Pain came first.
A sharp, pounding ache bloomed behind Dym's eyes, like a drum being beaten from the inside. Light followed—brutal, blinding, white-hot.
He groaned and raised a hand on instinct, swatting at it.
"Ow!"
The voice was high, offended—and very much alive.
Dym froze.
Then laughter rolled over him, deep and booming.
"Well," Ser Don said cheerfully, "I'd say he's past the worst, lad. Anyone who can swat your shiny head away like that isn't crossing the veil just yet. And his lower half's fine too—we watched him squirm all night."
Dym groaned again, this time more from humiliation than pain.
He rubbed his eyes slowly, carefully, letting the light bleed into shape. Green first—leaves overhead. Brown—tree bark. Then figures.
Soap sat beside him, rubbing his forehead with a pout, golden hair catching the sunlight in a way that made Dym wince all over again.
Ser Don loomed behind him, arms crossed, looking far too pleased with himself.
Dym tried to push himself up.
Bad idea.
His head screamed in protest, and strong hands immediately pressed him back down.
"Easy, big man," Ser Don said, firm now. "Easy."
Soap nodded quickly. "Please, Ser. Lie down. Just for now."
Dym let himself fall back against the bedroll with a groan, one hand going to his temple.
"...How long?" he rasped. "How long was I out?"
Soap glanced at the sky, then back at him. "Through the night, Ser. It's... between morning and noon now."
Dym exhaled slowly.
Ser Don clicked his tongue. "Aye. Nasty fall you had. Slipped right into the riverbank like a sack of grain. You're lucky your neck—or that thick skull of yours—didn't meet a rock."
He leaned closer, eyes sharp despite the humor. "You'd have orphaned your own squire before he even learned which end of the sword bites."
Dym winced. "...Sorry."
Ser Don waved it off. "All's fine, lad. When we found you unconscious, we thought the worst. Soap here did the right thing—woke me straight out of my own la-la land, yelling like the world was ending."
Soap flushed. "I thought it was!"
"And yet," Ser Don continued, "here you are. Whatever knocked you senseless seems to've healed well enough. I checked you over—couldn't find so much as a new scar on your back. Or anywhere else. Not even on that stubborn head."
Dym frowned faintly. "...By the river?"
"Aye," Ser Don said. "Which brings me to my question."
He arched a brow.
"What in all the hells were you doing by the river at night?"
Dym opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
He searched his thoughts—and found only white. Warm. Blinding. A hum. A song that slipped through his fingers the moment he tried to grasp it.
"I..." He swallowed. "I don't remember. Everything was... light. Too bright."
Ser Don studied him for a long moment, then sighed.
"All right," he said quietly. "All is fine, lad. No need to force it."
He straightened and turned his head slightly. "Soap—fetch me a waterskin. He'll need it."
"Yes, Ser Don," Soap replied immediately, hopping to his feet and trotting toward their packs.
Dym stared up at the leaves again, head throbbing, heart oddly unsteady.
Something had happened.
He knew that much.
Whatever it was... it hadn't followed him back.
Dym swallowed, then asked quietly, "Ser Don... what's been going on since I passed out?"
Ser Don waved a hand as if brushing away smoke. "Oh, nothing much. Just me and Soap keeping an eye on you."
He smirked. "Well. Mostly me. I told the lad to sleep first—he needed it. Sometimes the best cure for stress is a full night's rest. I assured him you'd be fine."
Dym blinked. "You... stayed up?"
"Aye," Ser Don said easily. "Not my first time missing a night's sleep."
He paused, brow furrowing as he rummaged through memory. "I've been through... two wars. And battles enough that I stopped counting. Longest stretch I went without proper sleep during a campaign was..." He squinted. "...a month."
Dym squeaked.
"A month?!" he blurted. "Bloody hell! How are you not—"
Pain flared behind his eyes, sharp enough to steal his breath. "Ow—!"
Ser Don chuckled and gently pressed him back down. "Easy now. Don't work yourself up, big man."
He shook his head, amused. "Endless misery, I'll tell you that much. By the end of it I was half-mad—thought I was dying when my piss turned reddish."
Dym stared at him, horrified.
"Thankfully," Ser Don continued cheerfully, "the medics told me I just needed more water. And sleep."
Medics? Dym thought hazily. Ah... Leithanien term. Healers, then.
Ser Don went on, voice drifting as memory took hold. "Couldn't sleep anyway. Me and my fellow riders were chasing some important Ursus bastard through the tundra."
He shuddered dramatically. "Hell. Cold, biting hell. The kind that crawls into your bones, shrivel your balls, and bites hard."
Dym let out a weak breath, half-awed, half-terrified.
