"You are part of our family, Eldric," I said. "Never forget that."
"Thank you, my lord. I won't forget," Eldric replied.
I pulled my hand back and nodded. The corner of my lips curved upward.
"What else do you have to tell me?" I asked.
Eldric tucked the crumpled parchment into the inner pockets of his black cloak. He rested his palms on his thighs and leaned his thick torso toward me. His tone dropped, blending with the street noise outside the window.
"In our own backyard," Eldric said. "The Dreadfort. Roose Bolton."
I rested my elbow on my leg.
"The lord continues flaying in the dark," the spy continued. "My shadows in the castle saw the remains. They found strips of damp skin stretched over wooden frames in the deepest dungeons. He flays criminals. Some peasants who vanished in recent moons ended up tied to those same tables."
"The old ways," I muttered.
"All of them," Eldric confirmed, his gaze locked on my face. "Roose still practices the First Night. The isolated villages in the Bolton lands pay the price in silence. His men drag the women from their homes on their wedding day and return them the next morning, their tongues tied by fear."
Fenrir raised his right ear on the mattress, listening to the scraping of Hela's paws on the floorboards, before burying his snout back into his own paws.
"There's more," Eldric said. "Remember the abrupt rise in banditry on the dirt roads of the North before the Pack cleared the routes? Roose had his hand in those fires. He allowed the camps. The lord facilitated the scum's movement through his own borders. The goal was to bleed the trade routes and test Winterfell's grip, taking advantage of the chaos."
I squeezed my fingers against the leather of my pants, feeling the hardness of bone beneath the fabric.
"When we decimated the camps and hung the bodies from the trees, the news spread across the North fast," I said.
"And reached the Dreadfort," Eldric pointed out. "In the great hall, before his own captains, Roose's reaction was a pale, silent approval. The same mask of ice as always. One of my shadows works in the corridor of the lord's chambers."
Eldric ran his thumb over his own knuckles.
"Roose locked himself in his room that night. Silence dominated the corridor." the spy reported. "The maester was called three times before dawn, carrying glass jars filled with fat leeches. The lord demanded to be bled far beyond the usual. The brass basins the servants carried out of the room smelled of iron and overflowed with black water and dead bugs."
Eldric narrowed his eyes.
"The carnage your Pack left on the roads crushed the web of disorder he fed behind your House's back. The lord drained his own blood until his skin turned ashen. The mask needed to stay intact in front of the captains."
"Gather every scroll and record you can against Roose Bolton," I ordered. "When I cross the gates of Winterfell, I will throw this proof on my father's table. I could infiltrate a shadow into the Dreadfort and slit the lord's throat. The maester would just find his body in the morning, drowned in his own blood by the leeches. The job would take one night."
I stopped, breathing in the stale air of the room.
"I demand the banners of the North planted in the mud of the Dreadfort. The lords of the other Houses will watch the end of the Winter Kings' enemy lineage in the light of day."
I rested my forearms on my knees.
"The North has forgotten the weight of the direwolf," I said. "The lords of the south and the snows think House Stark lost its fangs when Torrhen knelt on the scorched earth to spare the North from Aegon's fire. Winterfell's shadow has shrunk in these past years. My father's silence sounds like passivity."
I leaned my back against the wooden chair.
"I will remind these castle lords of the taste of the Winter Kings' blood. My lineage's name carries snow. I will never sit in the main chair of the Great Hall. It matters little. No one will mock the stone that raised my father and my brothers. My sword exists only to forge a wall of steel around my family."
"My own hands will rip the Boltons out by the root."
"So it shall be, my lord," Eldric replied. The corner of the spy's mouth twitched.
On the mattress, Fenrir released a low, torn growl from the back of his throat. The thick black fur on the wolf's neck bristled against the blanket's fabric.
I pushed the chair back and stood up. The wood scraped against the floorboards. I walked to the room's small window. The noise of wagon wheels and the muffled shouts of merchants in the street hit the dust-stained glass.
"I'm proud of what you and Rhoslyn have built," I said, watching the capital's movement down below. The reflection in the darkened glass threw back the outline of my smile. "You two raised an entire empire in your roles."
I turned my body. Eldric was also standing beside the bed.
"Rhoslyn sent her regards before taking the road to the Reach," Eldric said, adjusting the weight of the black cloak over his shoulders. "She went to sign the papers for the cosmetics shop's new branch."
"Did she travel alone?"
"Razdhan accompanies her," the spy replied, crossing his gloved hands in front of his body. "That eunuch doesn't take his eyes off her when there are coins involved in the deal."
I nodded.
