This is a smaller chapter.
My updates will be slower as I have a lot of schoolwork right now.
Alton POV
Alton sat outside his tent, the night cool against his cheeks, the Kingswood settling into its usual chorus of rustling leaves and distant owl calls. A small flame danced before him, a low-burning campfire fed with the last scraps of kindling his men had managed to gather. It cast flickering light across the clearing, glinting off the metal plates lying disassembled at his feet.
He hummed as he worked.
It was an old Stormlander tune, one his father used to sing while sharpening his blade before hunts:
"Steel in the storm,Blood on the briar,Hear the thunder call—Ride into the fire."
The melody was low, rough, but steady, and the rhythm helped him focus as he worked a cloth across the curve of his pauldron. Dirt and dried mud scraped away easily; the dents took a bit more effort. He preferred polishing his armor himself. It soothed him. It reminded him of who he was, Ser Alton of the Kingswood. Hard-handed, sharp-eyed, feared by both Highborn and Lowborn.
A scream shattered the peace.
"AHHHHHHH!"
Alton paused mid-stroke. The sound came from Albins's tent, a few paces across the clearing.
"That fool is having nightmares again," Alton muttered.
Albin was a man built like an ox but cursed with a mind that broke under pressure. Ever since their last skirmish with a rival band, the man had woken three or four times a night screaming about shadows and shapes that stalked him. Alton had half a mind to force him to sleep further from camp.
He dismissed the noise and returned to his work, humming again as he inspected the next piece of armor. His fingers moved with practiced ease; he had been cleaning steel since he was old enough to hold a sword. The familiar ritual steadied him.
The fire crackled softly. Leaves whispered overhead. A moth fluttered lazily around the camp lanterns.
Then—
"Ser Alton."
A voice spoke from the shadows.
Alton looked up, frowning. One of his men stumbled into view. The man's steps were uneven, his breathing ragged, and when he came close enough for the firelight to touch him, Alton froze.
He was covered in blood.
Not a few splatters. Not a cut.No—his tunic was soaked, dark and sticky, from chest to waist.
Alton rose to his feet slowly.
"What happened?" he demanded, the calmness in his voice masking the tension coiling in his gut.
The man swallowed hard. His hands shook at his sides.
"Ser… we… we were attacked."
Alton's brows knitted. Attacked? Here? In the Kingswood? In his woods?
"By who?" he asked sharply. "Who would dare?"
Everyone knew the truth: Ser Alton ruled this part of the Kingswood. Travelers feared it, merchants avoided it, and most outlaws bent the knee or fled. Whoever attacked his men had either been suicidal, or unaware of the danger.
Or both.
"I—I don't know," the man stammered.
Alton stepped closer, studying him. A cut ran along the man's cheek, shallow but bloody. His left shoulder was bruised as if struck by a blunt weapon. Whoever had attacked them was skilled. Or fast. Or both.
Alton let out a long sigh through his nose, forcing the irritation down. Panic helped no one.
"Do you know what he looked like?" he asked.
The man hesitated, then nodded.
"He was… he was of average height, like most men. His hair was black. And on his tabard…"The man's voice faltered."…there was purple lightning. A bolt, straight down the middle."
Alton's eyes widened a fraction.
Purple lightning.
A sigil known across the Stormlands and the Crownlands. A symbol belonging to a house not known for weakness or mercy.
"A Dondarrion," Alton murmured.
He felt something cold settle in his stomach, not fear, no, but something akin to it. A prickle of recognition. The Dondarrions were Marcherlords known for their swift justice and rooting out Dornish raiders. If one of them was in the Kingswood…
"What is a Dondarrion doing here?" Alton muttered under his breath.
The man said nothing, still trembling.
Alton straightened, his expression hardening like tempered steel.
"Tell Alex to prepare the men," he ordered. "We're going on a hunt."
The man gulped and nodded quickly before hurrying off toward the campfire circle where a few other men were already gathering, whispering nervously.
Alton watched him go.
Then he looked down at the armor pieces scattered at his feet.
Slowly, deliberately, he knelt and began to strap them on again, breastplate first, then spaulders, then gauntlets, his movements stiff, guided by habit rather than calm.
A Dondarrion.A knight.A Stormlander born and bred.
Someone trained. Someone righteous. Someone who might try to put an end to Alton's reign here.
He buckled the last strap and rose to his full height, the fire flickering across the steel plates now gleaming from his earlier work.
"You should not have come here, Dondarrion," he muttered to the night, voice low and dangerous. "You'll die in these woods."
A breeze passed through the trees, rustling the leaves overhead.
And Alton smiled, slowly, darkly.
"Everyone dies in my woods."