Ser Don glanced down at him, one corner of his mouth lifting. "Luckily, I was a lot younger and much more sprier than I am now. So trust me, lad. One night keeping watch over a stubborn knight who can't stay upright?" He shrugged. "Hardly the worst I've had."
Soap padded back into view, a waterskin in hand. He crouched beside Dym and passed it to him carefully.
"Here, Ser Dym."
Dym accepted it with a grateful nod and took a slow drink, wincing as the cool water slid down his throat.
Soap hesitated, then looked up at Ser Don. "Ser... how did your chase for the Ursus bastard go?"
Ser Don's head snapped toward him.
"Language, young one."
Soap flinched.
"You're still young," Ser Don said, not unkind but firm, "so I'll let it go, but such a foul mouth shouldn't come out of you too soon. Keep that up and one day you'll earn yourself a proper clout."
He glanced at Dym. "You'll have to teach 'im manners sooner or later. He's your squire, not mine."
Dym groaned softly, already imagining the headache that responsibility would bring.
Soap muttered, "Sorry, Ser," and sat down cross-legged by the fire, tail curling in on itself.
Ser Don folded his arms and stared past them, toward the trees, as if the river had turned into snow and endless white.
"And to answer your question, lad..." he began.
"We chased him clear across Ursus border lands. The noble's name was Darivan Volskyr."
He snorted. "A man who thought himself carved from iron and fate itself."
Ser Don's voice slowed, heavy with memory. "After his army broke, he ran. Left his banners. Left his soldiers. Left his family."
Dym listened, waterskin resting forgotten in his lap.
"We followed him for weeks," Ser Don continued. "Across tundra so cold it split stone. Through forests where frost took fingers faster than steel. My men started to collapse in their saddles. Poor horses dying where they stood."
"A month," he added quietly. "It was a full month of riding, hunger, frostbites, and sleepless misery."
Soap's ears flattened.
"When we did caught up with him," Ser Don said, jaw tightening, "it wasn't us who got him first."
He let out a short, humorless breath. "His own people did."
Dym frowned. "Did they... kill him?"
"Aye," Ser Don replied. "His own officers. His kin. Traitors who thought they could buy mercy with blood."
"They butchered him in his tent," he went on, voice cold, "and slaughtered his family alongside him. Then they came to us—dragging bodies, heads wrapped in cloth—begging for peace."
The fire crackled sharply.
"Two of those heads under those cloths were as small as my fist." He growled, gesturing to Dym and Soap with a tightly closed fist.
Soap swallowed. "What did you do?"
Ser Don's gaze darkened, he was silent for a time. "I don't remember who gave the order. Or if anyone truly did say anything."
He exhaled slowly. "But we killed them. Every last one of the traitors."
"There's no peace bought with butchered children and a coward's knife."
Silence fell over the camp, thick and heavy.
Ser Don finally looked back at them, eyes tired. "That's war, lads. You ride and bleed and freeze for weeks... and when it's over, there's nothing left to win."
Dym lowered his gaze, fingers tightening around the waterskin. The lesson settled in his chest heavily.
Ser Don snorted. "Except when you get the chance to loot the dead for their armour," he went on, waving a hand, "either to use it yourself or sell it for coin. That—and if you happened to take an enemy knight or noble alive, you could hold 'em for ransom."
He shook his head, a crooked smile tugging at his lips.
"War's chaos, y'know. Ugly chaos. Sounds dishonourable, sounds cruel—but that's how it went. The higher up you were, the better your chances of living through it. You already got more gold, influence. Fame..." His voice dropped. "The more lowborn you were... well. The higher the chance you die, get enslaved, or end up worse. Infected by the cursed rock skin."
He sighed then, sliding his palms down his weary face, the humour draining out of him.
"Sorry, lads. Recalling that war always puts me in a foul mood. And I shouldn't be unloading it all on you—especially not when you're still rattled, Dym."
The old knight pushed himself to his feet with a groan and stretched his back.
"I'll prepare us some morn-fast," he said, already turning away. "Soap, keep an eye on your thick-headed knight, will ya?"
He let out a sharp whistle and headed toward their supply horse, Swift, rummaging through the packs for breakfast.
Left by the fire, Soap glanced at Dym, then back at Ser Don's retreating figure.
"...He calls you thick-headed," the boy said quietly, then added, a little smug, "but he likes you."
Dym huffed, head still aching, and took another careful sip from the waterskin.
"If that's his idea of fondness," he muttered, voice rough, "I'd hate to see what he's like when he doesn't care."
"Yeah... yeah..." Soap said softly.
A moment later, Ser Don returned, a battered pot in one hand and two wooden bowls in the other. Steam curled up into the cool air.
He handed one to Soap first. "Here you go, lad."