"Before Astrid and Sigurd left, I did something with them that I will do with you now," I continued, walking slowly away from the window. "Ever since the coats Rhoslyn sewed, the idea finally took shape. I created an organization. A clan. A family with a closed structure. I baptized it Yggdrasil."
Eldric's dark eyes followed my movement across the room.
"Just like in the old legend I told you in the courtyard years ago, each branch of this tree sustains a different force," I said. "Each branch demands a leader to command their respective groups. You coordinate our web of shadows."
"Yes," Eldric replied. His hoarse voice sounded flat and dry.
I stopped an arm's length away from the spy.
"I made Sigurd the commander of Jotunheim, leading our front line. Astrid took over Niflheim."
I pulled Truth from its scabbard. The friction of the Valyrian steel hissed against the leather.
"Kneel, Eldric. Lord of Helheim."
Eldric bent his leg. His right knee hit the floorboards with a hollow sound. I tilted the dark, smoky blade until the metal weighed on the wool of his left shoulder.
"Your domain is Helheim." I lowered the tone of my voice. The words scraped in the short air between us. "The hidden realm beneath the tree's roots. The place where the forgotten, the condemned, and the dead without a song go. In the old stories, the terror of kings came from invisible men. Those who walked through walls, stole secrets through stone, and brought death before fear had time to be born."
Fenrir's heavy breathing crackled against the mattress covers behind us.
"Helheim dispenses with banners and glory. The other realms of Yggdrasil will attract the light. Your arm will operate in the flesh," I continued, tightening my fingers on the dragonbone hilt. "Before this tree, do you swear to abandon your own name, pride, and recognition to become the earth beneath our roots? Swear to track conspiracies before the whispers, break traitors before they raise their hands, and silently slaughter anyone who threatens our home? Do you swear to swallow the dark to keep the others in the light, planting a faceless fear in the chests of kings?"
The wind forced the wooden frame of the window. Eldric raised his chin. His opaque, dark eyes fixed on the steel stretched between us.
"Shadows lose their use under the light." His tone came out flat, driving into the silence of the room. "Our function is to remain when it vanishes. I will listen. I will find. When Helheim comes for our enemies, they will understand too late. I swear."
I raised Truth, removing the weight of the steel from his shoulder.
"May your footsteps never leave tracks and your presence never announce death before its time," I said, holding the blade in the air. "May your eyes see through lies, and may fear walk silently ahead of your Shadows. I consecrate you as Helheim. The invisible darkness beneath our tree's roots. Rise, brother."
I sank the sword back into its scabbard with a sharp click. I extended my forearm. Eldric pressed his hand flat against my leather glove and pulled his body up.
"Gather the three of them," I said, leaning my hip against the edge of the oak table. "We leave for the Street of Steel now. Tobho Mott has equipment waiting for us at the forge. Then, the Kingswood."
Eldric's hand locked before touching the iron doorknob. He twisted his neck back toward the room.
"Tobho Mott," Eldric repeated, the sound chewed in the back of his throat. "He was the next name on my list."
I crossed my arms. "Why?"
"He is a master from Qohor. One of the few in the known world capable of reworking Valyrian steel," the spy explained.
"Reworking. The original method was lost, wasn't it?"
Eldric nodded. "The secret of the ancient forge turned to ash along with the Doom. The Qohorik smiths retained the art of melting and molding old steel into new blades, preserving the metal's properties."
I slid my hand to Truth's dragonbone pommel. Having the loyalty of a man with that level of understanding of rare metals was a raw piece on the board.
"Useful," I muttered. "How do I bring him"
"Mott worships the anvil," Eldric replied, letting go of the doorknob for a moment. "Gold and the Crown's coffers buy his time. Knowledge buys the man. The smithy is the Qohorik's life. Put a method, a fold, or a design his eyes don't know in front of him. He will bow to learn."
"Understood," I said, driving the information into my memory. "May the shadows hide your steps, brother."
Eldric pulled the black hood over his hair, nodded once, and slipped outside. The door closed with a soft metallic click in the corridor.
I grabbed the leather belt off the table and buckled Truth and the dagger to my waist. Fenrir jumped off the mattress, and Hela stretched her long body on the rug. I opened the door and went down the stairs.
The inn's common room stank of warm ale and old meat stew. Perseus, Kevin, Belzakar, and Morghaz waited, leaning against the tables near the exit door.
"Let's go," I ordered, passing by them. "Street of Steel."
We left the inn and the heat of the street hit our faces. The path to the base of Visenya's Hill required clearing space between wooden wagons and merchants. The smell of saltwater from the river mixed with the garbage piled in the corners of the alleys.
