Chapter 84: Surrender
Artos stood there, and the rage in him was not fading. It was not even cooling.
Never had he been so angry, not even in war. It felt as if something had been ripped straight out of his heart and left bleeding in the street. The sight of Seraphine like that — shaken, exposed, vulnerable in a way he had never seen before — sent a deeper kind of fury through him than any battlefield ever had.
Seraphine had always been proud. Strong. Clever. A girl who carried herself like she could weather anything thrown at her. But right now she looked hurt in a way that stripped all that pride away and left only the wound beneath it. Artos swallowed hard, trying to drag his mind back from the edge of violence and force something softer into place. Comfort. Calm. Something human.
He was a warrior, not a priest. That much he knew.
But he was still a man. And not just any man — a man with responsibility for the woman he intended to marry.
"Sera, my love," Artos said at last, his voice rough but trying to stay gentle.
He stepped toward her, then lowered himself to his knees beside her and pulled her into his arms.
Seraphine clung to him at once.
That was what finally broke her. She had been holding herself together through the shock, through the fear, through the shame of being made so helpless in front of so many eyes. But in his arms, with the smell of blood and steel still clinging to him, she could finally let it go. Her tears came in full then, and she cried without restraint.
"Arty... Arty, I..." she tried, but the words failed her.
"Shhh," Artos murmured, holding her tighter. "Don't worry. Just relax. I am here now."
And he stayed like that, silent and unmoving except for the slow, steady pressure of his arms around her, letting her cry into his chest and holding her as if the whole city could burn around them and it would still not matter.
Nearby, the men who had been watching the scene were already seething. They were observing the situation from a distance.
Glaro Sythan stared at the ruin of his plan with hatred so sharp it nearly made him shake.
"Fuck him," he hissed. "Fuck that bastard. Always. Always that son of a whore coming in my way, always between me and my plans."
He was angry and stunned at once, and that made him even more dangerous. He wanted to go himself and crush Hal where he stood, but even Glaro was not foolish enough to throw himself at a man still slick with blood and rage, a man who had just crushed another man's face with his bare hands and knees.
One of his associates exhaled through his nose, trying to stay level. "That plan is gone wrong. There is nothing we can do right this moment. We need to think of something else now."
"Yes," another agreed. "Something stronger. This will damage our stories in the market if we do not recover quickly."
"Then we need something bigger," the first man muttered.
Nearby, a man stood with calm confidence, watching all of this as though it were a lesson he had already seen coming.
Myles Toyne, commander of the Golden Company, did not look bothered. He had seen enough blood to let a little more pass without fear. He was a sellsword commander, and one of the best-known ones at that. Men like him learned to watch panic, not join it.
"Really," he said, almost smiling, "you think you can recover from this?"
Glaro turned on him sharply. "What do you mean? You are a sellsword. Paid not to take a contract from the Valens. What do you know about politics?"
Myles' smile widened a little, but there was no warmth in it. "Be respectful, kid. You will not be very useful after making enough enemies."
Glaro's face darkened.
Myles did not seem to care. He tilted his head, looking toward the street where the slaughter had just taken place. "I may not know politics like you think I should," he said, "but I know fear. I have seen it hundreds of times."
The room went still.
"Look at the people present there," Myles continued. "Will they ever speak openly about the girl, or the Valens, knowing the monster in front of them supports them? They are scared. They saw the brutality. They saw the savagery of that Northern bastard. And they will remember it."
Glaro frowned. "Speak clearly."
Myles gave a low laugh. "My men are here. Your men are nearby and ready. Some of your guards are already bought. We have nearly a thousand men if we move now, while Hal and those Brutes barely number three hundred. We have the advantage. If we intervene right now and kill them all, you will be successful. The public will fear you. They will fear what happens when they stand against the Sythans."
He let that settle.
Fear was never easy to forget. That was what held nobles in power. That was what made houses obey.
Glaro stared at him for a moment, then looked aside, thinking hard.
His associate stepped in quickly. "Let it be, Lord Sythan. The Sealord will not be happy. We are already close to crossing the line. If we do this, we put a target on our backs."
Myles answered before Glaro could. "Yes, but the reward is much higher. The Valens gone, their wealth yours. The Sealord will need money for the coming elections. He will need a lot of it. This is the best time to cross that line."
