In the low, rotting wooden shack, Aldric sat on the narrow cot where Jimmy had drawn his last breath. He was quietly wiping the blood from the blade of the Serpent's Striker with an oily rag. He said nothing.
A suffocating, heavy silence filled the air.
Several times, Albert tried to speak, to find some common ground to bond with his terrifying new master. But Aldric brushed him off with a curt "conserve your breath." Eventually, the boy fell silent too.
But a boy's nature is restless. As his initial terror faded, Albert began picking up pebbles from the dirt floor, stacking them into small piles to entertain himself.
Aldric didn't stop him. As long as the kid didn't leave the room, he could do whatever he wanted.
In this silent waiting, the sun sank beneath the horizon, casting the Outer Harbor into deep, concealing shadow.
Aldric checked the sky through the broken window. He stood up. He strapped on his golden breastplate, pulling the leather buckles tight, and threw a heavy grey wool tunic over it to conceal the metal. He slung the greatsword across his back.
"Let's go, kid."
"Yes, Master!"
Albert dropped his pebbles, excitedly pushed open the rotting door, and led Aldric away from the desolate slums, moving steadily toward the bustling docks of the Outer Harbor.
Arriving at the waterfront, Albert pointed a shaking finger at a loud, brightly lit two-story building. "Master, that's it. The Long Fish Gang's gambling den, the Fish Hook. At this hour, everyone is inside. Including the Boss."
Aldric placed a heavy hand gently on the boy's shoulder. "Go home now, Albert. No matter who asks, you never saw me. You never led me here."
Aldric flicked two silver stags into the boy's palm. Without another word, he turned and strode toward the gambling den.
A greatsword like the Serpent's Striker was born for places like this—enclosed, yet spacious enough to swing. Aldric felt the heavy steel trembling against his back. It was humming. It was hungry.
The Outer Harbor docks were a chaotic ecosystem of their own. It was where merchant ships berthed and unloaded, creating a massive influx of coin. Here gathered the stevedores, the sailors, and the businesses built to bleed them dry: cheap cookshops, cut-rate taverns, and the brothels and gambling dens attached to them.
Most of the workers were young men from the countryside with no families. The coin they earned through backbreaking labor burned holes in their pockets, quickly squandered on cheap ale and fleeting pleasures.
As the dominant syndicate rooted in the Outer Harbor, the Long Fish Gang naturally controlled the flow of this silver. The Fish Hook was their crown jewel.
After the day's extortion was done, the core members of the gang gathered on the second floor. First, to report their earnings to the Boss and take their cut. Second, to drink their own ale and act as high-tier bouncers.
The Boss, Ballard "Big Mouth," sat in a high-backed wooden chair, currently listening to the daily reports.
It was all boring drivel—a scuffle with a rival crew over a smuggling slip, a debtor who got his hamstring cut for missing a payment. Ballard didn't want to listen, but that was the burden of command. Even if he made no major decisions, simply sitting in that chair proved his empire was intact.
"By the way," Ballard interrupted, pouring himself a cup of Arbor red. "Big Joey caught a fat mark yesterday. What's the status on the gold?"
The lieutenants looked at each other. No one answered.
After a moment of tense silence, a curly-haired youth ventured, "Boss, didn't you send some boys to check on Joey a few hours ago?"
"Did I?"
Ballard rubbed his temples. He had a vague impression of it. Yesterday, he had been summoned to the Inner City and berated by his noble patron, Ser Gadry, over a missed shipment. He had returned in a foul mood and drank heavily. When he heard about the foreigner with foreign gold, he got excited and went with Big Joey to find the street rat who had guided the mark. He remembered beating the kid himself.
He might have hit the boy too hard... but so what?
Why was the little street rat so bold as to refuse him? Didn't the boy know Ballard was the Boss? Didn't he know Ballard's pride was worth more than a beggar's life?
Still, even if his pride was satisfied, Ballard felt a twinge of regret now. It was bad business to kill a steady earner.
Tomorrow, I'll send someone with two fresh salmon to the boy's shack, Ballard thought. Let him recover. Then bring him into the gang as an earner to make up for the beating.
But that was tomorrow's problem. Tonight, the ledger was closed. He needed a whore to cool his temper. As for whether the boy survived the night? May the Mother show him mercy.
Just as Ballard was about to order the girls brought up, a cacophony of wailing screams erupted from the tavern below.
A subordinate stumbled frantically up the stairs, his face white with terror. "Boss! Boss! Someone's in the hall! Jamie and Dorian are dead! Ahh—!"
