❝A sword is a modest price to pay for a life.❞
Arthur drove the shovel into the wet earth, and the soft ground gave way beneath his feet with a sickening squelch.
A light rain tapped against his back, cold streams running down the back of his neck.
His arms ached from exhaustion and every part of his body hurt, but he kept digging, trying to bury his guilt beneath each heavy swing of the shovel.
If only he hadn’t interfered…
If only he’d killed William faster…
If only he’d been stronger…
Beside him, Willit was digging as well, his shovel biting into the mud.
Broad-shouldered, his cloak stained with dirt, he worked in silence with the focused determination of a man accustomed to hard labor.
His expression remained impassive, his hands gripping the shovel with practiced strength.
The man had volunteered to help Arthur.
The others had already dug a shallow grave for William on the outskirts of the village, while they intended to leave the girl’s body for the villagers in the morning.
Arthur couldn’t do that.
William’s body had been dumped into the grave quickly and without ceremony.
Nobody shed a tear for him, but nobody celebrated his death either.
Their group was simply one man smaller.
Everyone else had gone back inside the house.
Only Willit had stayed behind with Arthur.
Arthur felt his thoughts about Marea and his own guilt beginning to go around in circles again when something suddenly occurred to him.
“Who are Salt Wives?”
The older man-at-arms paused for a moment, then sighed heavily.
“That’s what the Ironborn call the women they take after raids.
They attack, kill the men, and drag the women away with them.”
Arthur drove his shovel into the earth with renewed force, throwing chunks of mud aside.
“Those aren’t wives.
They’re prisoners,” he said quietly, tightening his grip around the shovel’s handle.
“Slavery is forbidden in Westeros!”
“The Ironborn don’t seem particularly interested in following the law right now, as you can see.”
Willit gave him an understanding look from beneath his wet brows.
“That’s their ‘old way.'”
Anger rose inside Arthur, directed at the people who lived on these islands, but he said nothing.
He simply drove the shovel deeper into the mud.
They kept digging until the grave was deep enough.
Marea’s body was lowered carefully into the ground.
Nobody prayed.
Only Steffon, who had taken over for Arthur after the boy had completely exhausted himself, quietly murmured:
“May the Mother accept her soul…”
When it was finished, they silently returned to the house.
Dawn was approaching, and tomorrow they had a long journey ahead of them.
Arthur collapsed onto the hard mattress he’d been given, feeling his body weakening even as his mind stubbornly refused to shut down.
Then another message appeared before his eyes.
You have gained a level.
Your level is now 5.
Free attribute points: 1.
Distribute…
Numbers.
Those damn numbers again.
What the hell are they?
How many more people does he have to kill before he gets enough?
A suffocating wave of anger washed over him.
Faces of the people he’d killed began appearing in his mind.
Three or two villagers who had tried to get through the palisade.
Two Ironborn who had landed on the shore.
Two fishermen.
That bastard…
How many more would he have to kill?
Arthur finished counting, trying to understand the logic behind this strange magic.
Last time, four people had died before the message appeared.
This time…
Seven?
Eight?
William definitely made eight.
And then he understood.
Every time he gained a new “level,” the number of kills required doubled.
Whatever that word was supposed to mean.
First one.
Then two.
Then four.
Now eight.
The next would be twice as many.
Arthur clenched his teeth.
Damn system.
Damn numbers!
He angrily dismissed the messages, but his eyes immediately found the line representing his strength.
What if I’d been stronger…?
Marea would still be alive.
You have gained a level.
Your level is now 5.
Free attribute points: 1.
Distribute…
Arthur closed his eyes.
The choice was obvious.
Name: Arthur Snow
Level: 5
Physical Strength: 5
Agility: 3
Health: 86/100
Intelligence: 3
Endurance: 4
Magic: 1/100
Magical Power: 1
Luck: 2
They set out at dawn, as the first rays of sunlight broke through patches of morning mist.
The ground remained wet and loose after the night’s rain, but Arthur felt surprisingly light.
The pain in his leg had almost disappeared, and the small wound on his collarbone had healed without leaving a trace.
Just before they left, Sandor handed him William’s sword and shield.