The leveled pavement gave way to the irregular stones of the slope. We entered the Street of Steel.
At the base of the hill, the sound was sharp and chaotic. Dozens of small hammers struck quickly against tin and copper in cramped workshops. The air smelled of fine soot. The wooden houses squeezed against each other, their roofs nearly touching.
As our boots forced the climb, the street grew darker. The upper floors of the buildings projected over the stones, blocking the sunlight and forming a corridor of shadow and gray smoke. The noise of tin vanished. Heavy mallets began to crush iron and steel rhythmically, making the ground vibrate beneath the soles of our boots. Coal and sulfur smoke descended from the chimneys, sticking the soot to our clothes and pushing sweat down our necks. Heat radiated from the open doors along the climb. The size of the workshops grew with every meter advanced.
At the top of the hill, Tobho Mott's smithy capped the slope. The solid wood and plaster structure crushed the size of any other building around it. The upper floors advanced far beyond the pavement, casting a dense, permanent shadow at the end of the street.
The main entrance displayed double doors. One leaf carved in dark ebony and the other cut in white weirwood. The surface reproduced a hunting scene in high relief, with hounds and wolves sinking their teeth into the flanks of fierce boars. Two life-sized stone knights flanked the wood. The statues wore red armor, molded with the contours of a griffin and a unicorn, standing guard at the facade.
I pushed the ebony door. A brass bell struck at the top of the frame. The sharp sound cut through the street noise.
The internal environment blocked the smoke from outside. The heat, however, radiated from the back of the hall, where furnaces roared. A woman walked toward us. She wore a well-cut dark linen dress, keeping her clean hands crossed in front of her body.
"Hello, Tobho Mott's shop," the woman said. "How may we help you?"
"I am Arthur Snow," I said. "Prince Rhaegar sent word that we would be coming here."
"Perfectly, Lord Snow. Follow me."
She guided us to the center of the hall. The temperature rose against the skin. Tobho Mott punished an incandescent iron block on a massive anvil with a long-handled mallet. Orange sparks sprayed and died against the black leather apron covering his broad body. The master smith finished the strike, dropped the heavy tool, and dismissed the attendant with a short wave of his free hand.
"Prince Rhaegar will pay," Mott's voice sounded thick, carrying the heavy accent of the Free Cities. "Clean swords, full armors, something custom. You can choose whatever you want."
As he spoke, the smith's eyes swept the group. His gaze stopped at my waist. His pupils locked onto the sword's elongated hilt and dropped quickly to the grip of the dagger secured in the leather of my doublet. He kept his attention on the metal for a second longer before turning his face to Perseus.
Our Northern equipment was still intact. Kevin chose a new boiled leather quiver and a short-hilted dagger with an iron guard. Perseus tested the balance of a clean-cut longsword. Belzakar and Morghaz grabbed thick-shafted spears and round shields with edges lined in tempered steel.
I walked along the shelves and racks, letting the floorboards creak beneath my boots. I slid my fingers over the seams of the chainmail and examined the joints of the dark breastplates. The precision of the cuts and the raw polish on the plates proved the weight of the Qohorik's work.
I stopped in front of a smooth helm in the darkest corner of the shop. Mott's boots sounded behind me. The smell of sweat and honing oil accompanied his approach.
"Those blades of yours," the smith asked in a lower tone. "Would you let me see them?"
I turned my body. I held my gaze on the smith's wrinkled eyes for a moment. I pulled the belt buckle and handed Truth's scabbard into his hands.
Mott held the black leather case. His thick fingers felt the veins of the material. He lowered his sight to the opaque blue stone embedded in the pommel and turned the hilt under the warm light of the hall.
"She is beautiful," he murmured.
Mott pulled the guard. The friction hissed thinly. The dark Valyrian steel cut the forge's light, revealing the smoky ripples molded into the black metal.
"Indeed. Very beautiful," Mott added. His face didn't divert from the exposed blade. "It's the Truth of the Rogares. Isn't it?"
My jaw muscle tightened. I lowered my right hand, brushing my fingertips against the hilt of the dagger attached to my doublet.
The smith heard the scraping of leather. He kept the tip of the Valyrian blade lowered, pointing at the stone floor.
"Don't be scared, young man," Mott said, keeping his hands calm and away from his body. "I come from a lineage that served the fire. Ancient slave smiths of Old Valyria. Chance pulled my ancestors out before the Doom swallowed the mountains. The Motts kept their roots in the Free Cities. We settled in Qohor and prospered in the furnaces there. We are the only ones left with the knowledge to rework Valyrian steel."
