So why are you whining, boy?
I’m not whining!
Your lips are moving and you’re complaining about something.
That’s whining.
The Black Beta had left the Ironborn longships far behind.
Their silhouettes were already barely visible through the gray mist hanging over the ruined camp.
Waves slapped against the hull as the sea rolled beneath the ship, but the rowers kept a steady rhythm, driven on by the shouts of the first boatswain.
The ship was making full speed along the coast of Great Wyk, heading toward the second camp between the Chasm and Hammerhorn.
The allies were supposed to have recaptured a harbor there, and Kevan Lannister was stationed nearby with the main force.
They needed to reach him as quickly as possible.
He had to know that the camp, along with the convoy of ships carrying supplies and men, had been destroyed.
Davos Seaworth stood at the stern, staring grimly at the horizon.
The experienced smuggler’s heart felt heavy.
He had just had a difficult conversation with his son, and when Ray, the second boatswain, approached him, Davos immediately knew what he wanted to talk about.
“Don’t even ask.”
“Listen, Davos, we could…” the man began hoarsely.
“No, we can’t.”
Davos didn’t even turn around.
The words were difficult for him to say.
He might have spent more of his life as a smuggler than as a knight, but he’d always cared about his people.
“You think I haven’t thought about it?”
“Our men are still back there.
Tom, Samer, that young cabin boy, Arkt…” Ray clenched his teeth.
“We can’t just leave them there!”
Davos sighed heavily and looked at the boatswain.
“You got attached to the boy, didn’t you?”
He gave him a sad smile.
“Hal saw two Ironborn longships heading that way.
The camp has probably already been taken.”
Ray looked away.
“I know.
But if he survived…”
“He’s probably already dead, Ray.”
Davos’s voice was hard.
“You know that yourself.”
“I understand, Ser.”
Ray spat the words out stubbornly as he stared at Seaworth.
Deep down, he knew returning would be pure suicide.
He had survived dozens of battles, and despite the hard shell he’d built around himself, something inside him still refused to believe that the boy’s story could end…
Just like that.
“Listen…”
Davos sighed tiredly.
He knew the last thing they needed aboard the ship was another argument.
“I already spoke with Matthos.
There’s really nothing we can do.
You know it.
I know it.
His fate is in the hands of the gods now.”
He paused.
“And they seem to favor the boy, don’t they?”
“Yes…
I suppose.”
Ray tried to remember the words of the prayers he’d learned as a child.
Then he realized he couldn’t remember them anymore.
For a while, silence settled over the deck.
While Ray struggled to recall even a single prayer, Davos suddenly spoke.
“Remember when you wanted to know why we left Arbor so quickly?”
“You didn’t exactly want to tell me,” Ray snorted, remembering how unhappy the officers had been when Davos ordered them to weigh anchor first thing in the morning.
“There was a reason.”
Davos gave a short laugh.
“That cabin boy beat the shit out of Paxter Redwyne’s son.”
Ray stared at him.
“You’re lying.”
“No.
I’m serious.”
Davos actually smiled as he remembered the conversation he’d overheard.
“Beat him without a weapon, too.
Then he took his sword.
A training sword, but still.”
He shook his head.
“Thankfully, the boy had enough sense not to say he was from our ship.
But sooner or later, someone would have figured it out.
He’s rather distinctive-looking.”
“So we left early, just in case.”
Ray burst out laughing.
“You’re kidding me…”
He wiped away a tear brought on by his laughter.
“That kid…”
“So maybe you’re right.”
Davos slapped the boatswain on the shoulder.
“Maybe he’s still alive after all.”
He smiled faintly.
“That boy certainly doesn’t seem to be short on luck.”
The ship continued forward, leaving a bloody sunset behind it.
“Take this one, boy.”
Arthur had almost given up trying to mount the stubborn gray horse when a tired voice reached him.
He turned around.
An older man was standing there, his hair beginning to gray.
His face was weathered, his beard sparse, and his eyes were much like those of Ray, the second boatswain.
They had seen far too much.
The man led over a short bay mare.
“A good horse won’t let a stranger into its saddle.”
He patted the mare’s neck.
“This one’s calmer.”
“Thank you…
Ser.”
Arthur happily took the reins and carefully tried to figure out the best way to climb into the saddle.
He put his left foot into the stirrup and finally managed to haul himself up.
Just in time.
The Lannister guardsmen were already waiting for Clegane’s signal.