“Take them.
Your trophy.”
Arthur accepted them silently.
The bastard sword was slightly longer than what he was used to, but as soon as he closed his hand around the hilt, he realized it was easier to hold than before.
It seemed that overnight he’d grown a little taller and stronger, though not enough to wield the weapon with complete ease.
The sword was heavier than his previous weapon, with a long blade and a grip suitable for either one or two hands.
Its heavy, faceted pommel balanced the long blade nicely.
The edge had a few irregularities left from striking armor, but nothing that couldn’t be fixed with a whetstone.
The steel was clearly better than his previous trophy blade.
“Better than yours,” the Hound remarked as he watched Arthur test its balance.
“Take the horse too,” Willit added, leading a dark stallion by the reins.
Arthur grimaced.
There was a pile of metal clanking around in the saddlebag, a reminder that its previous owner hadn’t benefited much from having it.
“I don’t need…”
He glanced at the horse.
“I can’t even ride.”
The stallion clearly wasn’t thrilled about Arthur either, and the boy had no intention of climbing onto it.
“We’ll take it with us,” Willit muttered, throwing the reins over the saddle horn.
“You can thank me later.”
Arthur didn’t argue.
Once everyone was ready, they opened the barn.
The villagers had been left to freeze through the night.
Clegane, making no effort to soften his words, warned them to remain silent.
The women nodded fearfully.
The old man simply spat on the ground.
Arthur could feel the hateful eyes of the women gathered along the road on his back for a long time afterward.
The road was slippery and the trails narrow, but thanks to Marea, Sandor knew how to avoid the nearby villages and unnecessary encounters.
Taking the main road would have been almost suicidal.
The closer they got to the camp, the more Ironborn there could be in the area.
Especially with Hammerhorn Castle somewhere nearby.
They trudged for hours along broken trails washed out by the rain, the horses’ hooves sinking into the mud.
The animals stumbled repeatedly.
Nobody complained.
Unfortunately, disaster caught up with Ser Hugh while they were descending from the hills.
His horse slipped on a wet stone, gave a harsh neigh, and collapsed sideways beneath its own weight.
There was a dull crack.
It might have been the horse’s leg.
It might have been the knight’s.
The man screamed, trapped beneath the fallen animal.
“Shit,” Sandor breathed.
Several men rushed forward to pull Hugh free while the knight clenched his teeth, doing everything possible not to howl from the pain.
But the terrified animal wouldn’t let anyone approach.
“We’ll have to put it down,” Sandor said, dismounting and drawing his dagger.
“Don’t…”
Ser Hugh stared at the approaching man in horror.
“I have children!”
“Stop screaming.
You don’t have any children.”
Sandor gave him a grim smile as he crouched down.
He quickly slit the horse’s throat.
The animal jerked, choked, and soon lay motionless in the mud.
“Er…
thank you.”
Ser Hugh straightened, pale and leaning against Crakehall’s shoulder.
“You’re lucky we’ve got spare horses,” Sandor grumbled while Merlon helped the man sit somewhere flatter.
His leg looked terrible.
“Wrap his leg and move.”
He glanced around.
“Same rules for everyone.
If you fall behind…”
“We won’t wait.”
The knight grimaced but nodded, holding his injured leg while Willit used the sheath of his own dagger to brace it.
They wrapped it tightly.
“I…
I’ll manage,” Hugh breathed, trying not to look at the dead horse.
They couldn’t leave immediately, despite all of Clegane’s complaining.
They made a short stop to redistribute their supplies, give the horses some food, and rest themselves.
They didn’t light a fire.
Instead, they simply sat in a circle on the grass, eating their meager provisions.
“Fuck…”
One of the younger men cursed after biting into the hard salted meat he’d inherited along with the dead man’s horse.
The tough meat had not only left a horrible aftertaste.
It had knocked out his right tooth.
“Ha!”
Sandor burst into deep laughter when he noticed the boy staring thoughtfully at the tooth he’d spat out, running his tongue over the empty space.
“Looks like William decided to screw you over from beyond the grave.”
He grinned.
“What was it again?
An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth!”
Laughter broke out around the group.
