Every man on deck froze.
Sailors and officers alike turned to look.
Arthur narrowed his eyes, trying to make out the distant vessel.
It moved slowly, half-hidden behind one of the islands.
“What flag?” Davos shouted, raising a spyglass.
“Can’t see, ser!” the lookout called back.
A tense silence followed.
Everyone waited.
Arthur could feel his heart hammering in his chest.
“Too far away,” Davos said at last, lowering the glass.
“Possibly a merchant vessel.
Still, stay alert.
Be ready.”
The sailors rushed immediately toward the weapon chests.
Even Arthur found himself occupied, helping distribute arrows.
Yet before long, the distant ship vanished behind the rocks as though it had never existed.
“Gone,” Matthos said quietly beside him.
“Pirates?” Arthur asked, breathing hard.
“Maybe.
Maybe merchants who decided not to take the risk.”
Matthos shrugged.
“No one feels safe here.
Monford Velaryon is trying to bring order to the Stepstones, but he hasn’t the strength to do it properly.”
The tension gradually eased, and the crew returned to their duties.
Still, unease lingered in the air.
Arthur could not shake the feeling that the mysterious vessel had not appeared by chance.
When the galley emerged from the strait into open water once more, the captain ordered them to maintain their course.
The waves settled.
The sea regained its enchanting calm, as though nature itself had chosen to rest after the dangers of the passage.
After supper, Arthur stood by the rail watching the water, which seemed full of wonders.
Silver fish flashed in the light of the setting sun, leaping from the sea as though competing in grace.
They emerged from foaming waves and vanished so quickly that Arthur scarcely caught a glimpse of them.
Gulls circled overhead, shrieking.
At times they plunged toward the water, snatching fish from the surface.
“Look there, cabin boy.”
Pol passed by again.
“Flying fish.
See them?”
Arthur followed the sailor’s finger.
Several small fish with elongated fins seemed to rise directly into the air like tiny seabirds.
“They fly!”
“They glide, not fly,” the seasoned sailor corrected with a grin.
He had sailed beyond the Stepstones many times.
“Nature made them that way so they could escape predators.
Beautiful creatures, aren’t they?
Arthur nodded, entranced as the fish disappeared beneath the waves once more.
He thought about how vast and mysterious the world beyond the city walls truly was.
Not long ago that world had frightened him with its endlessness and uncertainty.
Now it filled him with wonder.
“There are two kinds of people,” Pol said thoughtfully.
“Those who live by the sea, earn their bread from it, and take it for granted…
and those whom the sea calls.
The ones drawn to its endless waters and all their mysteries.”
The way he said it left little doubt which kind he considered himself.
“I wonder which sort you are,” he added with a half-smile.
Arthur thought about it.
Not long ago he would have belonged to the first kind.
Now…
“There are also those who come back from the sea,” Ray grumbled, appearing from nowhere and ruffling the boy’s dark hair.
“True enough.” Pol snorted.
“That storm was…
Seven save us.
Hard to believe how…”
“Arkt!”
Matthos stood near the mast, stretching his shoulders.
“Coming to train, or are you staying with the fish?”
Arthur turned toward him with a smile.
“I’m coming!”
“Off you go, runt.
I’ll watch.”
The second boatswain folded his arms across his chest.
To a hardened sellsword who had served in several companies, the boys’ training was little more than entertainment.
Though he admitted Matthos had learned a thing or two from him.
Indeed, mastery of the blade was one of the chief reasons Davos had hired him.
The former smuggler who had risen higher than most men could dream had seven children, and he was determined to give them every advantage he himself had lacked.
Leaving thoughts of sea wonders behind, Arthur hurried toward Matthos.
The young sailor waited with two wooden practice swords.
He looked confident, faintly amused, as though anticipating a pleasant diversion.
“Catch.”
He tossed one of the practice swords.
Arthur barely caught it.
His fingers slipped on the smooth wood before finding the grip.
He clutched the rough training weapon as though it were a knight’s blade.
“Today we’ll cover the basics.
If you don’t want to find yourself in a fight empty-handed, you’d best start learning.”
“I’m ready,” Arthur replied seriously, settling into an awkward stance.
“We’ll see.”
Matthos snorted and stepped forward without warning, launching a quick thrust.
Startled, Arthur tried to parry.
Matthos laughed.
“At least fix your stance, cabin boy!
Otherwise not only the Greyjoys, but the first fisherman you meet will beat you with his rod.
Stand like this.”
He froze in position so Arthur could study him.
“Bend your knees a little.
Why are your legs stiff as poles?”
Arthur bit his lip.
He knew Matthos was right, yet the comments still stung.
He was trying.
The cabin boy adjusted his stance and tightened his grip.
“Again,” he said, making it clear he had no intention of giving up.
Matthos nodded approvingly and attacked once more, slower this time, allowing Arthur to grow accustomed to the movements.
With every strike and every block, Arthur felt his body adapting to the rhythm.
Only a few days ago he had scarcely held a sword at all.
Now he was beginning to understand how he ought to move.
For one fleeting instant he even felt as though he knew.
As though some hidden understanding had settled into place.
The sensation vanished almost immediately.
Matthos, seeing the boy’s determination, grew more serious.
His attacks now demanded real concentration.
“Good,” he said after another exchange.
“But don’t relax.
In a real fight, nobody gives you time to think.”
The lesson continued for another half hour until Arthur was completely exhausted.
He sat heavily upon the deck, wiping sweat from his brow while his arms trembled.
His body ached from every blow he had failed to avoid.
Matthos dropped down beside him and handed over a waterskin.
“Not bad for a start,” he said thoughtfully.
“Actually, very good.
You’ve got a strong strike.
But don’t let it go to your head.
I was taking it easy on you.
You’ve still a long road ahead before you stop swinging a stick like a peasant handles a wagon pole.”
He burst out laughing at the end, clearly imitating someone.
“A long road…
yes.”
Arthur answered absently, staring toward the horizon where the sea burned gold beneath the setting sun.
And before his eyes, shining with that same golden light, hung an infuriating line of text.
One of the few he could actually read.
One-Handed Weapons Skill: 10.
A/N:
While everyone else is waiting for updates, com / Captain_Lag (remove the spaces)