ASOIAF/Game Of Thrones: Ruler of Batannia

Arthur spent the next few days finishing every matter that still tied him to Wintertown. He settled accounts, paid debts, bought food, medicine, arrows, spare bowstrings, tools, and enough salted meat to make the quartermaster curse him under his breath. He exchanged heavier coin into jewels, portable silver, and valuable furs, anything easier to hide or carry than sacks of currency. Gold was useful. Gold in the wrong form was just weight waiting to slow a man down.

He did not announce his departure loudly. Loud departures were for lords, fools, and men who wanted enemies to prepare proper farewells. Arthur spoke to those who needed to know. Old Harth received the rest of what Arthur owed for the shield, along with a skin of better ale from White Harbor. Barro tried to convince him to stay long enough for another commission and looked personally wounded when Arthur refused. Merchants hated losing useful men almost as much as they hated paying them.

Ena said little during the preparations, but she watched everything. She checked arrows, counted dried meat, inspected saddles, and made sure the younger recruits did not pack like children fleeing a burning house. Whatever anger remained from Sheephead Mountain had cooled into something more useful. She still glared at Arthur from time to time, but she had stopped threatening his lower back. That was probably affection. Or strategy.

The Battanian Rangers gathered outside Wintertown before sunrise.

Four wagons stood ready, loaded with supplies, tents, tools, spare weapons, furs, and food. A dozen sturdy packhorses stamped in the cold. More than fifty armed Rangers waited in formation, breath smoking in the pale air. Katel stood at the front with the veterans who had survived Sheephead Mountain, his expression solemn. The new men looked nervous, but they held formation well enough. That would have to do. No company became seasoned by standing still.

Arthur rode slowly along the line. He looked at the Volunteers, Clan Warriors, Raiders, Young Wolf Warriors, and Old Wolf Warriors. Men bought by a system, shaped by marching, blood, hunger, and orders. They were still not an army. Not close. But they were no longer a handful of strangers pretending to be a company. Wintertown knew their name. The Wolfswood had tested them. Sheephead Mountain had blooded them.

Ena sat on a chestnut mare near the front, checking her quiver one last time. Every now and then, her eyes drifted toward the Kingsroad stretching south. There was anticipation there, carefully hidden and badly denied. She had spent her life under northern skies. Now the road offered more than snow, trees, and the same old names.

Arthur understood that feeling.

He looked back at Winterfell.

In the morning light, the great castle stood cold and silent on the hill. The direwolf banner of House Stark moved on the highest tower. Somewhere inside, Bran Stark lay unconscious, Summer at his side. Lady Catelyn watched over him. Eddard Stark would soon be pulled south by friendship, duty, and all the old chains men liked to polish before placing around their own necks. Robert Baratheon would laugh, drink, hunt, and unknowingly carry rot back to the capital. The story was moving now. Slowly, perhaps, but moving.

Arthur could not stop it from Wintertown.

He was not sure he wanted to stop it at all.

Chaos was coming. War, betrayal, famine, fire, crowns, corpses. Westeros would bleed whether Arthur stayed or left. The only question was whether he would be trampled beneath it or learn to ride the storm before it broke.

Katel rode closer. ”My lord, the men are ready.”

Arthur nodded.

For a moment, he remained silent, looking at the road south. King’s Landing waited at the end of it, fat with gold, lies, murder, opportunity, and every disease power carried in its belly. It was the worst place in Westeros for an honest man. Luckily, Arthur had never claimed to be one.

He turned his horse forward.

”Set out,” he ordered. ”To King’s Landing.”

The caravan began to move. Wheels rolled over the gravel of the Kingsroad, leaving deep tracks behind. The packhorses followed, then the Rangers, their cloaks and gear shifting in the cold wind. Wintertown slowly fell behind them. The North stretched around them, broad and white and unforgiving, but ahead lay the south: warmer roads, richer cities, sharper knives.

Arthur looked toward the horizon, his eyes cold and awake.

The Battanian Rangers had been born in the shadow of Winterfell, but they would not remain there. The wolf had learned to bare its teeth in the snow. Now it would see how much blood waited beneath the sun.

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