The others remembered that Arthur had knocked several of the guardsman’s teeth out during their fight.
“Looks like the puppy’s teeth aren’t so long anymore,” Emerek sneered, giving Arthur a hostile look.
He seemed to be the only one who had actually been friends with William, and he clearly blamed the boy for his death.
“Don’t worry,” Merlon said with a good-natured grin.
“Get an iron one put in.
You’ll be Arthur Iron-Tooth.”
“It’s a baby tooth.
It’ll grow back.”
Arthur tossed it aside without much concern, failing to notice several of the men staring at him strangely.
“What?”
“Baby tooth, huh…”
Clegane frowned thoughtfully.
“Fuck me, boy.
How old are you?”
“Uh…
eleven.”
Arthur lied, adding a couple of years to his actual age.
“Why?”
“Well, I’ll be damned…”
Eddie, the youngest of the remaining riders, looked disappointed.
“I thought you were at least fourteen.”
The red-haired eighteen-year-old shook his head.
“You’ll go far, boy,” Cryston whistled.
“If you live that long…”
“Speaking of which,” Sandor grumbled.
“We’d better get moving if we want to reach camp before sunset and live a little longer.”
The long, exhausting journey through the hills finally brought them to a wide road just before sunset.
The ground beneath the exhausted horses’ hooves was hard-packed and damp, scarred by wagon tracks.
The smell of the sea hung in the air, mixed with wet earth and a faint trace of smoke.
There were people nearby.
The question was who.
They didn’t have to wait long.
The sound of approaching hooves came from somewhere ahead.
At first it was muffled.
Then it rapidly grew louder.
Judging by the weight of the hoofbeats, this wasn’t a lone traveler or a small band of mercenaries.
“Off the road!”
Sandor barked, turning his horse toward a small patch of forest overgrown with thick brush.
They moved aside, the horses’ hooves sinking into mossy ground.
Arthur tightened his grip on the reins, his heart beating faster.
He noticed Ser Hugh gritting his teeth as he clung to his horse’s neck, still suffering from his injury.
Everyone drew their swords.
The riders appeared around the bend.
Lion banners.
Red and gold.
Arthur felt something inside him sink.
Lannisters.
The men’s faces relaxed.
Ser Hugh looked especially relieved and even laughed despite his pain.
“Seven hells, I thought I was going to die in the mud like some common beggar.”
Sandor snorted.
Before anyone could stop him, he stepped onto the road.
The knights immediately tensed.
Hands flew to sword hilts.
Someone cursed.
Another man nervously swallowed when the enormous warrior stepped into the road carrying a massive sword.
“The Hound?!”
one of them shouted, eyes widening.
“What ugly faces you’ve got,” Sandor boomed with a grin.
The others emerged from the trees behind him.
The Lannisters exchanged glances.
Then the tension disappeared, replaced by relief.
“You’re alive, you bastard!”
One of the knights who knew Sandor laughed.
“We thought they’d killed every last one of you!”
“And Cryston too!”
“Alive and kicking.”
Cryston saluted with his sword before returning it to its sheath.
“Good to see you, Rupert.”
“You’ve got quite a collection of survivors here.”
A gray-haired rider with a rampant unicorn on his shield spoke up.
The inscription identified him as a member of House Brax.
He suddenly remembered what he was doing and guided his horse away from the sickly tree it had already begun chewing on.
The other riders also began moving onto the road.
Sandor merely grunted as he looked them over, but even through his perpetual scowl there was something resembling happiness at seeing familiar faces.
“The worst thing that’s happened to me,” he said with a grin, “is seeing you lot again.”
“Was there an attack?”
Merlon asked seriously as he approached.
“If they attacked us, you’re next.”
“We beat them back!”
The commander of the group nodded proudly.
“It was one hell of a fight.
Those bastards fled into the mountains.
Our men are searching the area, but the main force retreated toward the castle.”
He grinned.
“We’re preparing a counterattack.”
“Then we arrived at the right time,” Cryston said as he climbed into his saddle.
When the road carried them onto higher ground, Arthur couldn’t help but stop and stare.
Below them, stretching along the coast between two hills, was an enormous camp that looked more like a city.