"Before crossing the salt water," the Qohorik's voice dropped, blending with the muffled noise of the mallets in the back of the workshop. "Men tried to tear the secret from our furnaces. My father and my brother spat out their own tongues and denied them. They were getting their throats slit on top of the anvils. The priests of the Black Goat dragged my mother away. Her blood washed the altars of the temple."
Mott sank his broad chest, pulling in the hall's thick air.
"I missed the massacre because I was working in Volantis. Bending steel for the old bloods of the city." He raised his eyes from the Valyrian blade to my face. The wrinkled skin stretched at the corners of his eyes. "I met a girl on those streets."
The smith turned his wrist, reflecting the lanterns' light on the dark waves of the metal.
"She bumped into my shoulder. Bought plates of meat in a tavern near the port to cover the stumble. She talked a lot. Carried the age you have now. She walked the stones of Volantis with this exact sword at her waist. Without an escort. Without a cloak over the leather of the scabbard."
Mott ran his thick thumb near the sword's guard.
"I warned her about the knives in the alleys and the price men charge for a blade like this on the black market. She just smiled. Answered some foolishness about dreams and charted paths."
The smith slid the darkened blade back into the black leather scabbard. The metal locked at the bottom with a sharp click. He inverted the weapon and extended the hilt with the blue stone toward me.
"Her name was Jaenara."
My lips parted. The forge's heat dried the back of my throat. I took the scabbard from the smith's hand. The black leather weighed against the palm of my glove.
"I couldn't let her take that risk," Mott continued. His hand with the gold rings fell to the side of his apron. "The men at the tavern tables were already craning their necks. Valyrian steel draws the eyes. The jewels of the Rogares draw blood. In Westeros, a lord would recognize Dark Sister or Blackfyre on a stranger's belt. On the stones of Essos, Truth carries the same weight. Any mercenary in the port would kill her before nightfall."
The smith shook his large head. The lanterns' light reflected off the sweat on his forehead.
"She was stubborn. I tried to convince her to sell the piece or wrap the hilt in dirty rags. She refused. Said the sword needed to stay with her. The only way out I found was offering a hiding place. I handed her a chest. A dark coffer my family dragged from Valyria before the mountains melted. My forging hammer traveled inside it. The long steel fit perfectly. She locked the weapon away, smiled at me, and said one day someone would repay that favor. I told her I didn't collect debts from children."
Mott scratched the side of his square beard. The noise of crushed iron echoed in the back of the workshop.
"You must think me a fool," the smith's voice thickened. "Handing relics of Old Valyria to an unknown girl on the streets of Volantis. But she carried an absurd gravity. She pulled the entire air from the place. The few words we exchanged at that table changed the direction of my work. It was frightening."
I tightened my fingers around the scabbard, feeling the rough relief of the dark leather.
"I see her trace in your face," Tobho said, his eyes measuring my features under the workshop's orange light. "The same jawline. The same gravity pulling the air from the place. You are the son."
"Jaenara died at my birth," I said, keeping my gaze straight and my voice dry.
The smith rested his heavy hand on my shoulder. The heat of the thick leather passed through my doublet's fabric.
"The world lost a good woman," Mott murmured. He pulled his hand back and rubbed his thumb's calluses. "When I returned to Qohor, my family's ashes were already cold. Essos lost its use. I gathered a few old belongings, family heirlooms we kept hidden under the stones. I crossed the Narrow Sea and raised these walls in King's Landing."
"I'm sorry for your family," I replied.
Tobho Mott waved his large hand in the air, shooing away the invisible smoke of memory. "Let it go, boy. Valar Morghulis."
"Valar Dohaeris," I muttered, lowering my chin in a short movement.
I fastened Truth's leather case back to the belt under my doublet.
"My mother warned that someone would pay for your help," I said. "The debt passed to the blood. I need to use your forge for a few days."
Tobho's thick eyebrows knitted together in the center of his forehead. "Do you know the work on the anvil, boy?"
"Enough," I affirmed, closing and opening the fingers of my right hand.
Mott pointed his chin toward the back of the shop. "There is a furnace in the back. The apprentices use the space to fold smaller pieces. The coal is full."
"My thanks," I said, turning my shoulders in the direction he indicated.
I walked through the shelves to where Perseus, Kevin, Belzakar, and Morghaz gathered the new weapons.
"The work in the fire will require days," I warned. "Return to the inn. Lock the room door and feed Fenrir and Hela raw meat until I get back."
Perseus nodded, throwing the darkened mail over his broad shoulder, and pushed the ebony door to the street.
