Physical Strength: 3
Agility: 3
Health: 91/100
Intelligence: 2
Endurance: 3
Magic: 70/100
Magical Power: 1
Luck: 2
Ray thoughtfully tapped his practice sword against his palm.
“Well, I’ll be damned…
either you’re a very fast learner, or you’ve been fooling poor Ray.
Last time, your strikes were like a girl’s; now…
you could pass for a drunk sailor.”
Arthur gave a strained smile.
“I was just tired yesterday…
I actually train a lot.”
The bosun squinted skeptically, but didn’t press further.
Instead, he resumed his fighting stance.
“Well then, looks like I’ll have to step it up.
Since we’ve got such a talent here,” he grinned.
“Get ready now we’ll teach you real combat.”
The training continued, but with a new intensity Ray no longer held back, testing how far the boy could go.
With each exchange, Arthur felt his muscles tense, sweat trickling down his temple.
Ray moved too fast for the boy’s reactions; his wooden sword whistled through the air like a hawk ready to strike.
Of course, he was mostly letting Arthur practice, but parrying his strikes now took real effort just to keep his sword in hand.
“If you want to weaken a strike, take it up close!”
He stepped forward sharply, and in that instant, Arthur’s sword, raised in a block, was almost useless.
The bosun easily pushed the boy’s weapon aside, breaking through his guard with little effort and lightly poking him in the side, showing how vulnerable such a position was.
“The farther from you the opponent’s weapon is, the faster its tip and the more powerful the strike.
But if you take it near the guard, it will be weaker.
So don’t always retreat!”
The boy nodded, memorizing the technique.
Ray pressed forward again, but this time slower, allowing Arthur to try the parry properly.
Instead of waiting, Arthur stepped forward, offering his sword closer to the opponent’s wrist.
This time, Ray couldn’t simply push his guard aside his strike dissipated almost as soon as it began.
“There, that’s it!” the bosun nodded.
“Now the next thing.”
He broke distance and stood in a relaxed stance, twirling his sword in his hand.
“Fight me, not the sword in my hand,” his voice grew harder.
“That worked for you this time.
But it won’t always.
Many beginners make the same mistake they watch the opponent’s weapon, not the one holding it.”
“But the sword kills, not the man,” Arthur objected.
Ray laughed heartily, raised his left hand to distract the boy, then suddenly sent another swing toward the boy’s chest.
Arthur barely raised his sword in time he would certainly have taken a bruise if the man hadn’t stopped the training blade an inch from his chest.
“Really?” he asked slyly.
“Then why didn’t you react?”
The boy froze, realizing he’d been watching the sword, not his opponent’s movements.
Distracted by the hand, he simply hadn’t been fast enough.
“If you’d been watching my whole body, not just the blade or my hands, you’d have seen it coming,” Ray continued, lowering his stick.
“Shoulders, hips, stance they all give away intention.
Sometimes a man feints or draws your attention, while his real attack comes from another direction.
Don’t fall for it.”
The boy took a deep breath and nodded.
“Alright.”
“And one last thing,” Ray’s voice grew firmer.
“In a fight, don’t think about looking flashy, or even about parrying if you have a chance.
This isn’t a tournament where ladies wait for pretty fights.
Your strength lies in speed and unpredictability.”
He made a sudden lunge, but Arthur, remembering the lesson, didn’t block.
Instead, he quickly sidestepped, then closed the distance and struck back.
Ray barely had time to parry, his eyebrows rising in surprise.
“Now that’s it!” he grinned.
“You’re starting to understand.”
They exchanged a few more strikes before the mercenary raised his hand, signaling an end.
“That’s enough for today.” He tossed the practice sword to the boy, studying him closely.
In the man’s view, the boy was progressing far too quickly for a beginner, absorbing everything he said.
“Now practice your figure-eights, as I taught you.”
Arthur reached for the wooden sword, but the bosun lightly cuffed him on the back of the head.
“Not with that piece of wood, you fool with your real sword!”
The cabin boy blinked, then slowly reached for his belt, drawing his own blade.
On the bosun’s insistence, he now always carried it, though he’d already bruised his leg with the heavy scabbard.
Its weight in his hand felt completely different, unfamiliar after the now feather-light practice stick.
Ray crossed his arms and nodded.
“We won’t train with it yet.
Not for a while…
but you need to feel the blade’s weight, to bond with it.
Though you’re still far from that.”
Arthur frowned, gripping the hilt, and began carefully performing the exercise.
The blade cut through the air in figure-eights, and the whistle of steel spurred him to move faster, ever faster…
“Skill: One-Handed Weapons – 50.
Skill: One-Handed Sword -10.”
With this inscription, Arthur suddenly remembered what it felt like to bond with a sword.
To feel it wasn’t just a tool or a sharpened strip of iron.
For the first time, he realized a sword could truly be an extension of his arm.
Ray watched, nodding in time with the movements, while the other sailors smiled knowingly at the absorbed boy, who, despite his exhausting daily work, still found the strength to push himself further with the draining exercises Matthis had shown him, later supplemented by the bosun.
Some sailors occasionally sparred, but that was all.
Everyone aboard was expected to handle a weapon, but the older men, self-assured, thought they’d already learned everything, chuckling at the boy’s efforts.