Sandor was apparently taking his time finishing a second bottle, but his eyes remained alert.
He never stopped watching the sea.
Along the coast, the Ironborn had almost finished putting out the burning galley.
Other longships were already turning around, returning from the pursuit.
“Forget this ‘Ser’ nonsense,” the man laughed as he held the nervous mare steady.
“I’m just a common soldier.
Name’s Willit.”
Arthur had already noticed the inscription above his head:
Willit
Man-at-arms in the service of Haris Swift
“You’re talking too much to a dead man, Willit.”
Sandor rode past without even looking at the boy.
“We’re moving!”
The riders began forming a small column.
Only twelve of them remained.
Earlier, Clegane himself had personally finished off a warrior who had fallen from his horse and couldn’t get back up.
The man had begged for help, but the Hound had merely frowned and ended his life with a quick thrust from a thin, faceted dagger.
Everyone else had simply looked away.
Arthur had seen it too.
Grinding his teeth, he’d rushed from horse to horse, desperately searching for one that would allow him into the saddle.
“Don’t listen to him,” Willit said with a snort, patting the mare’s hindquarters.
“Stay close and try not to fall off.
The horse will handle the rest.”
Arthur didn’t answer.
He was already using every bit of strength he had to remain in the saddle when the mare suddenly surged forward after feeling his awkward movement in the stirrups.
The entire world narrowed down to the trembling ground beneath the horse’s hooves and the wind whipping against his face.
“Straighten your back, boy.”
Willit’s voice came from beside him.
“And don’t press yourself into the saddle like that.
You’re getting in the horse’s way.”
Arthur desperately tightened his grip on the reins.
Willit immediately pulled his hand away.
“Don’t yank them like that.
You’re going to pull her tongue out, not control her.”
He laughed.
feel how she’s moving?
Try to move with her.”
Easy for him to say.
Arthur did his best to follow the instructions while Willit stayed beside him.
“If you feel yourself bouncing around, squeeze your knees a little.
But don’t cling to her like a tick.”
He glanced at Arthur.
“And remember to breathe, or you’ll be lying in the bushes before we’ve gone a mile.”
The boy gritted his teeth and forced himself to loosen his grip.
The mare beneath him no longer seemed like a living storm determined to throw him off at the first opportunity.
Her movements were becoming smoother.
Even his fear was beginning to recede.
“That’s better.”
Willit smiled.
“Now just hold on and watch where you’re going.”
They continued like that for several miles, passing another burned village littered with fresh corpses, until Clegane raised a hand and signaled for them to slow down.
The riders pulled on the reins.
The horses dropped into a trot.
Arthur pulled too hard.
His mare nearly threw him when she reared onto her hind legs.
Under the surprised and, in some cases, amused looks of the other riders, Arthur barely managed to calm the overheated animal.
“You’re still here?”
The Hound laughed as he glanced back.
Then his expression hardened as he considered their options.
“We’ll go that way, around the hill.
There should be some mines farther ahead…”
He pointed toward a narrow path covered with thin, sickly grass.
They left the main road.
The trail followed the crooked coastline.
Fortunately, there was nothing along the way.
Only the sound of waves crashing against the rocks far below.
“Fuck me…”
One of the men-at-arms muttered as he glanced downward.
The path suddenly came out along the edge of a steep slope.
It looked as though even the slightest mistake could cost a rider his life.
Loose stones fell silently from the edge into the dark blue abyss below.
Arthur instinctively tightened his grip on the reins.
The mare became nervous too, sensing her rider’s uncertainty.
“Don’t panic.”
Willit’s voice was quiet now as he moved slightly ahead.
“The horse won’t step over the edge.”
He glanced back.
“But if you jerk around, she’ll follow you.”
Fortunately, the dangerous section didn’t last long.
Soon the trail moved farther away from the cliff.
They continued for a long time.
Past small bays.
Hills covered in bushes.
Lonely rocks jutting out of the sea.
Every now and then they passed old watchtowers, half collapsed and long abandoned.
Eventually, they decided to make camp inside one of them.
The growing darkness made continuing too dangerous.
“Camp!”
Clegane’s hoarse voice served as the order for the riders to dismount and begin preparing a place to spend the night.
A small embankment and a partially collapsed stone wall offered some protection from prying eyes and the damp wind.
“Watch duty, one hour each.”
Clegane pointed.
“Emerek, you’re first.”
Then he waved a hand.
“Otherwise…
make yourselves comfortable.
Pretend you’re at home.”
