Bent low over his galloping horse, William peered through the narrow slit of his helmet.
Ahead stood five Ironborn, their armor a mismatched collection of stolen mail, patched leather, and scavenged steel.
They showed no concern whatsoever for the lone rider charging toward them.
Grinning viciously, they raised gleaming axes.
Then, just before they could chop the knight into pieces, something impossible happened.
William launched himself from the saddle.
He soared through the air like a hunting hawk.
The smiles on the faces of the two men directly ahead froze.
A thunderous crash followed.
William slammed into them with terrifying force.
Prepared for the impact, he rolled the instant he hit the ground and sprang back to his feet in one fluid motion.
The two unlucky Ironborn were not so fortunate.
They lay in spreading pools of blood, twitching helplessly.
Before the remaining raiders could react, William covered the distance in two strides.
His sword flashed.
Blood sprayed.
The savage grin on the nearest Ironborn’s face transformed instantly into terror.
By the time his corpse collapsed, William was already fighting the last two.
He did not dodge.
He did not retreat.
He simply charged forward.
“Bang!” “Bang!” Heavy axes smashed into his armor.
The reinforced cavalry plate cracked under the blows, but the strikes failed to penetrate.
The impact vanished into his magically strengthened body.
He did not even stagger.
William responded with two practiced cuts.
Thousands of hours of training guided his movements.
The Ironborn’s piecemeal armor offered no protection whatsoever.
Two screams rang out.
Two more bodies hit the ground.
Silence returned.
So this is what killing feels like.
William swallowed.
His mouth was filled with the metallic taste of blood.
He stared blankly at the corpses surrounding him.
Almost unconsciously, he flicked his sword.
Blood droplets scattered across the dirt.
This was Westeros.
A world where lives were cheap.
Peasants died.
Merchants died.
Lords died.
Kings died.
Sometimes by the hundreds.
William did not want to die.
Because of that, he had long understood a simple truth.
Whether he liked it or not, his hands would eventually be stained with blood.
Yet there was one line he refused to cross.
He could not bring himself to practice killing on innocent people.
That was why, when he heard that Tumbleton had been attacked, a dark part of him had stirred.
He had wanted to come.
Wanted to slaughter raiders.
Margaery’s plea had merely been the final weight that tipped the scales.
This was the first time he had watched living people die by his own hand.
The feeling was impossible to describe.
But the towering flames consuming the town and the screams echoing through the streets eased his guilt considerably.
If I must do this…
then let it always be like this.
If someone has to die, let it be so others can live.
These men are murderers and reavers.
They deserve this.
What I’m doing is justice.
Taking a deep breath, William forced himself to move.
Tumbleton was larger than he expected.
Several streets stretched through the settlement, and many of the buildings rose two or even three stories high.
Under normal circumstances, it would have been a prosperous market town.
Now it looked like hell.
Smoke poured from every corner.
Ironborn raiders were everywhere, busy looting, murdering, and dragging captives away.
After killing the five sentries at the entrance, William had stood there for several minutes gathering his courage.
Not a single additional Ironborn had appeared.
Even while looting, they leave guards posted.
This group has discipline.
Someone capable is leading them.
He considered his options.
Getting surrounded would be troublesome.
But if that leads me straight to their commander…
then all the better.
A decapitation strike.
Kill the leader and the rest might scatter.
Suddenly he regretted killing the sentries too quickly.
Perhaps they had carried horns or signal devices.
He had never checked.
The truth was simple.
William had not wanted to touch the corpses.
Clearly, he still had a long way to go.
One step at a time.
He entered the town.
Without a clear view of the battlefield, there was no point trying to formulate elaborate tactics.
Whenever he encountered small groups of Ironborn committing atrocities, he accelerated like lightning.
He struck.
He killed.
He moved on.
No hesitation.
No defense.
Simply trading blow for blow.
The results were devastating.
Before long, more than twenty Ironborn lay dead behind him.
Most never survived the first strike.
Along the way he rescued dozens of civilians, mostly women.
Some emerged from cellars, hidden rooms, or storage pits.
Every person he saved received the same instruction.
“Run toward the Tyrell camp.” “Don’t stop.” Eventually, he reached a large stone house.
At that moment, over a dozen Ironborn emerged from different directions and surrounded him in the street.
Finally noticed me.
Slow learners.
William adopted a defensive stance.
If they attacked first, all the better.
Surprisingly, none of them moved.
The Ironborn had clearly witnessed enough.
They feared his brutal counterattacks.
The standoff stretched on.
