“Alright, move it…” another barred door creaked open before Arthur with a groan.
The boy stepped inside, and the door slammed shut behind him with a heavy metallic clang.
No one shoved him this time; the guard was different, as was the cell itself.
It was even smaller than the last but had one distinction a small window near the ceiling, letting in dim light.
Here, Arthur was utterly alone.
After the agitated guards discovered the body, his new acquaintances were taken for questioning.
No one believed that a scrawny, half-starved boy could kill a grown man, especially a Dothraki the same one who’d reportedly killed two men barehanded in a harbor tavern for mocking the “barbarian.”
Strictly speaking, the Tyroshi who’d hired on as a rower on a trading galley wasn’t a true Dothraki.
A genuine Dothraki in Westeros was rarer than a live dragon.
The nomadic people generally hated “big water,” considering salt water poisonous since horses couldn’t drink it.
So the half-breed who’d ended up in Westeros wasn’t truly Dothraki only half.
But who cared about that?
Certainly not the city folk, the guards, or the boy himself.
After the door slammed shut, Arthur was left in crushing solitude and uncertainty.
The first hours, he paced his damp cage like a trapped animal, expecting someone to come for him at any moment, to take him to the headsman.
Or straight to the block…
Though a boy from the orphanage could only dream of a block.
For commoners convicted of murder, there was only a rope, or the terrible Wall, if recruiters for the Watch happened to be passing through King’s Landing.
Arthur didn’t want to die…
He even tried several times to jump for the window in a desperate attempt at escape he was just a few inches short.
But time passed, and no one came.
Eventually, his acute despair gave way to emptiness and exhaustion.
Slumping onto the cold stone, Arthur covered his face with his hands, feeling the damp wind howl through the window bars.
Even in this grim stillness, there was no peace for him.
The moment he closed his eyes, glowing symbols began to flash before his inner vision.
They flickered, forming chains, sentences, and shapes.
Some words he could decipher; others remained utterly foreign.
Neither learned prayers nor fierce curses could dispel this illusion.
The symbols had appeared the moment he’d entered the hall of dragon bones, and had haunted him ever since.
Whenever he looked at a person or closed his eyes, the strange writing reappeared before his gaze.
Desperate to fight the madness, Arthur decided to focus on the symbols, trying to decipher their meaning.
At the orphanage, they’d taught them a little reading and writing not out of kindness, but to fill the dismal ranks of pale scribes copying sacred texts.
So Arthur could read a little…
or thought he could.
But there was no sense in these lines.
Name: Arthur Snow.
Level: 2
Physical Strength: 1
Agility: 3
Health: 58 (out of 100)
Intelligence: 1
Endurance: 2
Magic: 0.09 (out of 100)
Magical Power: 1
Luck: 2
Then came unfamiliar words and notations he didn’t understand a single letter of.
However, his gaze lingered on two lines he’d seen before:
“Unlocked Bloodline Ability: Fury.
Increases strength attributes by 100%.
Consumes magic.
Cooldown: 39 minutes.”
“You have gained a level.
Your level is 2.
Free attribute points: 1.
Distribute…”
Arthur didn’t know all these words, but he was beginning to realize these mysterious signs weren’t just products of his imagination or a blow to the head.
He knew what head injuries could do.
The kindly face of Koloviv, the stable hand’s assistant, flashed before him the man couldn’t string two words together, his left eye badly crossed.
If Koloviv saw strange visions, he couldn’t have told anyone about them.
No, this was clearly something else.
“Perhaps the Seven had blessed him?” Arthur thought with a flicker of hope.
“Yes, a sign, a gift from the gods!
The Seven rarely reveal their will to mortals, but what if they had chosen to mark him?”
He continued reading the inscriptions, hoping to find a mention of the gods.
The boy had heard from septons that blessings could take many forms.
The Smith gave strength to hands, the Maiden offered protection, and the Crone granted wisdom.
Perhaps these strange lines were a gift from the Teacher?