A river glittered beneath the setting sun as it flowed toward the sea, creating a natural barrier.
Hundreds of tents and temporary structures covered the banks.
People moved everywhere.
Knights in heavy armor.
Men-at-arms.
Common soldiers.
Workers.
Behind a dense double ring of wooden palisades enclosing the camp in a semicircle, life continued at a frantic pace.
Siege engines, not yet completely assembled, towered over the far end of the camp.
Hammers rang somewhere in the distance as sweating blacksmiths forged weapons.
Nearby, wagons loaded with supplies were being unloaded, crates and barrels being dragged into position.
But something else caught Arthur’s attention.
Ships filled the bay.
Lots of them.
Lannister ships with crimson sails.
Baratheon ships bearing the stag.
And others he didn’t recognize.
But there wasn’t a single black sail in sight.
When they passed through the camp gates, Arthur couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d entered an enormous anthill.
Soldiers hurried everywhere.
Armorers forged new swords and repaired damaged armor.
The air smelled of smoke, saltwater, and hot food.
For one moment, however, the wind carried something much less appetizing.
Behind the palisade, several nearly naked corpses lay scattered about, along with hastily stacked piles of timber.
Near the entrance, two soldiers were struggling with heavy logs, dragging a barricade out of the way.
Arthur reined in his horse.
“Excuse me.
Do you know where the Black Beta is?”
The young man frowned and stopped working.
His eyes quickly swept over Arthur.
Battered armor.
No heraldry.
A dirty cloak.
Then he looked toward the bay and shrugged.
“No…
don’t know any ship by that name.”
He sighed and grabbed the log again.
“There are plenty of ships here.
Look around.”
“Arthur, don’t fall behind!”
Willit’s voice came from behind him.
The boy stood there for another second, staring at the forest of masts near the docks.
Then, gritting his teeth, he urged the horse forward and followed the procession.
When Sandor’s group entered the camp, they were almost immediately escorted to a large tent in the center, where the command staff was located.
Inside, the atmosphere was noisy.
Commanders were gathered around a map spread across a table, discussing something in low voices while torchlight cast dancing shadows across the canvas walls.
Sandor was the first to remove his cloak.
He shook the road dust from it and stepped forward.
“Lord Kevan.”
Kevan Lannister raised his head.
His tired face immediately filled with surprise, as did those of several others present.
“Clegane?”
He looked over their battered group.
“I’d already begun worrying that none of you had survived!”
He smiled.
“I’m glad I was wrong.”
“Believe me, I’m glad too.”
Sandor gave a crooked grin.
“We barely made it.”
His eyes moved around the camp.
“I see you’ve settled in rather thoroughly…”
Clegane and the other knights then began explaining how they’d escaped the camp.
Arthur stood off to the side, awkwardly lowering his gaze.
He felt completely out of place among these hardened knights and commanders.
It was strange.
Yesterday he’d been a cabin boy.
The day before that, practically a street urchin.
And now, somehow, he was standing among seasoned soldiers and military commanders.
Even Ser Hugh, who had bravely kept himself upright until then, was finally taken to the maester.
The conversation shifted to the condition of the camp, the battle, tactics, and casualties.
Different names were mentioned.
Who would be transferred where.
Who would command whom.
Arthur quickly lost track of the conversation.
Then Kevan asked about him.
Arthur immediately felt every eye in the tent turn toward him.
“And who is this?”
Sandor merely grinned as he glanced at the boy.
“Arthur.”
“I picked him up on the road.
Davos Seaworth’s cabin boy.”
“Good kid.
Knows how to handle a sword.”
Arthur felt Kevan’s assessing gaze sweep over him.
He instinctively straightened.
The Lannister said nothing.
He merely gave a short nod.
“Speaking of which,” Sandor said, changing the subject, “did the Black Beta come here?”
“They helped repel the attack.”
Kevan glanced at Arthur again, seemingly understanding why Sandor had asked.
“But you’re too late, boy.”
“She’s already gone.”
“They’ve sailed for Old Wyk.”
Arthur felt his stomach tighten.
He’d hoped he’d make it in time.
But the Black Beta was already far away.
He was too late.