His laughter made it obvious that he’d managed to empty several more bottles during the journey.
Arthur practically collapsed when he climbed off the horse.
His legs simply refused to support him.
The wound he’d wrapped in cloth had started bleeding again.
“The first few days are always like this.”
Willit handed him a flask of water.
“Tomorrow will be worse.”
“Willit, come here.”
A young rider called to him.
His shield, decorated with a rooster, lay beside the rocks.
His name was Steffon Swift, heir to House Swift.
According to the inscriptions above their heads, he was one of the few actual knights in the group.
If Arthur had compared their inscriptions carefully, he would have realized that Willit was probably accompanying Steffon.
But at the moment, Arthur was too busy trying to endure the increasing pain in his injured leg and every other part of his body that had been rubbing against the saddle.
“Yes, coming.”
Willit took the flask.
“Thank you…
for everything.”
Arthur spoke sincerely.
“If it weren’t for you…”
“Ah, don’t worry about it.”
Willit waved dismissively, though it was obvious the gratitude pleased him.
“I’ve got a son about your age.”
He paused.
“Oh, and don’t forget to look after your horse.”
He pointed toward the mare.
“Know how?”
“I’ll manage.”
Arthur answered firmly.
He’d already looked after horses several times while staying at the Sept.
While the other riders settled wherever they could inside the remains of the tower, Arthur slowly approached his mare.
The bay horse tossed her head irritably.
She clearly sensed his uncertainty.
Arthur sighed heavily, then stroked her neck, trying to calm both the animal and himself.
“All right.
Let’s figure this out.”
His fingers trembled from exhaustion, but he loosened the girth and carefully removed the saddle.
The mare snorted and stretched before lowering her head to search for whatever scraps of grass she could find among the stones.
Arthur ran a hand along her back, checking for sores.
“Sorry, girl.
I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
He noticed several red patches.
Finding a brush inside the saddlebag, he began working, carefully removing the sweat and dirt from her coat.
The process was surprisingly calming.
The repetitive movements helped him forget everything for a few moments.
After that came water and feed.
Arthur had heard somewhere that horses shouldn’t be given too much water immediately after a hard ride, but there wasn’t exactly an abundance of water here anyway.
While the others gathered their belongings, Arthur simply tried to stay alive.
By the time he finished, his legs could barely support him.
He lowered himself onto one of the broken sections of wall and carefully rolled up his trouser leg.
The bandage he’d applied back at the camp was soaked with blood, sweat, and dust.
The edge had already begun sticking unpleasantly to his skin.
“Wonderful…”
Arthur tried to untie the knot.
His fingers wouldn’t cooperate.
He gritted his teeth and pulled harder.
A sharp burst of pain made his vision go dark for a moment.
But the bandage finally came loose, revealing the torn skin underneath.
The wound wasn’t especially deep, but it was long.
Blood began flowing again.
Arthur was just about to wrap it with a strip torn from his tunic when a voice interrupted him.
“You really are an idiot, boy.”
Arthur flinched and looked up.
Sandor Clegane stood beside him.
He held a half-empty bottle in one hand and a piece of cloth that looked relatively clean in the other.
“Trying to get yourself killed?”
He towered over Arthur like a mountain.
Arthur wanted to answer.
Instead, Clegane simply poured some of the liquid from his bottle directly onto the wound.
The world exploded into white pain.
“AAAH!”
Arthur almost fell backward.
He covered his mouth with one hand to keep from screaming across the entire camp.
“Endure it.”
Sandor sounded completely indifferent.
He poured a little more liquid onto the wound.
Judging by the smell, it was fortified wine. This chapter was taken from g.com without permission.
Then he soaked the cloth in it and tossed it to Arthur.
“You’ll live.”
He smirked as he watched the boy.
Arthur struggled to breathe, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles had turned white.
“Thank you…”
He finally managed to say it once the pain had eased enough for him to carefully wrap the wound.
“Don’t thank me.”
Clegane turned away.
“You fight pretty well…
for a boy.”
He paused.
“And we’ve got enough swords to worry about already.”
He glanced back.
“I also don’t feel like dealing with an amputation.”
Sandor’s expression hardened.
“If you can’t stay in the saddle, I’ll simply finish you off.”
With that, he walked away.
Arthur remained sitting among the stones, his heart beating even faster than before.
There was something strange about the man.
He’d just threatened Arthur with death…
But he’d also saved his life.
Arthur remembered what Will had told him about wounds becoming infected.