The youth froze mid-shout. A heavy steel blade abruptly erupted from his chest, bursting through his sternum in a shower of gore.
He reached out futilely to grab the cold metal, but the blade vanished as violently as it had appeared, pulling the youth's life out with it.
As the dead man slumped softly onto the stairs, a towering figure stepped into the light. He was bathed in blood, holding a massive longsword in both hands.
"Which one of you," Aldric asked, his voice a low, terrifying rumble, "is Ballard Big Mouth?"
Every man in the room looked at their boss. Ballard's face turned the color of spoilt milk. He held his breath for a long time before spitting out a single word: "Fuck."
"It is you," Aldric said, stepping fully onto the second floor with a cold, dead smile. "My apologies for the unannounced visit. I didn't prepare a proper gift. I hope this conveys my deepest respects."
Aldric reached into a bloody sack at his waist and tossed a severed human head onto the heavy oak table.
Ballard shrank back in his chair. He recognized the bruised, horrified face. It belonged to his best enforcer, "Iron Fist" Ralph.
"Who are you?" Ballard forced the words past the terror strangling his throat. "How did I offend you? To make a warrior like you come here personally?"
"This morning, I was robbed by thugs claiming to be the Long Fish Gang," Aldric said calmly. "They tried to take my gold. And my newly hired servant was beaten to death in his home for refusing to lead me into your ambush. I think that might be how you offended me."
Motherfucker! Ballard panicked internally. Those useless idiots! They didn't get the gold, they didn't report back, and they brought a demon right to my door!
Ballard swallowed hard, trying to put on a dignified, reasonable expression. "I see. My Lord, I think there might be a terrible misunderstanding—"
Aldric didn't let him finish. He lunged forward, bringing the six lieutenants around the table into his attack range.
A brutal, horizontal sweep severed the arms of two thugs desperately trying to draw their daggers.
Thanks to Ballard's intense paranoia regarding assassination, none of his sub-bosses were allowed to carry longswords on the second floor. Their gear was worse than the bouncers downstairs. They had knives and clubs against a man in plate wielding a greatsword.
Aldric shifted his grip. He held the hilt with his right hand and grabbed the unsharpened base of the blade—the ricasso—with his left. Using this "half-swording" technique, he wielded the massive blade like a short spear, stabbing and thrusting with lethal precision in the confined space.
Moments later, no one was standing on the second floor.
Ballard, however, was gone. He had thrown himself out the second-story window the moment the screaming started.
But his luck was truly rotten. Upon landing in the muddy alley below, his ankle twisted with a sickening snap. A piercing agony shot up his leg, dropping him face-first into the filth.
As he struggled to stand, a heavy steel boot slammed onto his back, pinning him to the earth.
Ballard craned his neck, looking up at the terrifying, blood-soaked figure standing over him.
"M-M-My Lord!" Ballard babbled, weeping openly. "I was wrong! I shouldn't have sent men after you! I will compensate you! Whatever you lost, I'll pay double! Ten times! I have gold! Just leave me my life!"
Aldric looked down at his own right arm. A lucky dagger slash had torn through his grey tunic and sliced deep into his forearm.
"Look at this," Aldric said softly. "I'm injured. My sword arm, no less. And I just butchered a dozen of your brothers upstairs. Can a gang boss tolerate that? Why don't you fight back?"
Ballard forced a desperate, unnatural smile. "My Lord jests! I am an only child; I have no brothers! Please, do you know Ser Gadry of the Inner—"
As he spoke, his right hand crept slowly toward the hidden stiletto sheathed at the small of his back.
Before his fingers could even graze the hilt, a cold flash of silver opened his throat.
Ballard clutched his neck, collapsing and thrashing in the mud. Hot blood bubbled through his fingers, staining the dark alley red. A moment later, the Boss of the Long Fish Gang stopped moving entirely.
Aldric squatted down and quickly patted the corpse. He found a beautiful, jeweled dagger, a heavy gold signet ring, and a pouch heavy with silver stags.
Just as he turned to leave, the chaotic shouting of the fleeing gamblers echoed from the main street, accompanied by the heavy, rhythmic marching of Manderly spearmen. The City Watch had arrived.
Aldric glanced at the corner where he had parted with Albert. The boy was long gone.
I kept my promise, kid, Aldric thought, relief washing over him. You just didn't take the opportunity.
Sheathing his bloody sword, Aldric sprinted in the opposite direction, disappearing into the maze of warehouses toward the piers. Reaching the water's edge, he leaped off the wooden docks into the freezing, dark sea, leaving the pursuing Watchmen with nothing but ripples.