Or was it the Warrior who had kindled battle spirit within him, rewarding him with strange knowledge of himself?
But then why didn’t he feel the reverent awe that, according to the priests, should accompany an encounter with the divine?
Why did his heart fill with fear instead?
Arthur tried to find in the inscriptions any hint of holy origin.
Maybe he’d see words of prayer?
Or symbols like those adorning the altars?
Perhaps the Seven had chosen him for a great purpose?
But the longer he looked, the more doubt grew within him.
Was this a blessing…
or a curse?
Arthur wasn’t a righteous man, and if the Seven truly marked their servants, why choose him?
He didn’t pray daily, he swore, and his thoughts usually wandered to a piece of bread and a warm place to sleep rather than the divine.
Yes, sometimes he thought of the Mother when life seemed particularly harsh, and asked the Stranger not to take him too soon.
But could he say he lived by the tenets of the faith to become a saint himself?
No, of course not.
Arthur sighed, realizing he felt no holiness within himself, no divine power.
Before him hung only this thing, appearing seemingly from nowhere after he’d been in that cave.
And then his gaze fell on a single word that shattered his last illusions in an instant.
“Magic.
0.09.”
Cold washed over him.
Sorcery.
The forbidden art spoken of only in whispers.
He couldn’t accept it as a gift from the Seven saints didn’t use magic.
Magic was associated with dragons, witches, warlocks, and terrifying tales of skinchangers who could steal your body and watch through your eyes.
Arthur trembled, feeling primal horror rise within him.
He’d heard stories from drunken sailors about evil warlocks from Qarth who could steal a soul from afar.
Perhaps someone had cursed him and wanted to take his soul.
“No!
This can’t be true.
This is just…
madness.”
The boy reread everything he could understand:
Physical Strength: 1
Agility: — 3
Health: 56 (out of 100)
Intelligence: 1
Endurance: 2
Magic: 0.1 (out of 100)
Magical Power: 1
Luck: 2
He took a deep breath, trying to quell the trembling that had seized him.
“Blood and fire…” he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut and once again trying to will the symbols away.
And then, suddenly, the runes and inscriptions simply vanished, obeying his will.
It was so easy that the boy was stunned, looking around as if trying to find where they’d run off to.
Only one line still hovered before his eyes: “Free attribute points: 1.
Distribute…”
Trying to dismiss it, Arthur felt an unknown energy suddenly shift to the “Strength” line.
His body was flooded with a warm but sharp wave of power.
The sensation stunned him for a moment before his consciousness faded, and he collapsed onto the cold stone floor.
“Lieutenant!” a boy messenger, gasping and stumbling, ran up to the procession escorting the subdued, slightly battered fat baker.
“What is it, Willie?” the man frowned, reflexively placing his hand on his sword hilt.
He knew the boy; he often delivered messages from the Gold Cloaks’ commander, Manly Stokeworth.
“Lieutenant…
you’re…
urgently summoned to a general assembly,” the boy said, breathless and agitated.
“By the Seven, can you tell me what’s happened?!” the boy’s alarm was contagious, but Hamphrey still didn’t understand the urgency.
General assemblies of officers, where decrees from above were handed down, weren’t uncommon.
But at this hour, with such haste…
“Greyjoys!” the boy blurted out.
“Greyjoys attacked Lannisport!
The King is summoning the armies…
I need to notify everyone…”
“Blood and fire,” the lieutenant swore, glancing at his subordinates’ brightening faces.
They were already imagining themselves as valiant warriors in polished armor, marching with the royal army.
A chance for promotion, glory, money, honors it was all there in their eyes.
But Hamphrey, who’d survived the last war as a common foot soldier, knew the ugly side of war.
Blood, filth, suffering, and the spilled guts of friends.
The City Watch, which kept the peace in peacetime, became part of the Royal Army during war, leaving only a diminished contingent in the city.
And then there was this damned baker.