I crossed the main hall and entered the back courtyard. The heat doubled. The air stank of pure sulfur and old sweat. I went to the supply depot and pulled soft iron bars and rigid steel ingots, weighing the differences in both hands.
I threw coal into the furnace and pulled the bellows. The fire roared. I placed the pieces in the center of the flames and waited. The metal reached an almost white-yellow, with the edges taking on a liquid appearance. I pulled the glowing block with long-handled tongs and brought down the mallet.
The impact sprayed orange sparks onto the leather apron. The initial welding consumed the daylight and the firewood of the night. The alignment required constant correction with every wrong strike. Sweat ran down my eyelashes, burning my eyes.
On the second day, I started the fold. I elongated the hot block with mallet blows, marked the center with the chisel, and folded the steel mass over itself. I returned the piece to the fire. The process repeated dozens of times. With each fold, the internal layers multiplied. The sound of the hammer against the hot metal shifted from a hollow thud to a sharp ring. Blisters popped on the base of my right thumb, rubbing raw flesh on the tool's wooden handle. This stage chewed through three uninterrupted days, with eyes fixed on the color of the ember and the resistance of the piece.
On the fifth day, the blade took shape. I struck the metal on the side of the anvil. I defined the thicker spine in the center and thinned the edges for the cutting wire. The weight transferred to the base. The irregular block assumed the contour of a weapon.
The heat treatment covered the following hours. I heated the entire blade evenly. I plunged the red steel into a narrow tank of oil. The liquid hissed loudly. A cloud of black, stinking smoke rose to the ceiling. The thermal shock abruptly hardened the material's internal structure. Next, I returned the piece to tempering in weak embers, heating the metal slowly to relieve internal tension and prevent the sword from shattering on the first impact.
The finishing took the last two days. I cleaned the soot and rubbed sand and whetstone along the surface. The opaque gray gave way to a clean shine.
The internal design rose to the light. Dark and light lines formed ripples across the metal's extension, flowing through the blade like a river's murky current. The pattern of hundreds of folds exposed on the steel.
I clamped the piece in the vise for the final assembly. I fitted the darkened steel guard, forged with a slight curve at the ends to protect the hands. The hammered texture broke the light on the surface.
I adjusted the hardwood grip on the tang. I wrapped stretched strips of black leather in a spiral, locking the grip. I fixed the rounded, heavy pommel on the end, smooth, without marks.
The weight of the weapon balanced in the palm of my hand.
Soot covered my skin. Sweat rolled down my temples, washing the black dirt and running down my neck. I wrapped the entire sword in a raw cloth and left the back furnace. The rhythmic noise of crushed metal echoed in the main hall.
Mott locked his mallet in the air when I crossed the stone arch. He dropped the heavy wooden handle onto the anvil and rubbed the back of his arm against his soaked forehead.
"Gods, boy. Finally," the smith's thick voice sounded over the hiss of the coal. "I came in with plates of food at night and you didn't even blink at the meat."
"I was focused," I said. My throat scratched, dry and soaked in smoke.
The Qohorik's wrinkled eyes lowered to the long bundle in my hands. I walked to the polished walnut bench and set the weapon down on the wood. I took a step back.
[Pov Tobho Mott]
I wiped the soot from my hands on the black leather apron. The boy smelled of old ashes. His chest rose and fell heavily beneath the doublet. The arm muscles trembled from the exhaustion of uninterrupted days with the hammer.
I approached the counter. My thick fingers touched the darkened steel guard that escaped the tip of the fabric. The metal retained a remainder of heat. The steel's curvature elongated functionally, protecting the joints without compromising balance. I slid my thumb over the stretched leather rings on the hilt and squeezed the smooth, rounded pommel. No burr hit the skin. No unevenness ruined the grip. The firm assembly would absorb the brutal shock against iron plates without passing the vibration to the wrist bones.
The work carried the hand of a master.
I pulled the tip of the raw cloth, revealing the first span of the weapon. The air failed in my throat.
I slid the fabric to the base of the table, stripping the entire blade bare.
The steel shined clean, polished, and lethal under the workshop's light. Fine lines, alternating dark and light tones, flowed through the metal's extension. The folds formed intricate ripples, running from the base to the sharp tip, reproducing stagnant smoke in shallow rivers. The contorted pattern filled every inch of the sword.
I passed the callus of my thick finger over the cold side of the weapon.
"What is this, boy?" I asked. The sound of the anvil faded in the hall. "The design reproduces the waves of Old Valyria. The color and texture of the metal give away a distant origin. The forging diverges."
Arthur Snow narrowed his red, smoke-irritated eyes on the other side of the bench.