Then William smiled.
“Not coming?” He relaxed visibly.
His enormous greatsword drooped toward the ground.
“Then let’s rest for a moment.” The invitation proved too much.
A huge Ironborn with a thick neck and a face like carved stone roared and charged.
“AAAAAH!” His massive axe swung overhead.
The others surged forward as well.
Then come on.
William rushed directly at the leader.
Their weapons met.
But at the last instant, the Ironborn shifted his axe into a defensive position.
William blinked.
Trying to bait me?
Coward.
With a contemptuous snort, he exploded forward.
His angle changed instantly.
One moment they faced each other head-on.
The next, William slipped sideways past him.
The sword flashed upward.
A massive wound opened across the man’s chest and abdomen.
William didn’t even pause to watch him die.
Spinning smoothly, he drove his sword through another Ironborn’s back.
The blade pierced straight through.
Two bodies fell.
William was already charging his next target.
The display shattered the raiders’ morale.
Faces turned pale.
Whenever William approached, they retreated.
Whenever he switched targets, they retreated again.
Yet none of them fled.
Instead, they circled him.
Following him.
Containing him.
Like a pack of wolves.
William found it maddening.
They could not stop him, but with them constantly harassing him, rescuing civilians became impossible.
The deadlock continued until they reached a crossroads.
Then everything changed.
Three fully armored warriors burst from another street.
They slammed into the Ironborn from behind.
Several raiders went down immediately.
Screams erupted.
Chaos followed.
William joined the attack without hesitation.
One swing.
One kill.
The four warriors carved through the remaining Ironborn in moments.
The street fell silent.
William pushed up his visor.
Then froze.
Flowing brown hair.
A handsome face.
A familiar smile.
“Garlan?!” “What are you doing here?” Garlan answered with a look of pure disapproval.
“William.
Bravery is not recklessness.
Seeking glory is not the same as seeking death.” His voice hardened.
“This was a foolish decision.” William grinned sheepishly.
“Relax.
I’m perfectly fine, aren’t I?” But inside, he was deeply moved.
William had magic.
Even if this town were a dragon’s den, he believed he could survive.
That wasn’t courage.
Not really.
Garlan had come here without such certainty.
He had risked his life to find a friend.
That was courage.
How could he ever repay such loyalty?
Garlan said nothing more.
On his way into town, he had met people William rescued.
Men.
Women.
Children.
Every one of them owed their lives to this reckless young knight.
And that duty should have belonged to the knights of Highgarden.
Not William.
Before either could continue, footsteps echoed down a nearby street.
Many footsteps.
Dozens.
Garlan slapped William on the shoulder.
“Move.” “Ser Jon has men waiting outside the town.” If William had been alone, he wouldn’t have cared.
But in a chaotic melee, he couldn’t protect everyone.
If Garlan were injured because of him…
That was unacceptable.
So he nodded.
Together they ran.
Then instinct screamed.
Danger.
William’s heart lurched.
Without thinking, he shoved Garlan aside.
Garlan stumbled.
Barely recovered.
A massive axe whistled through the space where his head had been.
The wind of its passage stung his face.
A heartbeat later came the impact.
Crunch.
The axe buried itself deep in William’s breastplate.
The force hurled him to the ground.
The instant his protective spell shattered, fear seized him.
Not ordinary fear.
Death.
Pure death.
Coldness engulfed him.
Everything became distant.
Empty.
He could not hear.
Could not feel.
Could barely think.
He saw Garlan shouting something.
The words never reached him.
He didn’t care.
Garlan tried dragging him away.
William felt nothing.
Then the attackers arrived.
At their head stood a giant.
A monstrous Ironborn warrior taller than Gregor Clegane’s reputation itself.
His axe was larger than any William had ever seen.
Garlan fought.
And fought well.
The giant could not overcome him alone.
Then the melee began.
Garlan and his retainers formed a disciplined defensive circle, protecting one another, covering flanks, and supporting every movement.
Though vastly outnumbered, they held.
Ironborn fell.
One after another.
Then the enemy changed tactics.
Some began attacking William’s motionless body.
To protect him, Garlan was forced out of formation.
The line faltered.
Wounds appeared.
One retainer fell.
Then another.
The circle shrank.
Still Garlan refused to abandon him.
Then a final axe struck.
It buried itself in Garlan’s back.
He collapsed.
As he fell, his eyes found William’s.
There was no anger there.
No blame.
Only regret.
As though he were apologizing.
The one who should be sorry…
is me, Garlan.