“Not with that stick, you fool.
With your own weapon.”
The cabin boy blinked in confusion.
Then slowly reached for his belt and drew his sword.
At Ray’s insistence he now carried it everywhere, despite having already bruised his leg more than once with the heavy scabbard.
The weight felt entirely different in his hand.
Real.
Heavy.
Unfamiliar after the practice sword that now seemed so light.
Ray folded his arms across his chest and nodded.
“We won’t train with it yet.
Not for now.
But you need to feel the weight of the blade.
Become familiar with it…
though you’re still a long way from that.”
Arthur frowned, tightened his grip, and carefully began the exercise.
The sword sliced through the air in flowing figure eights.
The whistle of the blade stirred something within him, urging him to move faster.
Faster still.
One-Handed Weapons Skill: 50.
One-Handed Sword Skill: 10.
The moment the message appeared, Arthur felt as though he remembered what it meant to become one with a sword.
To understand that it was not merely a tool.
Not merely a sharpened strip of steel.
For the first time, he realized that a sword could truly become an extension of his arm.
Ray watched, nodding in rhythm with the movements.
Around them, several sailors cast knowing smiles toward the absorbed boy.
Despite the grueling labor of each day, he always found the strength to push himself further, practicing the exercises first suggested by Mattos and later expanded upon by the boatswain.
Some sailors occasionally sparred, certainly.
Every man aboard a ship was expected to know how to wield a weapon.
Yet many grown men arrogantly believed they had already learned all there was to know, and laughed at the lad’s dedication.
And after a long day’s work, few were willing to burden themselves with even more training.
This time, however, Arthur’s practice ended earlier than usual.
The lookout, who had been scanning the horizon for foreign sails, suddenly shouted:
“Land ahead!”
The Black Betha cut smoothly through turquoise waters as it approached a vast island drowned in greenery.
A great golden-green mass of land stretched before them, covered with endless peach orchards and vineyards.
Far in the distance, atop a rise, stood a majestic castle with red roofs and mighty walls.
The ancestral seat of House Redwyne.
Ryamsport teemed with ships.
Merchant vessels flew the banners of countless noble houses.
Cargo galleys sat heavy with barrels of wine.
Imposing warships patrolled the surrounding waters.
Armed guards moved along the harbor’s defensive walls.
Judging by their numbers, the Arbor stood ready for any threat despite its peaceful appearance.
“The Arbor!” Pol exclaimed enthusiastically as he stood beside Arthur at the rail.
Arthur could not tear his eyes away from the landscape.
He had never seen such a beautiful place.
“What makes it so famous?” he asked, turning toward Pol.
The sailor grinned.
“Oh, plenty of things.
First and foremost, wine.
The vineyards of the Arbor aren’t just farms, they’re holy ground for winemakers.
They produce the finest wine in all Westeros.
Dry reds, golden vintages…
every man who calls himself a connoisseur dreams of tasting it.”
“Better than Dornish wine?” Arthur teased.
More than once he had listened to Pol speak passionately about the wonders of Dornish vintages and lament the fact that they had never visited Planky Town, the largest settlement and busiest port in Dorne.
“In taste?
Aye.
Arbor wines are sweeter than Dornish ones.
Though I wouldn’t argue that with a Dornishman.
They’ve got masterpieces of their own.” Pol chuckled.
“But I’ll tell you this much.
Dornishmen like their drink strong and sharp.
Here, they prize smoothness and richness.”
Arthur nodded, listening intently.
Pol had sailed since childhood and always had another story to tell.
“And what’s that?” he asked, pointing toward the orchards lining the shore.
“Ah, you’ve probably never tasted them.” Pol smiled.
“Peaches.
Huge, juicy, sweet peaches.
Trust me, once you’ve tasted an Arbor peach, every other peach in the world will seem a poor imitation.”
Arthur nearly started drooling.
He had never tasted peaches.
Truth be told, he had never tasted any peaches at all.
Yet already he imagined their unimaginable sweetness.
Meanwhile, Pol continued speaking of his favorite subject.
“They even make wine from peaches.
Too sweet for my liking, though.
Now wine from the local grapes…” He closed his eyes dreamily.
“The Arbor belongs to the Redwynes, an ancient house sworn to the Tyrells.
The stories say they were seafarers from the beginning, and that their ancestor, Gilbert of the Vines, son of the legendary Garth Greenhand, taught the people of the Arbor how to make wine.
If the tales are true, he knew the secret of the perfect vintage, and his descendants have preserved that knowledge ever since.”
“Do you think it’s true?” Snow asked, eyes wide.
“Oh, who knows, Arkt?”
Pol ruffled the boy’s black hair.
“There’s always a bit of truth in old tales.
But one thing I know for certain.
The ship continued toward the harbor, and soon the crew began preparing to dock.
The scent of ripe fruit already mingled with the salty sea breeze.
Arthur felt excitement stirring within him.
Something new awaited.
When the Black Betha finally tied up at an empty berth, the crew immediately set to work.
Sailors secured mooring lines, checked the rigging, and prepared to meet the local authorities.
The air smelled of the sea, freshly tarred timber, and the orchards of the Arbor.
After speaking with the captain of the harbor guard, a tall man wearing armor marked with a grapevine sigil, Ser Davos Seaworth departed for Castle Redwyne.
He took several crewmen with him, along with the pale-faced Matthos, whom he intended to present to a maester.
Nearly all of the wounded sailors had already recovered.
Only a single body had been committed to the sea after the proper rites.
Another portion of the crew received permission to go ashore to replenish supplies and purchase necessities.
The rest remained aboard to guard the ship while waiting their turn.
Davos sensibly assumed that, after such a long voyage, many sailors would immediately seek drink, women, and trouble.
He had no intention of fighting the inevitable.
Still, it was best if at least half the crew remained somewhat sober.
Arthur was among the fortunate few granted leave.
He would be accompanying Ray, the second boatswain.
“Come on, lad,” Ray said, clapping him on the shoulder.
“About time we got you dressed properly.”
He led Arthur toward an armorer’s shop, where the armor taken from the ironborn raiders would be fitted to him.
The sturdy leather armor, reinforced with metal plates and originally made for a much larger man, hung from Arthur’s frame like a sack.
Once altered, however, it would become reliable protection.
A leatherworker could have managed the task, but it was better left to a true craftsman.
“Not every cabin boy earns real armor, especially armor won in battle,” Pol remarked with a grin as he watched them leave.
He would remain in charge of several sailors.
First they needed to purchase provisions and replenish the ship’s water stores.
After that, there would be time enough to rest.
“Well, he earned it,” Ray replied with a grunt.
“But fine armor’s useless if you wear it wrong.
We’ll see what the master has to say.”
Arthur stepped onto solid ground with his bare, weathered feet.
For a moment he froze.
The earth beneath him seemed to sway, as though he were still aboard ship.
“Too long at sea,” Pol laughed.
“The land rocks too.
You’ll get used to it.”
Ryamsport greeted them with the noise of crowds and the aromas of fried fish, fruit, and fresh wine.
But instead of taverns and markets, the path of the cabin boy and the second boatswain led toward the armorer.
There, Arthur’s armor would cease being mere loot and become true protection.
And afterward…
Arthur very much intended to try those famous peaches.
A/N:
While everyone else is waiting for updates, com / Captain_Lag (remove the spaces)