He was not speaking out of kindness, and not even out of greed alone. The Golden Company had felt the pressure of the Northern Brutes. Good contracts were slipping. Rich clients were choosing the men from the North, the ones who had arrived with reputation, loyalty, and growing influence. In the sellsword world, that meant survival was becoming a question.
Glaro's resentment, his pride, and his hatred of Hal all twisted together until they pushed him toward the worst decision of his life.
"Let's do it," he said.
His associates stared at him.
"But Lord Sythan, this is madness..." one of them began.
Glaro raised a hand. "I know what I am doing. Bring the nearby guards who have been bribed. Mix them with our men. Take Hal under arrest for turning the street into a graveyard. So many murders. So much disorder. Then crush the bastard. It will be a reasonable justification for the Sealord."
Myles Toyne smiled wider. "Now we are talking."
The others still tried to argue, but the momentum had already turned. "This is not right," one said. "The risk is too high."
"High risk," Glaro snapped, "but with little hope if we do nothing. If we kill that bastard, the public will fear us. The merchants will fear us. If we destroy the Valens, we gain power, influence, and gold among the high society of Braavos."
He lifted his chin.
"And we have the backing of the Iron Bank."
The words hit the room like a hammer.
Not the Iron Bank itself, but some of its men and voices to matter. Enough to make the others think twice. In Braavos, that kind of support could bend a city's spine.
The resistance in the room wilted.
"With the backing of the Iron Bank, we can do it," one of the associates said at last, as if the words had dragged themselves out of his mouth.
The rest nodded with the kind of agreement men gave when they were afraid not to.
The guards moved on the plan quickly, helped by the gold they had already taken.
They reached the narrow street where the fight had happened, the place still littered with blood and broken men and the stink of panic that had not yet left the air.
One of the guard captains stepped forward with arrogance written all over his face.
"This is preposterous," he announced.
"Doing this in the middle of Braavos. This is not a battlefield."
He pointed toward the bodies.
"We will have to take you under arrest for this and bring you before the Sealord."
Artos had opened his mouth to answer, but Waymar stepped in first.
He already knew it was best to handle it himself. Artos was still too full of rage to think clearly, and after the Last Hearth incident, Waymar had no intention of letting that happen again. Not here. Not now.
"We acted in self-defense," Waymar said, calm and polite, his voice carrying the careful edge his father had drilled into him. "We are the Northern Brutes. This is Lady Valen, and we protected her. The Sealord will understand that the daughter of one of the city's greatest supporters was put through a traumatic experience. We will come before him ourselves and make our defense. But first, we need to take Lady Valen somewhere safe."
The guards laughed.
"So this is the famous jewel of the Valens," one of them sneered. "The one who ran with the Northerner."
Their laughter rolled over the street like filth.
The guard captain lifted a hand, cold now.
"You may take her to safety, but your commander will need to come with us and surrender himself."
Waymar frowned. "This is ridiculous..."
Artos stood up.
"Waymar, stop."
The words were quiet, but the tone behind them was chilling. Waymar froze instantly. He knew that voice. That edge. He knew it meant the rage was past argument now. There would be no reasoning with it.
Seraphine's hand caught at Artos before he could move.
"Don't go, Arty," she begged. "Please stay with me."
For a moment, even Artos hesitated.
Then he smiled.
It was not a warm smile. Blood still covered him, and on another man it might have looked monstrous, it was looking monstrous to people witnessing this. But to Seraphine, it looked like protection. To his men, it was a signal. They knew that expression. It meant the storm had fully arrived.
"Don't worry," he said softly. "I am here. You stay here, and I will come back."
He looked toward one of his men.
"Protect her."
The former mountain clansman answered at once, his face hard. "With my life, commander."
Artos nodded once.
Then he walked slowly toward the guard captain.
"So you need me," he said, each word measured. "You want me to surrender myself."
The captain straightened, sensing the moment in the wrong way. "It is good that you unders—"
Artos moved faster than anyone saw.
His sword left its place and cut through the guard captain's neck in a single clean motion before the man could finish the sentence. His head dropped and rolled across the stones.
Thud.
Only the sound remained for a heartbeat.
Everything else fell silent.
Then Artos spoke again.
"Why don't you make me then?"
His voice was low.
Cold.
Chilling enough that it sounded less like a threat and more like a sentence being delivered.
And in that moment, the street understood that surrender was no longer on offer.
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