ASOIAF/Game Of Thrones: Ruler of Batannia

The report came before full dark. Five Volunteers dead. Three Young Wolf Warriors dead. Several wounded. All thirty-four returning bandits had been killed or taken. Thirteen were alive, though some were too injured to walk without help. None had escaped. The camp was theirs.

Arthur listened without speaking. Eight men. Eight of his men. A few days earlier, some of them had been only names on a system list and numbers paid from his purse. That had made it easy to think of them as pieces. Useful pieces, necessary pieces, things moved on a board for survival. Now they lay stiff in the snow with blood frozen into their clothes and their eyes still open to a sky that did not care.

The loot was greater than expected. Coin was not as plentiful as Katel had hoped, less than one hundred gold dragons in true currency, but goods filled the cellar and huts. Furs, cloth, ironware, grain, tools, silver cups, jewelry, silk, and several items valuable enough that some merchant or minor noble would have cursed the old gods and new when they went missing. It was more wealth than the Battanian Rangers had ever held at once.

Katel checked the cellar again and could not hide the brightness in his eyes. ”My lord, we have struck rich.”

Arthur looked at the bodies of his fallen men.

”No,” he said quietly. ”We have paid.”

Katel’s expression sobered at once. Arthur walked to the dead Battanians and knelt beside them one by one, closing their eyes with his fingers. Their skin was already cold. One of the Volunteers had been young enough that Arthur could not remember if he had even grown a proper beard. Another had laughed often during the march, quietly, as if afraid laughter might be taxed. Now his mouth was half-open and full of frozen blood.

Arthur stood after the last one and gave the order in a low voice. ”Find a sunny slope. Bury them properly. Mark the graves with stones.”

The men worked in silence. They dug where the ground allowed and used stones where it did not. The fallen Battanians were buried on a slope above the camp, facing what little sun the mountain gave. Their graves were simple, but not careless. The bandits were given no such honor. Their bodies were piled together, soaked with oil, and burned after the valuables were stripped from them. Flames rose into the night, carrying the stink of burning flesh across the valley.

Arthur watched until the fire settled, then opened the system.

Most of the bulky goods were too difficult to transport. Grain, heavy tools, cheap ironware, extra furs, common goods. Useful, but not worth dragging across mountains with prisoners and wounded men. Arthur sold much of it directly through the system store. The wealth column rose sharply to 5000 dinars. The number should have pleased him, and it did in part. That bothered him more than he liked.

The soldier list updated next. Of the five surviving Volunteers, three had advanced to Battanian Clan Warriors, now equipped with longswords, shields, and leather armor. The other two had advanced to Battanian Raiders, carrying long spears and javelins. The seven surviving Young Wolf Warriors had all advanced into Old Wolf Warriors, with hunting bows, hand axes, and forest camouflage. The experience bar had climbed as well, though not enough to level him.

War gave rewards quickly. It also charged interest in graves.

Arthur looked at the list for a long moment, then spent 1500 dinars. Twenty new Battanian Volunteers and ten Young Wolf Warriors appeared beyond the edge of the camp in a faint golden light, hidden from the prisoners and wounded by darkness and distance. Thirty new recruits stood there when it faded, confused, nervous, and armed. New men. Living men. Replacements. Arthur disliked the word. It was accurate anyway.

”Katel,” Arthur said.

The man stepped forward at once.

”Take command of them. On the way back, train as you march. No slackness. No arrogance. The mountain should have taught enough.”

”It has,” Katel said.

Arthur believed him.

They rested through the night. At dawn, they left Sheephead Mountain with the prisoners, the portable valuables, the best furs, jewelry, silverware, receipts, and what proof they needed. The remaining bulky goods were buried near the camp and marked carefully for later recovery if the road became safe enough. Arthur had no intention of abandoning wealth, but he had less intention of dying under the weight of sacks.