As for the threat?
He was certain Clegane hadn’t been joking.
Night fell quickly, wrapping the ruins of the watchtower in cold darkness.
A small fire provided almost no light, but its warmth was enough to offer some relief from the piercing wind carrying the smell of salt and decay.
Seagulls called to one another somewhere in the distance.
Otherwise, the night was oppressively quiet.
Arthur leaned against a stone, holding a waterskin while watching the riders and studying the inscriptions above their heads.
His own status didn’t make him feel any better.
Name: Arthur Snow
Level: 4
Physical Strength: 4
Agility: 3
Health: 65/100
Intelligence: 3
Endurance: 4
Magic: 0/100
Magical Power: 1
Luck: 2
He couldn’t remember exactly how many men he’d killed during the battle.
But it was definitely more than last time.
Even so, he still hadn’t received the precious boost that could heal his wound.
And his health was clearly low.
He didn’t need the numbers to tell him that.
His magic had also fallen to zero and showed no signs of recovering.
Arthur had noticed a couple of times that the zero seemed as though it was trying to change into one.
But each time, it returned to its original value.
He could worry about that later.
Right now, Arthur simply wanted to rest and find a comfortable position without removing his armor.
Despite the camp, nobody had taken their armor off.
Once they’d finished looking after their horses, the men gathered closer to the fire, pulling bread, salted meat, and hard cheese from their travel bags.
They ate in silence.
No one looked at anyone else.
Waterskins and wine flasks passed from hand to hand, though nobody became drunk.
They weren’t drinking for pleasure.
They drank to warm themselves and dull the anxiety gnawing at them.
“Bloody squids.”
Someone tore a piece of meat with his teeth.
“May the waves carry every last one of them away.”
According to the inscription, the speaker was a man-at-arms named Urp.
There was nothing particularly notable about him.
“How the hell did they get past the fleet?”
He frowned.
“Stannis was blockading Saltpans…”
“I recognized the sigil.”
A tall, broad-shouldered man spat a bone into the fire.
“Those were the Sparrs.”
This was Merlon Crakehall.
“Their castle is west of here.
They know every fjord around these waters.
No wonder they managed to slip past us.”
“What’s the point?”
A black-bearded Ser Cryston snorted with tired contempt.
“They burned a couple of ships and wrecked our camp.”
He shrugged.
“They’re finished anyway.
We have more men.”
“That doesn’t help us much right now.”
Willit quietly observed this while sharpening his sword with a whetstone.
Arthur realized that he needed to sharpen his own sword too.
The blade was covered in fresh notches from the battle.
But he didn’t have the strength left tonight.
He’d do it tomorrow.
Sandor Clegane sat slightly apart from the others, leaning against the remains of the wall with a bottle in his hand.
He had positioned himself farther from the fire than everyone else.
“You’re damn right about that.”
The Hound smirked.
“Still, they’re finished,” Cryston muttered.
He didn’t argue with Clegane.
“Do you think they’ll reach the second camp?”
Steffon’s voice came from the darkness.
He preferred listening to talking.
“They’ll reach it, certainly.”
Ser Cryston snorted.
“But we’ve got plenty of men there.”
He glanced toward the sea.
“And ships.”
“Lord Kevan is there too.”
He smiled grimly.
“If they’re spotted in time, they’ll burn those bastards to hell.”
“And if they’re not?”
Someone asked.
But Arthur couldn’t see the inscription above the speaker anymore.
His eyes were slowly closing.
“I think they’ll try to do the same thing they did here.”
Mailon spoke while warming his hands over the fire.
“Try to burn the ships and cut the camp off from the sea.”
He shrugged.
“Without supplies and reinforcements, you can’t fight for long.”
“Enough guessing.”
Someone’s voice was grim.
“We need to survive ourselves.”
He looked around.
“What are we going to do?
We’re still a long way from camp.”
Clegane grimaced.
He took another drink from his bottle before raising his head.
“We move at dawn.”
His voice was flat.
“I doubt those bastards will come after us this far inland.”
He paused.
“Or try to hunt us down.”
“But if they do, we’d better be closer to our own men than theirs.”
“Take the road?”
Someone asked.
“We could reach the camp in a day that way…”
“No.”
Clegane’s answer came immediately.
“Fuck the road.”
He looked toward the hills.
“We’re going through the hills.”
Someone muttered unhappily under his breath.
But nobody argued.
Nobody wanted to argue with the Hound.