“You two, take him to the drunk tank,” Hamphrey ordered, heading toward the Fat Tower where the command was headquartered and general assemblies were held.
He’d wanted to deal with this matter immediately, while the Red Keep’s gates were still open.
But it seemed fate had other plans.
Still, that “not-a-thief” boy should be all right until morning.
Tywin Lannister stood on the rise, grimly watching the fiery agony of his fleet in Lannisport’s harbor.
The acrid smell of smoke mingled with the salty sea air, as if symbolizing the bitterness of this humiliation.
And that’s exactly what it was.
The trading fleet, arrived from across the Narrow Sea with valuable cargo, trapped in the harbor, was powerless against the ironborn raid.
Waves mercilessly dashed the wrecks of ships against the rocky shore, while flames greedily devoured masts and sails.
Tywin was silent; his golden gaze was fixed and cold, but in the depths of those icy eyes, something dangerous simmered.
Anger.
Wounded pride.
How dare they?
These Iron Islands savages, barbarians who despised order, had struck at the heart of Lannisport, dealing a blow that damaged first and foremost his reputation and his advantage in maritime trade.
Dozens of ships majestic symbols of his power and strength burned like cheap torches.
The fire reflected on the water’s surface, a mirror that mercilessly returned Tywin’s own helplessness in that moment.
He couldn’t even give chase; the ironborn’s black sails were already rapidly retreating toward the Riverlands, as if mocking him, his house, everything he’d built.
They hadn’t even entered Lannisport itself to plunder as usual; they’d only taken cargo from the ships.
The silence of his thoughts was broken by the clanking of armor.
Wilmont, one of his commanders, struggled to find words, trying to report:
“Lord Tywin, they…
they struck at night.
We…
didn’t have time…”
“Enough,” Tywin cut him off coldly, not taking his eyes off the water.
His voice was so sharp that the commander immediately fell silent.
Tywin stared at the scene for another moment, then slowly turned to his men.
“This wasn’t a raid,” he said, his voice now quiet but firm, like steel.
“This was a fatal stupidity.
Declaring war on me.
Prepare ravens for King’s Landing…
we march immediately.”
He turned, stepping away from the terrible sight, but in every step, there was an unyielding resolve.
Tywin Lannister did not forgive defeats.
Especially those that left his name in ashes and smoke.
The ironborn had taken their iron price, but the Old Lion intended to remind the Greyjoys that Lannisters always pay their debts.
Arthur woke with a sharp intake of breath.
His body ached from sleeping on cold stone.
In the damp, gloomy cell, it was so chilly that every attempt to move sent pain through his joints.
The symbols were gone.
This news was so welcome that for a second, Arthur felt a surge of energy.
Dawn was slowly breaking over the narrow semicircular window.
The first timid rays of sun pierced through the rusty bars, illuminating the dusty walls of the cell.
Jumping up unexpectedly high, Arthur grabbed the creaking bars and pulled himself up, turning his face to the small patch of warm light.
A light sea breeze rushed into his nostrils.
Through the bars, he could see the endless waters washing the cliff on which the castle stood.
Arthur watched the waves crash against the rocks and the few ships lazily bobbing in the distance.
His gaze caught a raven hurrying toward the sea.
But, as if in mockery, the sun immediately vanished behind a thick cloud, and the light disappeared.
Arthur let go of the bars and dropped to the cold floor.
With every heartbeat, despair grew within him again.
Just yesterday, he’d hoped everything would resolve itself, that the baker who’d slandered him would tell the guards the truth and he’d be released.
But now, after what had happened…
after he’d killed a man.
The boy clenched his fists convulsively, and horrible images flashed before his eyes.
The torture chamber.
Rough jailers’ hands fixing him to some terrible device to extract a confession.
A severed hand…
or worse, the noose.
He’d seen hangings before.
The terror on faces as they were strung up, legs twitching in convulsions.
The blue tinge of skin, the protruding tongue.