He swam underwater for a long time, the heavy breastplate dragging him down. Only when his lungs burned with absolute agony did he surface, gasping for air.
Looking back, the sprawling port of White Harbor was just a vague outline of flickering lanterns.
As he bobbed in the freezing waves, he felt something slip from the breast pocket of his tunic.
The little wooden duck.
Seeing it drift away, pushed gently by the sea breeze, Aldric reached out to grab it—then stopped, his hand hovering inches above the water.
Let it go.
Let the little duck float freely on the open sea. This was where it belonged. Out here, no one would smash it for kindling. No one would trample it into the muck.
"Goodbye, little duck," Aldric murmured into the dark.
Under the pale silver moonlight, the wooden toy seemed to ride the waves joyfully toward the deep ocean, melting into the night.
Twenty minutes later, Aldric dragged his freezing, exhausted body onto an isolated mudflat far outside the city walls.
He hadn't lied to Ballard. He really was hurt.
Fighting a dozen aggressive, desperate thugs alone in a confined space, wearing only a breastplate and without the healing power of the Holy Light, had pushed his mortal body to its absolute limit. Except for his torso, his limbs were slashed, bruised, and bleeding sluggishly.
If his surprise attack hadn't instantly killed the bouncer at the bottom of the stairs, breaking their morale, Aldric would likely have killed a few and been forced to flee in disgrace.
Killing the head of the snake was an unexpected bonus, Aldric thought, shivering violently. Paying a price in blood was only fair.
Stumbling inland along the muddy banks for over an hour, he finally reached the small trading town of Bell Toll, located a few miles outside White Harbor. Through the hazy grey pre-dawn light, he saw Kevin standing anxiously at the crossroads.
Soaked in freezing seawater and having lost a significant amount of blood, Aldric's vision began to tunnel.
"Kevin..." Aldric called out softly, his voice cracking.
Before the boy could turn, Aldric pitched forward, crashing face-first into the dirt.
A long time later, a burning, desert-like thirst woke Aldric from the dark. He listened to his surroundings with closed eyes. Hearing nothing but the soft nickering of horses, he opened them.
He was lying on a thick straw mat. Bales of hay surrounded him, blocking the wind. Kevin was leaning against a hay bale nearby, his head nodding in sleep.
Aldric looked at his arms. His wounds had been cleaned and tightly bandaged with strips of clean linen.
"Kevin..."
His voice was a dry, scraping rasp.
Yet Kevin snapped awake instantly, his face lighting up with profound relief. "Master! You're awake!"
"Where is this?"
"A farmer's barn in Bell Toll," Kevin whispered, bringing a waterskin to Aldric's lips. "We're renting it. After you were hurt by those 'bandits' on the road, the local inns wouldn't take us, fearing the watch. I paid a farmer ten coppers to let us hide here."
Poor travelers injured by highwaymen. It was a solid cover story.
"How long?" Aldric rasped, drinking greedily.
"Since you passed out? Just a few hours. Dawn is just breaking."
Unconscious for hours... this mortal body is fragile.
Though Kevin hadn't seen the slaughter at the Fish Hook, the sheer number of bandages told him how horrific it must have been. His master, who usually waded through combat without a scratch, looked like he had been put through a meat grinder.
When Aldric pushed himself up and proposed leaving immediately, Kevin panicked. "Master, no! With these injuries, if we ride hard, the stitches will tear!"
Aldric didn't care about torn stitches. He cared about being hunted by the Long Fish Gang's noble backers. The City Watch would be turning White Harbor upside down looking for the giant who butchered a dozen men. One dead Jimmy was enough collateral damage for a lifetime.
He gritted his teeth and stood up. Kevin reluctantly helped him saddle the horses. They packed their gear and slipped away from the barn in the pale, grey light of dawn.
Outside the town, the Kingsroad forked. A weathered wooden signpost pointed the ways.
Since Aldric couldn't read, Kevin translated. "Master, the left road goes south. Toward the Neck and King's Landing. We should go that way."
Aldric stared at the southern road for a long time, his jaw tight. "And the other?"
"That road goes north. Following the White Knife up to Winterfell."
"We take the north road."
Kevin blinked, confused. "Ah? Haven't we been planning to go to King's Landing since we hit the coast?"
Aldric shook his head, his voice grim. "Not anymore. In the city yesterday, we asked half a dozen captains and a tavern full of sailors about ships heading south. Someone surely noticed. The people hunting me are either waiting at the docks with crossbows or watching the southern road."
Aldric spurred Old Bones toward the northern track. "Maybe no one will come. But in my condition... I cannot take the risk."