[Pov Arthur Snow]
I took back my air. My throat scratched, dry and thick with soot.
"A continuous fold," I said. "A mixture of rigid steel and soft iron. The block is stretched in the heat, cut in the center, and folded over itself dozens of times. The union of the two metals creates the flexibility for the blade not to break on impact and the hardness to sustain the cut."
The Qohorik tilted his face over the bench. His heavy breath fogged a patch of the polished metal.
"The wave pattern is the scar of the folds," I added. The popped blisters at the base of my thumb burned in contact with the air. "The thermal shock of the oil in the cooling darkens the rigid layers and exposes the light iron."
Mott slid the tip of his right thumb over the sword's edge. The movement was slow and light. A thin line of blood sprouted on the thick, calloused skin immediately. The smith stopped, raising his hand and staring at the red running down the contour of his finger.
"You didn't use ancient spells," Mott murmured. His voice sounded hollowed out. "No dragon fire. Pure hammer and temperature control."
"Your people master the melting and reworking of ancient blades," I said, leaning my hip against the edge of the wood. "You depend on the steel that survived the Doom. I brought a primary forge. A method to create lethal blades using only raw material and your anvil."
Silence weighed in the hall. The noise of the fire seemed distant. Mott pressed his wounded thumb against his index finger. The gold rings struck against the bench when he flattened both hands on the table.
"What do you demand for this method, boy?" the smith asked. The tame posture of a merchant vanished.
"Your anvil," I replied. "You will learn the temperatures, the limit of the folds, and the exact time of tempering. In exchange, this steel will forge only for my band. No piece with this design will cross the ebony doors into the hands of the southern lords."
The smith looked at the blade on the table. He pulled a cotton rag from his apron and wrapped the fabric around the cut finger.
"My hammers fold steel for the North," Mott drove his dark pupils into my face. "We have an agreement."
"I have some pending matters in the North to resolve," I said. "When things are ready, a raven will fly to King's Landing with the call."
Tobho Mott nodded, his chin vanishing into his square beard. "The anvil will be waiting."
"The blade stays with you," I said, pushing the forged sword across the bench toward him. "It is the first part of the payment for my mother's debt. The folding method comes later."
Tobho extended his thick hand and squeezed mine. The calluses scratched the leather of my glove.
I crossed the ebony doors and walked down the slope of the Street of Steel. The sun was setting, darkening the alleys. I returned to the inn and went straight up to the room. I turned the key in the lock. Fenrir and Hela rose from the rugs and advanced toward me. The thick smell of soot and sulfur hit the beasts' snouts. The direwolf sneezed, shook his head, and turned around, sinking into the mattress. Hela hissed low and retreated to the corner of the wall.
I filled the wooden tub in the corner of the room. The water cooled fast. I scrubbed the ash soap until the black water washed the dirt from my pores. I stepped out of the tub, put on clean pants, and collapsed on the bed. Exhaustion crushed my consciousness.
I woke up with the daylight crossing the window. I went down to the main hall. Perseus, Kevin, Morghaz, and Belzakar were tearing pieces of bread and pork at a table near the unlit fireplace.
"Grab your equipment," I said, stopping beside the table. "Kingswood. We leave now."
The four wiped their hands and stood up. Fenrir and Hela came down the stairs soon after, sniffing the smell of food in the air. We went to the stables in the back of the inn and saddled the five warhorses Prince Rhaegar had left for the group.
The ride to the borders of the capital was fast. We crossed the city gates and took the Kingsroad heading south. The density of the Kingswood swallowed the horses shortly after noon. The smell of garbage and sewage from King's Landing vanished, replaced by the aroma of damp earth, pines, and decaying leaves.
I pulled my horse's reins. I unfolded Eldric's parchment over the saddle's leather. The map marked general land elevations and the course of a drying stream, but the markings were old.
I dismounted the saddle. I leaned my back against the wide trunk of an ancient oak and closed my eyelids. I breathed deeply, letting the smell of damp earth fill my lungs while forcing my consciousness to sink beyond the limits of my skin.
High above, the cold air currents hit the feathers. My eyes opened above the treetops, divided between the circular flights of Hugin and Munin. The forest stretched below like a sea of green and gray canopies. We glided together. Munin tilted his left wing over a rocky slope covered by dense vines. A thin line of smoke, almost invisible against the afternoon mist, rose from a clearing protected by tall thorn bushes. I counted the heads around the leather tents and identified the shapes of the sentinels perched in the branches of the peripheral ash trees.
I pulled my mind back with a sharp jolt. My eyelids opened. Perseus's boots crackled on the dry leaves beside me.