“No…” he whispered, not believing his own voice.
“No!”
The thought of escape took root in his mind.
He didn’t want to die.
Drowning in the cold sea water was terrifying, but still better than hanging for the crowd’s amusement.
He’d survived once before.
Gritting his teeth, Arthur jumped again, grabbing the bars and pulling himself up.
This time, he noticed he’d done it more easily, as if his body had grown a little stronger.
His heart beat faster for a moment with a glimmer of hope.
Pulling himself higher, he tried to push his head through the bars, but the gap was too narrow.
The metal edges scraped his skin, leaving an unpleasant burning sensation.
Arthur dropped back down helplessly, landing hard on the stone floor.
Having achieved nothing but scratches on his head, the boy dropped back down in frustration.
The bars, despite the black spots of stone below, weren’t meant to offer such an easy escape for the castle’s prisoners.
Still, the rusty bars creaked slightly under the boy’s not-too-heavy weight.
Hamphrey walked quickly, almost mechanically, feeling the tension congealing around him like a viscous substance, turning the air thick.
But it was only an illusion.
King’s Landing lived its usual nighttime life: songs and laughter echoed from the taverns, shady characters darted through the narrow streets, and the light of torches on the walls reflected in puddles left by the evening rain.
The city was full of sound, but Hamphrey heard it as if through cotton wool.
Wiping his hand across his sweaty forehead, he gripped his sword hilt tighter.
The news of the Greyjoy attack on Lannisport wasn’t just unexpected it struck like lightning on a clear day.
But instead of fear, he felt a grim sense of inevitability.
Hamphrey wasn’t afraid of war.
He knew it.
And that knowledge weighed heavily on him.
But he wouldn’t hide on the sidelines like some cunning careerists.
He remembered how the likes of Janos Slynt hid behind others’ backs, then basked in glory bought with other men’s blood.
That wasn’t for him.
At the gates of the Fat Tower, there was bustle.
Guards shuffled from foot to foot, letting officers pass, while the officers themselves, grim-faced, hurried inside.
The tower’s stone walls seemed unusually cold to Hamphrey, as if they sensed the coming storm.
Inside, the Gold Cloaks’ upper command had gathered.
Officers, broken into small groups, stood in the great hall lit by torches.
Conversations were subdued, and in the center of attention stood Commander Manly Stokeworth.
His massive figure stood out against the flickering flames, his voice resolute and confident, like the sound of a war horn.
“Everyone here?
Good.
Listen carefully,” his gaze swept over those assembled, as if assessing who would withstand the coming trials.
“As you know, the Greyjoys have attacked Lannisport.
The Small Council demands full mobilization.
Our unit will be part of the garrison force.
Officers with combat experience will take charge of the militia.
One third will remain in the city to maintain order…”
His words hung in the air, and for a moment, the hall fell so silent that only the crackling of torches could be heard.
Then the murmur of voices erupted again.
Some whispered, exchanging wary glances; others nodded grimly, accepting the inevitable.
Then came the specifics.
Names were called of those who would go to battle among the “nobles.” Who would serve lower ranks, and who would stay in the city altogether.
Hamphrey said nothing.
He didn’t need words to express his thoughts.
War wasn’t a place for hopes of easy victory or heroism.
It was mud, blood, and constant fear.
He knew he’d have to fight again, and now command men who wouldn’t all come home.
The meeting ended late at night.
The orders were clear, and though Stokeworth disliked idle talk, many issues needed immediate attention.
Hamphrey lingered at the exit, glancing back at the hall one last time.
He already knew he’d be given command of at best a dozen men.
It was better than being in the front lines, of course.
When he stepped outside, the night met him with a cool breeze smelling of sea and smoke.
The city continued its life as if nothing had happened.
But Hamphrey knew that by tomorrow, everything would change.
Again.
At home, his wife and son slept, unaware.
Soon, there would be a difficult conversation.
And he still had one unfinished matter to attend to.