Arthur sat at the head of the long table in the main hall, his fingers drumming impatiently on the wood he had planed smooth only a week earlier, while Cassie moved around the group with a jug of watered ale in her hands. Alys sat to his left, her posture slumped as she leaned on her elbows, and the man she had introduced as an old friend named Harlan took the chair across from her. He wiped sweat from his brow with a ragged sleeve and sniffed loudly, looking uncomfortable in a room that felt far too clean for a man who belonged to the lower ends of Flea Bottom.
The children had been sent outside to give them privacy and not to interrupt what would be an important meeting. Cassie poured a generous measure into Harlan's cup first, since he had complained about the long walk and the heat, and she filled the others more sparingly before setting the jug down and taking her own seat beside Alys.
Alys cleared her throat and forced a faint smile at Harlan. "It's been too long since you came by, Harlan," she said, folding her hands in her lap. "Last time must've been before the harsh winter two years back, when you brought us that sack of turnips that kept us fed through the snows."
Harlan nodded and lifted his cup in a small toast before gulping deeply. "Aye, Alys, I mind it well," he said. "You patched my old cloak that same winter, the one I still wear when the wind cuts. Stitchin' near kept me warmer than the cloth did."
They exchanged a few more quiet words, reminiscing about a market stall run by a mutual acquaintance and laughing softly about a mule that once kicked Harlan in his backside. Arthur shifted in his chair, his patience fraying as the talk stretched. He leaned forward, eyes fixed on Harlan. "That's enough reminiscing," he said with annoyance in his voice. "Is it true you know where Willem's manse is?"
Harlan held his stare for a long moment, then gave a slow nod. "Aye. I know it." He didn't speak further, letting the silence do the asking for him. His fingers drummed against the cup in a way that made his intentions plain.
Alys sighed, understanding what he wanted. She reached across the table and touched his arm. "Harlan, we've been friends since we were children," she said gently. "You know what this means to the lad. You know what Willem's done to him and his wife. Give us this freely, just this once, and we'll repay the kindness I promise."
Harlan shook his head, regret flickering through his eyes though he tried to hide it. "Wish I could, Alys, I do," he said. "But things're lean for me as well. Folk don't share news for free no more. Not when tongues get cut for speakin' too much."
Arthur growled under his breath, his fingers twitching toward the hilt of Sunset at his belt. He fought the urge down and reached into his pouch instead, pulling out his last silver stag. He slid it across the table with a metallic scrape that echoed in the quiet hall. Harlan's eyes lit at the sight of the coin, and he pocketed it with a grateful nod. "Right then," he said, leaning forward. "Willem's manse sits on the Street of Sisters, just off the main way near the Alchemists' Guildhall. Third house from the corner. Big iron gates with a serpent worked into the bars. Walls tall as anything. Front door faces the street, but there's a little courtyard at the back that opens to an alley used for bringin' in goods."
Arthur leaned closer. "Tell me more. How many men? How well armed? Any other ways in? Anything useful."
Harlan took another sip of ale before continuing. "He keeps a dozen men, maybe more," he said. "Sellswords from across the Narrow Sea mostly. Four men on the gate by day, six at night. Main door's barred from within. Servants' entrance round the side with naught but a bolt holdin' it shut. Willem stays in the top floors."
Arthur nodded, absorbing every detail.
"And there's somethin' else," Harlan added, lowering his voice. "Word down at the docks is somethin's happened. Don't know what. But Willem's packin' up like a man gettin' ready to run. Wine, silk, furniture, all of it. Ships hired. He aims to be gone to Pentos before the week's out."
Arthur's jaw tightened as the weight of the news settled in him.
Alys straightened a little, her voice soft as she asked, "And Lunk? Any word of him? How he's faring?"
Harlan nodded, expression gentling. "Still follows Willem like a shadow. Big as ever, strong as ever."
Alys looked down at her cup, shoulders sagging at the thought of the man she'd once known.
Arthur pushed his chair back and stood. "Thank you for the information," he said with a curt nod before striding out of the hall and out the door toward the shed at the back of the garden.
Cassie shot up and hurried after him quickly over the path between the vegetable beds. "Arthur, wait," she called, catching him just as he reached the shed door. "Don't go running off without thinking. You heard Harlan. Willem's got a dozen men. You're only one."
Arthur paused with his hand on the latch. "I don't care about numbers," he said in a stern voice. "Mira's in there, and every day she stays is another day she suffers. I'm going tonight."
Cassie grabbed his arm and yanked him around to face her, tears already shining in her eyes. "And if you die?" she demanded her voice cracking slightly. "What then? Willem keeps her, and we lose you, and all you've done for us just... ends. You can't just run in with nothing but your anger. Think, Arthur. Let me help. Or find someone who can go with you."
