“Arkt!
What in seven hells happened to your face?”
Ray’s booming voice rang out the moment Arthur climbed back aboard the Black Betha.
He barely avoided colliding with the second boatswain, who had been on his way ashore.
The harbor teemed with activity.
Sailors hurried back and forth carrying crates of provisions, inspecting rigging, and preparing for departure.
The familiar din of work and shouted orders filled the air.
“Ray!
You’re back already?” Arthur said happily despite his exhaustion.
He had not expected to see the man so soon.
“Yes, we’re back,” Ray grumbled, narrowing his eyes.
“And where did you get that eye?”
“Was sparring…”
Arthur tasted the unfamiliar word as he spoke it.
The shield slipped by accident.
“I gathered it wasn’t on purpose,” Ray chuckled, giving him a thorough inspection.
The boy’s eyebrow had swollen and darkened.
“Well?
Did you win?
I hope the other fellow looks worse.”
Arthur shrugged uncertainly.
“Well…
I hit him a couple of times.”
Thinking back on the spar, he frowned.
Talbert had been stronger and far more experienced.
Over seven bouts he had claimed five decisive victories.
Still, Arthur had managed one successful thrust.
And during another match, after generously suggesting they exchange shields, Talbert had spent the rest of the bout cursing the heavy wooden monstrosity, calling it unbearable and advising Arthur to acquire a proper lightweight shield at the first opportunity.
It was good advice.
Unfortunately, Arthur lacked the coin.
Talbert’s shield had indeed felt vastly superior.
Lighter.
Better balanced.
Using one of Ray’s tricks, Arthur had even managed to catch the lord’s son off guard.
“Well then…” Ray grunted, giving him a thoughtful look.
“Where exactly did you find another madman willing to spend an entire day swinging steel around?”
“Actually, Talbert suggested it himself,” Arthur admitted sheepishly, lowering the heavy shield onto the deck. This chapter was copied from g.com without permission.
He was exhausted but satisfied.
His new acquaintance had shown him several techniques of his own and had even suggested more sparring sessions in the future.
Ray raised an eyebrow.
“Talbert?
Not Talbert Serry, the lord’s son?”
“The very same.”
“Well now.” The boatswain gave an approving grunt.
“Then hold your head high, cabin boy.
That’s something to be proud of.
He’s probably had a sword in his hands since he was six years old.
Maybe earlier.”
“Probably…” Arthur muttered tiredly.
Whether since six or not, Talbert hit hard enough that Arthur’s ears were still ringing.
All he wanted now was to remove his armor, collapse into a hammock, and lose himself in sleep.
But that hope was not to be.
Only now did he realize that the activity aboard the ship was not ordinary bustle.
The sailors were preparing to sail.
“We’re leaving already?” he asked Ray, looking around in surprise.
He felt unexpectedly disappointed.
He had only just made a new friend and had begun growing accustomed to the island.
“Yes, lad,” the man nodded.
“This evening.
I was about to come looking for you.
We’re sailing with the Lannisters.
Bound for Banefort.
The king and his army are already on the road to Lannisport.”
The Gold Road, broad and well-kept, wound between rolling hills and vanished into the dusty haze of the hot afternoon.
The thunder of hooves, the creaking of wagon wheels, the clatter of steel, and the murmur of countless voices blended into a single martial chorus foretelling the storm to come.
The host stretched for leagues, a river of steel and gold filling the road with banners and military might.
The core of the army consisted of the vassals of the Stormlands: powerful knights hardened by storms and deadly battle alike.
Alongside them marched levies raised from the Crownlands, armed with whatever they could find, from simple spears and maces to hunting bows and aging armor.
They were less disciplined than seasoned knights, yet determination burned brightly in their eyes.
The king, however, was in foul temper.
“Seven bloody hells!” roared Robert Baratheon, hauling on the reins and checking his spirited stallion.
Pure irritation rang in his voice.
“Why are we still crawling along like some old crone with a cart?
I thought this was an army, not a damned procession!”
Now his heart yearned only for battle.
“We are waiting for the vanguard from the Vale, Your Grace,” reminded Ser Barristan Selmy, riding nearby.
“To the seven hells with them and their snail’s pace!” Robert barked.
He had already received news from Seagard.
“We should be moving faster!
While we’re dawdling here, those kraken-spawn will be dead before we arrive!”
At least he no longer worried that the Lannisters would claim all the glory.
Having failed to acquire as many ships as he desired, Tywin had accepted Stannis’s plan and was now preparing siege engines in Lannisport.
“They are my men, Robert,” Jon Arryn replied calmly as he finally rode up alongside the royal party.
“And they’ve been riding without rest from Gulltown itself.”
“Exactly!
And we’re standing still!” Robert growled, slamming a fist against his saddle.
Yet no matter how eager he was to charge ahead, the king was forced to wait.
When Arryn’s vanguard finally joined the column, Robert immediately ordered the march accelerated.
The plan was simple and brutal.
Trap the ironborn between two armies and destroy them.
The northmen and river lords would advance from Seagard.
The Baratheons and Lannisters would strike from Fair Isle.
Caught between hammer and anvil, the krakens would have nowhere to run.
There was, however, one weakness in the plan.
Ships.
Without a fleet capable of carrying them to the Iron Islands, even the greatest army in Westeros would be useless.
And the krakens had always been strongest at sea.
Robert himself hated the sea.
Not since the terrible storm that had drowned his parents before his very eyes.
All he could do was place his faith in his brother.
Stannis had promised to smash the Iron Fleet off Fair Isle, but to do so he needed the support of the Redwynes and the Reach.
Their ships could give the Baratheons a decisive advantage at sea and leave the ironborn no avenue of escape.
Thus, instead of marching with the army, Stannis already commanded the royal fleet and was sailing to treat with the Redwynes, securing the vessels needed for whatever complicated scheme he had devised.
Robert had not bothered to concern himself with the details.
He had simply signed the necessary letters and sent them on their way.
In matters of war at sea, he trusted Stannis completely.
Robert knew his brother would succeed.
But until then, he was forced to wait.
And Robert Baratheon hated waiting.