"They are two miles southwest," I said, standing up and brushing the tree bark off my pants. "Hidden behind the stone wall of the dry stream."
We advanced the last miles on foot, pulling the horses by short reins to reduce the sound of hooves. The woods closed in. I raised my right hand, closing my fist. The group locked their steps.
"Kevin," I called, lowering the tone of my voice. "Climb up and hide among the trees, neutralize the enemies without killing them."
The archer nodded without making a sound. He ran to the nearest oak, drove his boots into the bark's grooves, and vanished into the thick foliage at the top.
"Are we flanking the sentinels?" Perseus whispered, his hand resting on the hilt of his new sword. "Or do we crush both positions from the front?"
I let go of the horse's reins and tied the leather to a tree trunk.
"We are not going to attack," I replied, loosening Truth in its scabbard. "We are going to talk. Keep your blades loose. Their first mistake will be answered with steel."
Perseus furrowed his brow, his fingers squeezing the weapon's leather. Morghaz and Belzakar exchanged a quick look, but nodded.
I walked in front. The wolf and the Shadowcat flanked my legs, their paws sinking into the mud without making a sound. Perseus covered my right flank. Belzakar and Morghaz closed the rear.
The wind hissed through the leaves.
A sharp buzz tore through the air. The steel tip of an arrow brushed my right cheek. The shaft drove deep into the wood of a trunk half a step from my face. The vibration of the bowstring still echoed. The heat of blood ran down my skin.
"Don't you dare take another step." The deep voice descended from a small slope ahead.
Dry leaves crackled. Four figures stepped out from behind the thick bushes and high roots, blocking the path.
The leader occupied the center. A portly, broad-shouldered man with dirt-soiled brown hair and beard. He wore a scratched iron breastplate. The metal displayed the worn paint of a coat of arms: a black winged heart on a gold field, surrounded by a black embattled border. Simon Toyne.
To his right, a man wore thick rags mixed with asymmetrical pieces of rusted armor. His deep, dark eyes bulged in his disfigured face. There were no lips. The absence of flesh exposed his teeth and gums in a constant, sickly expression. The Smiling Knight.
To his left, a massive, fat man breathed heavily, his immense fingers gripping the handle of a warhammer that sank into the mud from its own weight. Big Belly Ben.
Right behind them, a young woman kept a firm posture. Her fair skin contrasted with the forest's dirt. Her green eyes locked onto my chest. A small scar cut across her oval cheekbone. Wenda. The recurve bow in her hands pointed to the ground, with an arrow already nocked on the string.
"If that boot steps in the mud again, the next arrow pierces your eye, boy," Toyne warned, his hand resting on his leather belt. "Do not underestimate Fletcher's aim."
The archer remained camouflaged in the foliage above.
I raised both hands in the air, flattening my empty fingers. The blood from my cheek dripped onto the collar of my black doublet. Fenrir bristled the fur on his neck and released a low growl.
"Do you know why I came?" I asked, my voice flat, without altering the volume.
"The ravens sing on the roads," Wenda replied, pulling the bowstring a few inches. "They say our presence took away the Mad King's sleep."
"The ravens are right," I said. "We were hired by the Crown to put you all down. Let me introduce the hunters. My name is Arthur Snow. Son of the Lord of Winterfell, Rickard Stark." I lowered my right hand, pointing to the side. "This is Perseus. In the back, Morghaz and Belzakar."
Toyne tilted his head to the side. His eyes swept over Perseus's darkened chainmail.
"Son of the Paramount Lord," Toyne repeated. He crossed his arms over his scratched breastplate. "Tell me, boy. Does your father like you enough to pay a ransom's gold?"
"Enough to empty the coffers," I replied, my lips curving into a short smile.
The leather of Perseus's boot crackled in the mud. "Arthur. You forgot a name."
"Ah, my manners," I said, looking back at Simon Toyne. "I apologize. I forgot to introduce Kevin."
The Smiling Knight turned his lipless head, analyzing the empty trees around us. His dirty hand squeezed the hilt of the crooked sword at his waist.
"And where is this Kevin?" the psychopath's voice came out dragged and sibilant, leaking air through exposed teeth.
"Right behind you," I pointed.
The four bandits spun on their heels.
The wind hit the branches. Kevin was crouched on a thick root behind the group. He pressed the smooth blade of a shortsword against the neck artery of a Brotherhood scout. His left hand kept the edge of a dagger forcing a second man's throat against the dirt ground.
"Found these two sleeping on the perimeter," Kevin said, opening a shameless smile. "A pleasure. My name is Kevin. I like women, generous breasts, and those perfectly round asses."
