ASOIAF/Game Of Thrones: Ruler of Batannia

By the time Arthur found Barro, the caravan was nearly ready. A dozen packhorses stood in the street, loaded with bundles of fine pelts wrapped in oiled cloth. The animals stamped their hooves against the cold ground and snorted white mist into the air. Around thirty hired guards waited nearby, some sitting on crates, some checking weapons, others speaking in low voices. They were not soldiers, but not helpless either. Men like that lived between law and hunger.

Arthur saw Ena leaning against a crate, wiping her shortbow with careful hands.

She saw him too.

Her eyes moved to the unused hunting bow on his back. Her mouth twitched.

”We meet again,” Arthur said.

Ena drew an arrow, set it to the bowstring, and mimed aiming at him with a dead expression.

Arthur sighed. ”I will use the axe.”

Only then did she return the arrow to her quiver.

Barro moved through the caravan, sweating despite the cold. He counted bundles, checked ropes, shouted at stable boys, cursed at a guard for sitting too close to the goods, then cursed at another for standing too far away. For a coward, he had a strong voice. Perhaps that was why he had survived as a merchant. Men with coin learned to sound brave when others were nearby to die for them.

”Move!” Barro shouted at last. ”White Harbor will not come to us!”

The caravan left Wintertown under a pale sky and headed south, following the frozen eastern bank of the White Knife. The road was not truly a road in places, more a stubborn path pressed into the land by hooves, carts, and generations of men who had decided mud was preferable to wilderness. Snow clung to the ground in patches. The river moved beside them, dark where the ice had not taken it.

Arthur led his packhorse at first.

After the bear incident, and after admitting he could not ride properly without risking humiliation or death, he had traded the system’s packhorse and coin for the gentlest old horse he could find. Even then, the beast seemed to judge him. It walked slowly, stopped often, and looked at him with wet, patient eyes, as if waiting for him to disappoint it.

Ena rode with irritating ease. She sat steady in the saddle, shortbow across her lap, cloak moving in the wind. Some of the older mercenaries noticed Arthur’s trouble and gave advice, not kindly, but usefully. Sit deeper. Do not grip like a frightened maid. Use your knees. Do not pull the reins unless you mean it. Let the horse move beneath you.

After a few days, Arthur could manage a trot without looking entirely doomed.

It was progress.

Ugly progress, but progress.

The caravan moved slowly. Packhorses were not warhorses, and merchants valued goods more than speed. During the day, they followed the river, stopping only when necessary. At night, they made camp in sheltered places, posting watches around the goods. Barro slept poorly and checked his pelts more often than a mother checked a sick child. Arthur did not mock him for it. The man’s fear was annoying, but not irrational. In Westeros, fear was just intelligence with a bad reputation.

Arthur used the journey to listen.

The guards spoke of the North, of lords, of taxes, of rumors. Some mentioned wildlings slipping south in small groups. Others spoke of broken men along the riverbanks. There were whispers of trouble farther south, though no one agreed on details. The realm had never been peaceful, they said. It only changed the places where men were dying.

Arthur said little. He asked questions carefully, never too many at once. A man who knew nothing was suspicious. A man who knew a little and wanted to know more was merely foreign.

Several days passed without incident.

That should have worried him more.

In Westeros, peace was often just violence taking a breath.

At dusk, the caravan reached a crossing over the White Knife. A thin skin of ice covered parts of the river, but beneath it the current moved fast and dark. A narrow wooden bridge joined the banks, forcing the caravan into a long line. Barro ordered the men to cross carefully. No one wanted a packhorse slipping into the river with a fortune in fur tied to its back.

Arthur led his horse near the middle of the line. Ena rode beside him, quiet as usual. Both watched the trees.

The first sound was a whistle.

Arthur did not understand it until arrows fell.

”Ambush!” someone roared. ”Bandits!”

Arthur moved before he thought. He threw himself from the horse, grabbed Ena, and dragged her down with him. His new shield came up over them just as the first arrows struck.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

The impacts hammered through the shield and numbed his arm. Horses screamed. Men cursed. Someone fell into the river with a splash and did not come back up. Arrows struck crates, flesh, wood, leather. The bridge became chaos in a handful of breaths. Arthur felt Ena stiffen beneath him, her breathing quick but controlled.

Good.

Panic killed faster than arrows sometimes.

The arrow storm ended.

Then came the men.

Dozens rushed from the dead trees, ragged and hungry, armed with rusted swords, axes, clubs, and spears. Their eyes were wild. Not brave. Desperate. That was worse. Brave men wanted glory. Desperate men wanted to live and did not care who had to die for it.

”Form up!” the mercenary captain shouted. ”Protect the cargo!”

The order came too late. The caravan had been stretched across the bridge, broken by the first volley. Men tried to gather but stumbled over horses, crates, bodies, and fear.

Arthur released Ena and stood, shield in his left hand, axe in his right.

”Behind me,” he said.

Ena did not argue.

The first bandit reached them with a hatchet raised. Arthur caught the blow on his shield and struck back. The axe bit into the man’s neck. Blood sprayed warm across his face. The man dropped, gurgling.

Arthur had no time to think about it.