Then he turned to Dym. "And yours. Can you sit up? Slowly now."
Dym nodded. He braced a hand behind him and eased himself upright. His body protested with a dull, crawling tingle through stiff muscles, but—mercifully—the sharp pain in his head didn't surge.
Ser Don passed him the bowl. "Careful."
Dym took it with both hands. "Thank you."
"Take your time," Ser Don said. "No need to rush."
Dym lifted the spoon, blew on it once, and took a sip.
The broth smells good, it was thick and hearty—fish flakes and rough-cut chunks of meat swimming together, the fat clinging warmly to his tongue. It was good. Comforting, even. Then the spice hit.
He swallowed—and immediately coughed, the heat clawing down his throat, salt stinging his tongue.
Ser Don was already there, shoving the waterskin into his hand. "Easy, easy. Here."
Dym drank greedily, water sloshing down as he sputtered and cleared his throat.
Soap stared into his own bowl, then looked up. "How much spice and salt did you put in this, Ser Don?"
Ser Don scratched the back of his head and laughed, just a little awkwardly. "Well... quite a bit more than usual."
Dym coughed again. "Quite—cough—a bit?"
Ser Don's grin widened. "Aye. Mostly wanted to see your reaction."
"My... reaction?" Dym rasped.
"Yep." Ser Don gave his shoulder a firm pat. "And lad, I've got good news for you."
Dym took one more careful breath, the coughing finally easing. "What... news?"
Ser Don cleared his throat. "From my experience—well... this does mean we're talking about war again," he said with a dry chuckle. "Most folk who take a blow to the head—sword strike, fall from a horse, stairs, or even slipping into a river like you did—"
He paused.
"Often they die on the spot."
Dym shuddered despite himself. Soap winced, a hand flying up to his own head.
Ser Don lifted a palm quickly. "Easy, easy. Don't fret. You're fine, lad."
He went on, voice steadier. "And if they don't die, then well... usually it's one of these two things. First, they would be crippled. Their limbs went limp and won't answer to them anymore. Which," he added, glancing over Dym's frame, "you're clearly not. Though... I haven't seen you walk yet, so let's pray to God—or whoever you pray to—that you'll still walk straight."
"Amen," Dym thought.
"Amen," Soap muttered.
"Amin," Ser Don echoed without thinking.
Then he continued, "The other case is worse in its own way. They seem fine, like you. But inside? Something's of them is gone. Something that made their lives more... enjoyable. The loss of their senses."
Dym frowned slightly.
"First, is the sense of taste," Ser Don said, tapping the bowl. "That's why I tested you with my cooking."
Dym nodded slowly.
"And smell," Ser Don added. "So tell me—how does the soup smell? Describe it. Everything, Ser Dym."
Soap leaned forward, golden eyes bright with worry.
Dym closed his eyes for a moment and breathed in. The steam carried a strong, honest scent—fishy but not rotten, the heaviness of boiled meat, peppery heat prickling his nose, salt sharp enough to sting, and beneath it all the warm, oily comfort of a proper camp meal. He described it carefully, piece by piece.
Ser Don let out a long breath. "Alhamdulillah..." he murmured, one hand to his palm as he dragged it down his face.
Soap relaxed instantly. "What's that, Ser Don?"
"What's what?"
"That word," Soap said. "Ahamdu...lah? Or something like that.
"Right," Dym thought. "He said something similar before too. Subbhanal, or somethin'."
Ser Don hesitated, eyes rolling as he searched for an answer. "Ah. That. It's... Sargonian. Yes! Sargonian words."
Soap's eyes widened. "Sargon? You've been to Sargon?! Is it true it's a land of endless golden sands?"
Ser Don laughed. "That it is. Endless sands—and endless heat. Nearly passed out in the desert once. That's the word for those golden lands. But aye, at dawn and sunset, the sands gleam like gold."
He sighed, gaze drifting somewhere far away. "Lucky for me, I was found by a Sargonian merchant caravan. Led by a Savra, a local no less. He saved my life, and I pledged my service in return. And stayed there for quite some time. Years, even."
He chuckled. "One day, I might write a book or two about it all. Call it..." he waved his hand theatrically, "The 1001 Sargonian Nights."
Soap laughed.
Ser Don grinned at both of them. "If I meet you two again in the future, I'll give you the first copies. Free of charge! Ha!"
Dym shifted the bowl slightly in his hands. "So... what does Alhamdu...lah mean?" he asked. "And that other word—Subhanal—when you first met me, Ser Don."