The return journey took five days. The wounded slowed them. The prisoners slowed them more. Several tried to bargain. One tried to run and was brought back with a sling stone to the back of the head. After that, the others became more reasonable. Cold, hunger, and rope taught cooperation with admirable speed. By the time Wintertown came into sight, even the prisoners seemed relieved, which said something unpleasant about the mountains they had once called home.

When they reached Wintertown, Barro nearly wept at the sight of the recovered furs and the head of the one-eyed bandit leader. He clutched the pelts as if greeting lost children, which said something unfortunate about merchants and parenthood. He thanked Arthur so many times that the words began to lose shape. Arthur returned the recovered furs and the proof tied to Barro’s case.

The remaining prisoners were sold to a passing party recruiting for the Night’s Watch. The black brothers were always short of men and rarely rejected prisoners who had suddenly discovered a deep calling to defend the realm. The thirteen bandits became future brothers in black, whether their souls appreciated the promotion or not.

The payment added more weight to Arthur’s purse. Some of the gloom from the mountain loosened, though it did not vanish. It would not vanish so quickly. But coin, supplies, upgraded men, and new recruits meant the raid had worked. Bandit suppression, profit, training, reputation, and expansion. A harsh road, but a viable one. More importantly, the bandits had been a true scourge on the land. Killing them was not just profitable. It was useful.

That mattered. Arthur told himself it mattered.

He returned to the rented courtyard exhausted. His clothes smelled of blood, smoke, sweat, horse, and mountain dirt. His body ached in places he had not known could ache. He ordered a large pot of water heated, poured it into a wooden tub, stripped off his leather armor and ruined inner clothes, and sank into the warmth with a long breath.

For a moment, the world narrowed to steam and silence. His muscles slowly loosened. The cut between his fingers stung. Bruises woke one by one as the heat reached them. Arthur leaned back, closed his eyes, and reviewed the raid in his mind. The march, the scouting, the empty camp, the traps, the returning bandits, the deaths. Too many places where luck had helped. Too many places where better enemies might have turned the ambush against him.

He needed better training, better scouts, better discipline, and more men. Always more men.

Then the courtyard gate exploded open.

”Arthur, you bastard!”

Ena’s voice tore through the quiet like an arrow through cloth. The broken gate slammed against the wall. She stood in the entrance, furious, breathless, face flushed from anger and running. She had likely gone first to his room, found nothing, followed rumors, and arrived ready to skin him alive.

”How dare you leave me behind and run into the mountains by your—”

She stopped.

Her eyes widened. Arthur looked at her. Ena looked at him. Then, very slowly, her gaze dropped. The water covered enough. Not enough for her dignity, apparently. Her face turned red at a speed that would have impressed a maester studying fever. The color spread from her cheeks to her ears and down her neck. For two seconds, neither of them moved.

Then she screamed.

”Pervert!”

Arthur stared at her. ”I am the one bathing.”

Ena covered her face, turned, and fled with the grace of a frightened cat and the volume of a dying goat. Her boots struck the courtyard stones in a broken rhythm as she shouted curses behind her.

”Bastard! Idiot! Shameless!”

The broken gate swung slowly in the cold wind. Arthur looked down at himself beneath the water, then at the empty doorway.

”I was seen,” he said to no one, ”and somehow I am the pervert.”

Steam curled around him. For a moment, he tried to be annoyed. It failed. The absurdity was too complete. He lowered his face into the hot water and blew a few bubbles, laughing despite himself. There was no point arguing with a girl who could shoot him in the leg from across a yard.

Outside, Ena’s furious voice could still be heard somewhere in the distance, sharp and embarrassed and very much alive. Arthur lifted his head from the water, wiped his face, and felt the last of the mountain’s darkness loosen inside his chest. At least she was safe. At least she still had enough strength to yell.

He leaned back against the tub and opened the system interface in his mind. Wealth. Soldiers. Missions. Map. Sheephead Mountain had turned grey, marked as cleared. The North remained cold. The royal banners still flew over Winterfell. The old story still waited to break open. But somewhere in that frozen land, the wolf of Battania had bared its teeth for the first time.