And after a long day, few were willing to push themselves beyond the required work.
But this time, his training ended earlier than usual the lookout, constantly scanning the horizon for other ships, suddenly shouted:
“Land ho!”
The Black Beta cut softly through the turquoise waters, approaching a vast island bathed in greenery.
A large golden mass of land, dotted with endless groves of peach trees and vineyards, spread before them.
Ryamsport teemed with ships: merchant vessels flying the banners of various houses, cargo galleys laden with wine barrels, and imposing warships patrolling the sea boundary.
Along the fortress walls guarding the harbor, armed guards moved.
Judging by their numbers, the Arbor was clearly prepared for any threat, despite its peaceful appearance.
“The Arbor!” Paul exclaimed with delight, standing beside Arthur at the rail.
“I knew we’d stop here.”
The boy couldn’t tear his gaze from the landscape, eagerly drinking in the new sights.
He’d never seen such a picturesque place before.
“And what’s it famous for?” he asked, turning to Paul.
The sailor grinned.
“Oh, many things!
First, wine.
The Arbor’s vineyards are practically sacred to winemakers.
They make the best wine in all of Westeros.
Dry reds, golden vintages…
Every true connoisseur dreams of tasting it.”
“Better than Dornish wine?” the boy teased, having heard the man’s stories of Dorne’s excellent wines and regretted they hadn’t visited Planky Town, the largest and most populous settlement in Dorne, which was also a port.
“In taste, yes.
The local wine is sweeter than Dornish.
Though I wouldn’t argue with the Dornish they have their masterpieces too,” Paul grinned.
“But one thing I can say for sure: the Dornish like strong, sharp flavors; here they value softness and richness of taste.”
Arthur nodded, listening with interest.
Paul had sailed since childhood and always had something to share.
“And what’s that?” the boy asked, gesturing toward the orchards stretching along the shore.
“Ah, you’ve never tasted them, I imagine…
Peaches!
Huge, juicy, sweet.
Trust me, once you try an Arbor peach, every other will seem a poor imitation.”
Arthur’s mouth nearly watered at the description.
He’d never tasted peaches, indeed, never tasted any fruit.
But he could already imagine their incredible flavor.
Paul continued his monologue about his favorite drink.
“They even make peach wine.
But in my opinion, it’s too sweet.
Now, the local grape wine…” Paul closed his eyes dreamily.
“The Arbor belongs to the Redwynes an ancient house, vassals to the Tyrells.
They say their ancestor, Gilbert of the Vine, son of the legendary Garth Greenhand, taught the people of the Arbor to make wine.
If the tales are true, he knew the secret of the perfect drink, and his descendants have guarded that knowledge ever since…”
“You think it’s true?” Arthur asked, wide-eyed.
“Who knows, Arthur,” Paul ruffled his black hair.
“There’s always a kernel of truth in stories.
But one thing I can say for sure if you ever want to taste the best wine of your life, the Arbor is the place!”
The ship continued toward the port, and soon the crew began preparing to dock.
The scent of ripe fruit and salty sea air already filled the breeze.
Arthur felt a thrill of excitement something new awaited him.
When the Black Beta tied up at an empty dock, the crew immediately set to work: sailors secured lines, checked rigging, and prepared to meet the local authorities.
The air was thick with the smells of the sea, freshly caulked planks, and the fruit orchards of the Arbor.
Captain Davos Seaworth, after speaking with the guard captain a tall man in armor bearing the emblem of a grapevine headed toward the Redwyne castle, taking part of the crew with him, along with the pale Matthis, whom he wanted the maester to examine.
Nearly all the other wounded sailors had recovered.
Only one body, after the proper rites, had been committed to the deep.
Another group received permission to go ashore to replenish supplies and make necessary purchases.
The rest remained to guard the ship, awaiting their turn to go ashore and spend some of their wages.
Davos wisely knew that after a long voyage, sailors would seek all manner of diversions.
He couldn’t prevent the inevitable, but at least half the crew should remain more or less coherent.
Arthur was among the lucky ones, given permission to go with Ray, the second bosun.
“Come on, boy,” Ray said, clapping him on the shoulder.
“Time to get you properly outfitted.”
He led Arthur to an armorer’s shop, where the armor taken as booty from the ironborn attack was to be fitted.
The quality leather armor with metal plates, though somewhat battered and meant for a larger man, hung loosely on Arthur, but after fitting, it would become comfortable and reliable protection.
He could have asked a leatherworker, but the bosun knew it was better done by a professional.
“Not every cabin boy gets real armor, and in battle no less,” Paul grinned, watching them leave.
He’d been left in charge of the sailors detailed to resupply.
“He earned it,” Ray grunted.
“But good armor is useless if worn improperly.
Let’s see what the master says.”
The cabin boy stepped onto solid ground with his bare, calloused feet and froze for a moment the earth beneath him shifted and swayed, as if he were still aboard ship.
“Too long at sea,” Paul laughed.
“The shore rocks too, get used to it!”
Ryamsport greeted them with the noise of crowds, the aromas of grilled fish, fruit, and fresh wine.
But instead of taverns and markets, Arthur’s path with the second bosun led to a leatherworker’s shop, where his armor would be transformed from loot into proper protection.
And after that…
Arthur very much wanted to try those peaches.