Arthur pulled his arm free, anger and fear boiling together. "I've done nothing but think!" he snapped. "I've sat here fixing walls, teaching boys to hold swords, pretending this place is my home when it isn't. All while Mira suffers. All while Willem lives easy. I'm done waiting. I'm done sitting here markin' time. I'm going to get her, and we'll start the life we planned before that snake ruined it."
Cassie's face broke at his words. Tears spilled freely as she shook her head, her breath catching. "I hoped..." Her voice cracked. "Seven hells, Arthur, I hoped you felt something... here. That maybe you cared. Not just for the children.... For me."
Her voice faltered, and when she laughed it came out broken. "Shows what a fool I am," she whispered. She turned away sharply, her shoulders shaking as she hurried out of the shed, the door closing behind her.
Arthur stood frozen for a moment, guilt crashing over him so hard it stole his breath. He shouted and slammed his forehead into the wooden beam. The jolt barely dulled the ache inside him. He hit it again. And again. Until his vision swam and his breath came ragged.
He slumped into the chair by the workbench, burying his face in his hands.
A soft creak broke the silence. Arthur looked up to see Meggie peeking through the door, her small face sad as she stepped inside, her bare feet on the dirt floor. She clasped her hands together and blinked up at him.
"Arthur," she asked quietly, "do you hate us?"
The question pierced him deeper than any blade, and he shook his head quickly, reaching out to pull her close. "'Course I don't hate you," he said,. "Not you. Not any of you."
Meggie twisted the hem of her dress between her fingers. "Then why don't you want to stay?"
Arthur sighed, lifting her onto his knee. "It ain't simple, little one," he said, smoothing her hair. "My home's with someone else. Someone I love. She needs me now more than ever. We planned a life together long before any of this. I've got to put it right."
Meggie looked up at him, eyes shining. "But... why can't your home be with us too?"
Arthur's heart twisted, and he kissed her hair gently. He didn't have an answer that wouldn't break her heart further, so he whispered, "Go on to Alys now. She'll need a hand inside."
Meggie nodded slowly and slipped out, leaving him alone again.
Arthur stood, his resolve hardening. If he was outnumbered, then he would even the odds by any means he could. He moved to the workbench and began gathering materials.
He checked the crossbow he'd finished the night before, plucking the string to test its tension. He whittled bolt after bolt from straight branches he'd gathered that morning. He scratched out the design of a spring-loaded net trap on a scrap of parchment, using his Inventive Genius to shape the mechanism in his mind. He hammered nails into frames for caltrops he'd scatter. He mixed a paste of herbs and charcoal into pouches, knowing the mixture would burn the eyes if thrown. Herbal insight mixed with Inventive genius almost seemed like it made him a Maester.
He would not leave Willem's until he had gotten Mira back and gotten his revenge.
...
Arthur worked the entire day and well into the night, the lantern in the shed burning low as he moved from one task to the next without pause. By the time the moon rode high, the shed brimmed with finished tools: crossbow, bolts, net trap, caltrops, blinding pouches, coils of rope, a hooded lantern, and a small clay pots filled with lamp oil and rags for fire. He would not leave Willem's manse until he had Mira in his arms and Willem's blood on his blade.
Only when the city bells tolled the hour of the wolf did Arthur finally stop. He wiped his hands on a rag, blew out the lantern after lantern until the shed lay dark, and began gathering everything he would need. The crossbow went across his back on a leather strap he had sewn that afternoon. The quivers hung at his left hip, the pouches of blinding powder at his right. The folded net trap and rope coil fitted into a canvas pack that he slung over one shoulder. Caltrops rattled softly in a sack tied to his belt. Sunset rested in its scabbard at his left side, the weight familiar and steady. He pulled a dark cloak over everything, clasped it at the throat, and stepped out of the shed for the last time that night.
He walked through the sleeping orphanage on silent feet, past the rows of children breathing softly in their bunks, past the kitchen where the hearth had burned down to embers. He stopped outside the small room Cassie shared with the older girls. Moonlight slipped through the cracked shutters and painted silver bars across the floorboards. He raised his hand to knock, knuckles hovering an inch from the wood, but a muffled sound reached him through the door... quiet, heartbroken crying that she was trying to smother against her pillow. The sound struck him harder than any blow he had takem. His hand trembled, then fell to his side. He could not bring himself to face her after the cruel words he had flung in anger. He turned away and walked toward the front door.
Jory was waiting for him in the hallway, the old sword he used this morning clutched in both hands like a knight's greatsword. The boy had pulled his boots on and even wore some leather padding hed taken from Arthur's stash, his hair stuck up in every direction from sleep.
"I am coming with you," Jory declared, lifting his chin. "You taught me how to fight. I can help."
Arthur looked down at the boy and felt the weight of the night settle heavier on his shoulders. He sighed, the sound long and weary. "No, Jory. You are staying here."
Jory stepped forward, gripping the sword tighter. "But you said yourself that numbers matter. Two swords are better than one. I am almost a man. I can watch your back."