A sword flashed from the side, aimed at his ribs. Before it reached him, an arrow struck the attacker through the eye. The bandit fell backward without a sound.

Arthur glanced over his shoulder.

Ena already had another arrow nocked. Her face was pale, but her hands were steady.

Good.

They fell back against the body of a dead packhorse and held there. Arthur took the front, shield high, axe moving in short, practical cuts. He did not fight beautifully. Beautiful fighting belonged in songs and died on bad footing. He blocked, shoved, chopped, stepped, killed. Ena shot from behind him, each arrow choosing a throat, eye, or chest. Together, they held a small pocket of ground while the caravan’s defense tried to remember how to exist.

It would not last.

The bandits had numbers. Guards fell. The circle shrank. Arthur’s arm grew heavy. His axe edge chipped. Ena’s quiver emptied arrow by arrow. The bridge smelled of blood, river water, horse dung, and fear. Arthur’s breath tore in his throat. He could feel death pressing closer, not as a thought but as a simple physical thing.

A bandit with a spear came at him from the side. Arthur shifted too slowly. The spearhead scraped across his armor and bit shallowly into his ribs. Pain flashed hot beneath the cold. He slammed the shield forward and caught the man in the face with the iron boss. Bone cracked. Arthur hooked the axe behind the man’s knee and dragged him down. Ena’s knife finished him before he could rise.

Arthur looked at her.

She looked back.

Neither thanked the other.

There was no time for manners.

The line was close to breaking when a horn sounded from the northeast.

Deep. Clear. Commanding.

Hooves followed.

A line of cavalry thundered down along the riverbank, perhaps twenty riders. Their armor was bright, their lances low, their banner snapping above them. Blue-green, with a white merman.

House Manderly of White Harbor.

The riders struck the bandits like an axe into rotten wood. Lances punched through bodies. Horses crushed men beneath iron-shod hooves. The bandits who had been so fierce a moment before broke almost immediately. Hunger could make men brave. Heavy cavalry usually cured them.

The battle ended quickly after that.

Bodies lay across the crossing. Blood stained the planks and the snow. The river carried some of it away. Barro hurried to the Manderly captain, bowing and thanking him so many times that Arthur wondered if the man feared being charged for the rescue. The surviving mercenaries began clearing the field with the numb efficiency of men used to violence.

Arthur joined them.

When no one was watching too closely, he collected several decent short swords, knives, and pieces of leather armor from the dead. He sold some through the system store. The panel chimed quietly.

His purse grew heavier.

Killing and looting paid better than honest work.

Arthur looked at the corpses and felt something unpleasant settle in his stomach. Not guilt, exactly. Not enough to stop him. Just the recognition that this world would train him badly if he survived it long enough. Soft men died. Hard men became something else.

After three days of rest and reorganization, the caravan moved again. The dead were buried shallowly or burned depending on what their companions could manage. The horses that survived carried less weight, and the men who survived spoke less than before. Barro complained about lost pelts until one of the older mercenaries told him to be grateful he still had a tongue to complain with.

When the walls of White Harbor finally appeared at the end of the road, Arthur felt something close to relief.

The city stood beside the Bite, its walls strong, its harbor crowded with ships. Masts rose like a forest beyond the docks. The air smelled of salt, fish, smoke, tar, and too many people living too close together. Compared to Wintertown, it was loud, rich, and filthy in a more ambitious way.

Arthur liked it immediately.

Not because it was pleasant. It was not.

Because it had opportunity.

Barro went to meet the fur guild and negotiate prices, leaving the guards to their own business until the return journey. Arthur walked alone through the streets at first, moving toward the docks. Sailors shouted from taverns. Merchants argued. Beggars watched hands and purses. Whores laughed at men who thought themselves clever. Thieves moved like fish in dark water. News gathered in places like this. So did knives.

Ena appeared beside him without warning.

Arthur glanced at her. ”Afraid I will get lost?”

She ignored the joke. Her eyes moved over a stall selling charms made from bone, tooth, and polished shell. Then she looked at him.

”Are you truly from Battania?”

Arthur’s heart tightened, but his face did not change.

”As true as anything else men say about where they come from,” he replied.

Ena stared at him for several seconds. She did not call him a liar. She did not accept the answer either.

”Will you go back to Winterfell?” she asked.

Arthur looked toward the harbor, where ships rocked beneath a grey sky. Beyond them lay the sea. Beyond the sea, more lies, more lords, more wars. Behind him lay Winterfell, suspicion, and safety that could become a cage.

Before he answered, the system panel appeared again.

[Quest Triggered: Harbor Whispers]

Content: Gather recent news in the taverns of White Harbor. 0/3.

Reward: 50 dinars, Intelligence +1.

Arthur felt the weight of his purse and smiled faintly.

”First,” he said, ”we find a tavern. I will pay.”

Ena narrowed her eyes. ”You have money?”

”Some.”

”Then you are paying for food too.”

Arthur sighed.

In the distance, gulls cried beneath the leaden sky. Farther south, beyond the crowded masts and grey waters, dark sails moved slowly along the horizon. They looked almost like storm clouds.

In Westeros, that was rarely a good sign.