The steel hissed suddenly. Toyne, the Smiling Knight, and Ben drew their swords and hammers in a synchronized movement. Wenda stretched the bowstring to her ear, twirling the arrowhead toward my chest.
"Release Fletcher and Ulmer."
Perseus's hand flew to the hilt of his new sword. Morghaz raised his steel-lined shield.
"Calm your hands," I said, my voice tearing through the noise of the weapons. "If I wanted you dead, Kevin wouldn't be would be introducing himself and Fletcher would already be bleeding from his back in the branches up there. I came to talk to you."
Toyne held the raised steel for long seconds. His broad chest rose and fell beneath the scratched plate. He pressed his lips together and loosened his grip.
"Lower your weapons," his voice sounded harsh.
The others hesitated. The Smiling Knight emitted a hiss through the gap in his teeth, but sank the rusted blade back into its leather scabbard. Wenda lowered the bow. Ben loosened his fingers on the hammer's handle.
"Great. Dialogue flows better without pointed blades," I said, relaxing my shoulder posture.
"I'm all ears," Toyne asked. He narrowed his eyes toward my boots. "What do you want to offer?"
"It's simple. I want you to join my band," I said, advancing my steps in the mud until breaking the distance, stopping an arm's length from the four. "I need capable blades."
Silence weighed beneath the treetops. The wind hit the dry leaves.
"Join you?" Toyne's voice thickened in the back of his throat. He spat on the dirt. "Why would we do that? You're nothing but a starched hunting hound serving a mad king and a lineage of incestuous bastards."
"The Wall or the dirt," I said, my tone flat and low. "Understand your position, Toyne. I only kept the steel in the scabbard because I know your trail. The Brotherhood spared the peasants. Your targets were the gold wagons and the full pantries of the lords. If the villages were bleeding, I would be bagging your heads at this exact moment to roll them at the feet of the one you call mad."
I squeezed my right glove on the dragonbone hilt.
"Do not confuse an offer with clemency. Either you accept, or you march to the perpetual ice of the North."
Toyne's dirty hand returned near his waist. His thumb caressed the iron of his sword's pommel.
"And who is going to drag us to the Wall?" Toyne provoked, his chin raised. "You?"
The friction of leather hissed in the forest. I pulled Truth in a horizontal arc, shifting my body weight onto my right heel. I twisted my wrist, turning the dark edge upward. The flat side of the Valyrian blade cracked against Toyne's right temple. The force of the impact carried through my arm. I did not break the motion. The sword's extension battered the Smiling Knight's ear, clashed against Ben's jaw, and struck dryly on the side of Wenda's forehead in a single fast rotation.
The vibration of steel battering bone and iron tingled the bones of my wrist.
The four stumbled backward. Toyne staggered, his knees bending and sinking into the mud before he managed to lock his boot. The Smiling Knight brought his hands to his ear with a pained hiss. Ben rubbed his fat face. Wenda blinked her red eyes, shaking her dazed head.
I rested the blade on my shoulder.
"If I had used the line of the edge, all four would be on the dirt with a torn neck," I said. "Do not judge my gentleness as weakness, Toyne."
Truth's tip still rested on my shoulder. Hela's thick fur brushed against the short bushes behind Wenda. The shadowcat closed the rear, fangs exposed. Fenrir advanced from the right. The direwolf's claws cracked against the exposed root of an oak, tearing the wood's bark. Perseus, Belzakar, and Morghaz tightened the circle from the left. The mud gave way beneath the hard leather boots.
Toyne blinked hard. The red, swollen mark throbbed on the temple where the steel struck.
"Oswyn Longneck bled on the ground a few moons ago," I continued. "He dragged half the band into the ditch in that last ambush. Six remained. The peasants cleared your tracks on the roads. The spikes of King's Landing remain empty because of the villages' silence, not because of the Brotherhood's strength."
Big Belly Ben's breath whistled through his flattened nose. The Smiling Knight showed his exposed gums. His hand trembled over the hilt of his crooked sword, his eyes jumping from the tip of my steel to Fenrir's massive head.
"The robberies reached the ears of the Red Keep," I said, my tone unaltered. "If my band didn't crush this camp today, the white cloaks of the Kingsguard would clean it up before the next moon. Knights drowning in steel plates, with swords that do not strike with the flat side to spare lives."
I lowered Truth. The metal hissed cutting the wind until the sharp tip stopped half a span from the damp mud.
"I demand service. Your steel will belong to me," I stated. "You keep your necks intact. When the work in the shadows ends, I will return the freedom you seek."