Arthur crouched so their eyes were level, resting his forearms on his knees. "Listen to me, lad," he said gently. "You are brave, and you are learning fast, but tonight is not a game of knights and maidens. Men will die, and I will not have your blood on my hands. I need you here."
Jory's lip trembled, yet he held his ground. "I am not afraid. I can do it. You saw me land a hit on you today."
Arthur smiled despite everything, a small sad curve of his mouth. "I did see. And I was proud. But the answer is still no."
Jory's voice rose. "Then take me as your squire like in the stories. I will carry your bolts and—"
"No," Arthur snapped, sharper than he intended. The word cracked between them like a whip.
Jory flinched as though struck, his eyes widening before they filled with hurt. He took a step back, the sword point dropping until it scraped the floor.
Arthur saw the damage instantly and cursed himself. He reached out, resting both hands on the boy's shoulders. "I am sorry," he said. "I should not have ahouted like that. You are not a child, Jory. You are the one I trust most here to keep them safe." He squeezed gently. "That is why I need you to stay. If something goes wrong, if I do not come back by dawn... you're the man of the house. You are the only one I know who can keep them safe. Promise me."
Jory searched his face for a long moment, then swallowed hard and nodded. "I promise," he whispered.
Arthur ruffled the boy's hair, the gesture rough but affectionate. "Good man. I will be back soon. Keep that sword sharp."
He straightened, opened the front door, and stepped into the night. The door clicked shut behind him. Jory stood alone in the hallway, the practice sword held across his chest. Arthur did not look back. The streets of King's Landing swallowed him whole as he walked to end a fight that had been months in the coming.
...
Arthur moved through the streets of King's Landing while keeping his cloak pulled tight around the pack and weapons that he carried, he chose alleys that ran parallel to the main roads whenever he could since the Street of Sisters lay in a part of the city where merchants and lesser lords kept their homes. Because of this Goldcloaks patrolled those streets in pairs or trios, and they challenged anyone who lingered too long. Arthur knew he could not explain the crossbow on his back or the sword at his hip if they stopped him for inspection, so he pressed against doorways when footsteps approached, waited until the patrols passed, and slipped forward again.
He frowned as he looked ahead from the mouth of an alley, he noticed that many more Goldcloaks filled the street than he had seen on previous nights when he had walked the streets a week ago. They questioned a man who pushed a cart loaded with empty barrels, searched the folds of a woman's shawl as she hurried home with a basket over her arm, and shone lanterns into the faces of laborers who walked in groups toward the docks for the late shift. "What's going on," he muttered to himself while he ducked behind a stack of crates that someone had left unbound near a stable door.
After a moment he cast those thoughts aside... he could not afford distraction when Mira waited within reach, he continued forward until he reached the iron gate that Harlan had described, the one where a serpent emblem coiled at the top of the bars that rose twice the height of a man on horseback. However, half a dozen more men than Harlan had mentioned stood guard there, their figures leaning against the stone pillars or pacing the stretch in front of the entrance with hands that rested on the pommels of curved swords sheathed at their belts. It wasn't just them either, numerous servants wrre there too, all of them packing up and getting ready to leave.
Arthur felt his heart beating nervously in his chest as he crouched in the shadow of a fountain across the way he counted the sellswords who moved into view from the courtyard beyond the bars; eighteen in total when he included those who patrolled the perimeter walls that enclosed the manse grounds. Even with the crossbow that he carried, the bolts in his quiver, the caltrops in his sack, the blinding pouches at his belt, the net trap in his pack, and Sunset at his side, he knew the odds stacked against him in a way that made victory seem almost impossible... they could swarm him from multiple angles while he fought through the gate and into the house itself.
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[NEW QUEST RECEIVED]
THE MANSE
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Description:
You've reached Willem's manse, the gilded cage where lies, cruelty, and stolen futures gather behind locked doors. Is Mira somewhere within these walls? This is the moment everything has led to. It is time to take back what was stolen.
Main Objectives:
• Find out where Mira is being kept
• Kill Willem
• Kill Karl
• Kill Lunk
• Kill Sellswords (0/18)
Optional Objective:
• Spare Lunk
Rewards:
• +5,000 XP
• Otherworld Token
• Random Skill Token
• Skill Upgrade Token
Optional Reward:
• New Title: Fledgling Hero
Failure:
• Death
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Arthur saw the quest notification expand in his vision while he knelt beside the fountain, he nodded to himself. He would kill Willem and save Mira, or he would die trying... no other path remained open to him after the months of waiting, the betrayals, and the pain that had driven him forward through every setback. He shifted the pack on his shoulders to ensure the net trap was, checked the draw of Sunset with a subtle flex of his fingers on the hilt, and waited for the sellswords to turn their backs during their next circuit of the gate before he moved into position for the approach.
(AN: Damn Arthur, you're pretty mean to ol Cassie. Poor girl. Anyway Willem is certainly in trouble next chapter, though it's quite strange that he seems to be leaving in such a rush. Did something happen in the two weeks since the feast?)
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