Ser Don's face lit with a soft oh. "Ah. Right. Alhamdulillah means 'Thank God,' or 'Praise be to God.' Something along those lines." He nodded to himself, then continued, "And Subhanallah—that's the word you're thinking of, Dym. It means 'Glory be to God.' Though in Sargon, folk often use it the way you'd say 'Oh my God,' or just 'Wow,' when you see something truly surprising."
His eyes drifted back to Dym, sizing him up openly now. "And you surprised me, lad. Your height, for one. You're perhaps the tallest and biggest Kuranta I've ever met in all my travels." He snorted. "And strength-wise—based on our spars these past few days—you're comparable to a Minoan I fought in Sargon."
"Minoan?" Dym asked, spoon paused halfway to his mouth.
"Aye," Ser Don said. "Strong, hardy folk. But cultured too. Full of art—Not those magical mumbo-jumbos—and traditions focusing on sculptures, potteries, and even smithing. They hailed from the nation of Minos, northeast of Sargon. Southwest of Victoria. Mind you, I mean the people—the Fortes. Big ones. They've got these ox-like horns and small tails. At a glance, you might mistake 'em for a Sarkaz stereotype—until you see their ears."
He gestured beside his head. "Forte ears aren't pointy like a Sarkaz's. They're broad and rounded, a bit droopy at the ends—like a water burdenbeast's ears. And their horns?" He traced a slow curve in the air. "Thick at the base, sweeping outward and up, like a water burdenbeast as well. Solid as stone."
"Strong warrior-like folk, both their men and womenfolk." he went on. "I once wrestled some of their champions during a sports festival. I was escorting the same Sargonian merchant who found me in the desert. He was opening a new trade route into Minos, and somehow I got dragged into the festivities."
Ser Don shook his head with a chuckle. "I won that match, but I broke my back, so I was disqualified to continue. There were all sorts of events. Wrestling, lifting, duels. Even gladiatorial bouts that's similar to a tourney."
Soap perked up. "So who were competing?" he asked, as Dym slurped another spoonful of soup.
Ser Don answered plainly, "Slaves."
Dym choked mid-swallow. "Sl—slaves?!"
"That—that's—" Soap sputtered, fists clenching. "Barbaric!"
Ser Don's smile faded, replaced by something older and heavier. He didn't argue. He just sighed.
Ser Don continued, voice lower now. "True... true." He let the words sit before going on. "Everywhere on Terra—based on my travels, at least—the only nations I know that don't openly practice slavery are Victoria, Kazimierz, Laterano, and Gaul. And even then," he scoffed softly, "they still cheat the idea. Change the name. Call them serfs, like Ursus does, and wash their hands of the word."
He glanced at Soap, then back to Dym. "But the slaves who became gladiators... they weren't slaves in the way you're thinking."
Soap frowned. "They were still owned."
"Aye," Ser Don agreed without hesitation. "They were property. That much is true. But their place in society was... strange." He searched for the right words. "A gladiator was a fighter trained not just to kill, but to perform. They lived in special barracks, were fed better than most common soldiers, trained daily under masters who knew every trick of the blade, the shield, the fist."
He leaned back slightly. "To the people, they were celebrities. Idolized. Cheered. Their names were shouted in arenas packed with tens of thousands. Folk painted their faces on walls, wore charms carved with their likenesses. Some even bought vials of a gladiator's sweat—believed it brought strength or luck." He snorted. "Madness, but true."
Dym listened quietly, eyes fixed on the steaming soup.
"The bouts themselves," Ser Don continued, "were executed flawlessly. Nothing left to chance. The arena was prepared to the smallest detail—the sand raked, weapons inspected, fighters matched by style and skill. A shieldman against a spear, a heavy blade against twin daggers. Every pairing chosen to be spectacular."
"And when a gladiator fell," he went on, voice steady, "it wasn't always death. The crowd decided. If the fighter had shown courage, skill, spirit—they demanded mercy. If he fought well, even in defeat, he lived to fight again. A prized gladiator was far too valuable to waste."
Soap's jaw tightened. "Still sounds cruel."
"It was," Ser Don said simply. "Cruel, bloody, and wrong in many ways. But within that cruelty... there was order. Fame. Even a slim hope." He looked at them both. "Some gladiators earned their freedom. Not many—but enough that men believed it was possible."
He exhaled slowly. "That's why I say it's complicated. Wars and Battles are always complicated in the eyes of most folks."
==========
A/N:
Just watched episode two of AKOTSK, and I gotta say... Ser Arlan of Pennytree, The Long Lance! HE GOT DAT DAWG ON HIM! LOL XD.
AND AIN'T NO PARTY LIKE A BARATHEON PARTY!!!
Damn, those Baratheons really know how to party.
I KNEW THIS SERIES WOULD BE GOOD!
GOD, THE WRITINGS ARE STRONG!!!