Morghaz picked up a round shield of raw oak and the blunt spear. The mercenary's heavy boot sank into the sand of the training yard.
Oberyn advanced first. The Dornishman moved in circles, his light steps kicking up gray dust as he measured his opponent's guard with a wide smile tearing across his face.
"The Good Masters of Astapor cut off your cock and your balls, but left the wooden shaft in your hand," Oberyn said, spinning the ash tip in front of his chest. "What a tragedy. In Dorne, we know a man's true spear is the one he houses between his thighs. Tell me, soldier... what does a eunuch fight for when his blood doesn't boil for a woman or a man? You are just a hollow piece of meat waiting for the gravedigger's dog."
Morghaz rested the ash handle on his shoulder and spat a thick wad of phlegm into the dust. The years marching as a free man on the Northern roads had buried the blind silence of Astapor.
"For fat meat, cold ale, and the will of Arthur Snow, prince," the former Unsullied answered, deepening his rough voice as he adjusted his grip on the sweaty shaft. "And without balls between my legs, I don't waste coin in a brothel, I don't wake up with a whore robbing me, and I don't have a troop of bastards crying at my feet."
Oberyn stopped in the middle of the sand. His mouth opened for an instant at the dry strike coming from a man forged in the Plaza of Pride. Then the Dornishman threw his head back and let out a loud, tearing laugh.
"An irrefutable argument," Oberyn said, laughing as he returned to his guard. "Let's see if your shield is as hard as your tongue."
The Dornishman darted across the sand. The spear sought the right knee, rose in a quick blur toward the neck, and cracked against the oak edge. Before Morghaz could push the wood, the prince used the recoil of the impact to spin his body and deliver a dry whip with the shaft against the mercenary's unprotected thigh.
The blow cracked loud against the flesh. A common knight would have limped from the muscle contusion, but Morghaz did not even blink. He kept his base fixed in the dirt and thrust the blunt tip straight at the Dornishman's chest.
Oberyn twisted his torso at the last instant, letting the wood scrape the fabric of his orange doublet, and stepped back two paces to engage a continuous offensive.
The ash tip seemed to sweep three places at the same time. He peppered the high guard, kicked sand toward Morghaz's eyes, and struck beneath the shield.
Morghaz blocked the first four impacts firmly, letting splinters fly from the oak with each clash. On the fifth strike, Oberyn sliced through the defense line, and the ash shaft hit heavy against the giant's shoulder, tearing the leather and breaking the skin underneath. Dark blood welled up, running down his calloused arm.
Oberyn tried to use the wound to slip past the guard, expecting the instinctive flinch of pain, but the reflex never came. Morghaz ignored the blood running down his arm. He dug his heel into the sand, took a direct thrust to the chest that dented his boiled leather, and shoved the shield brutally forward, using his entire body mass as a battering ram.
Oberyn was thrown backward and rolled in the dust to avoid being run over, rising nimbly with sand clinging to the sweat on his forehead.
When Oberyn attempted a double feint to strike the ankle, Morghaz stepped into the weapon's reach. He took the ash shaft against his abdomen and brought the bottom edge of the oak shield straight down onto the prince's left wrist.
The bone cracked loud. The pain made Oberyn's grip loosen for a fraction of a second. Morghaz dropped his own shield in the sand, grabbed the shaft of the Dornish spear with his free hand, and pulled the prince violently close, kicking Oberyn's standing leg in the same instant.
Both hit their backs on the heavy sand.
The dust took a while to settle. Morghaz pinned the tip of his own blunt spear against Oberyn's windpipe, while the prince's hand rested loose on the ground, holding a wooden training dagger a finger's width from Morghaz's groin.
Silence in the yard. Only the sound of heavy breaths pulling in the dirty air.
Oberyn coughed in the dust and tossed the wooden dagger aside with a tired smile.
"Cracked my wrist," the Dornishman said, his voice coming out hoarse as he tried to catch his breath.
Morghaz pulled the spear from his neck and took a step back, wiping the sweat from his forehead with his forearm.
"Dented the rib," the mercenary replied, extending a calloused palm to help the prince up.
Oberyn grabbed the former Unsullied's arm and hauled himself up with effort, dusting the sand off his trousers.
Rhaegar watched from the limestone step, keeping his arms crossed beside Ser Arthur Dayne.
Oberyn walked toward us, limping slightly while massaging his swollen wrist with his good hand's fingers.
"The gold of Dorne goes down to your ships today," the Dornishman said, wiping the sand from his chin with the back of his good hand.
"I don't want your gold, Oberyn," I answered, loosening one of the buckles on my scratched leather breastplate. "If the prince truly wants to compensate my man's effort, your friendship is enough."
Oberyn shifted his weight to his good leg. The pain tugged at the corner of his mouth, but his dark eyes remained fixed on me.
"A dangerous bargain, Snow," Oberyn said, his tone drawn out and loaded with amusement. "Dorne always welcomes its friends well. The doors of Sunspear will be open to you and your troop. And if the ice of the North tires your bones, know that my bed is spacious enough to accommodate a wolf."
Elia Martell contained a laugh and stepped forward.
"I apologize for Oberyn's lack of manners, Arthur," Elia said, offering a cordial nod as she adjusted the drape of the orange silk on her arm. "The blood in Dorne is too hot for the court, and we carry this lustful temper wherever we go."
She turned her face toward Ashara Dayne. Her friend's cheeks gained a light tint, and her violet eyes fled to the floor.
I finished unbuckling the leather breastplate to relieve the weight on my back.
"I appreciate the invitation, prince," I replied, crossing my arms. "But if I bring all this Dornish fire to the North, the snow will melt and we'll lose our only natural defense against the Southerners."
Oberyn's laughter echoed off the limestone walls. Elia laughed along, and Ashara covered her lips with her fingers. Behind them, Rhaegar and Ser Arthur Dayne exchanged a look before giving in to the laughter.
Oberyn picked up the spear from the ground with his good hand and threw it toward Belzakar. The other former Unsullied caught the wood in midair without changing his expression.
"The second fight is for when I can close my hand," Oberyn said, massaging his swollen wrist.
Belzakar spun the spear once and returned it to the rack.
"I will wait," he answered.
Kevin pushed off the yard wall and cracked his neck with a dry snap.
"The smell of sweat made me hungry," the archer grumbled, adjusting the quiver on his back before gesturing with his chin to the others.
He, Morghaz, and Belzakar marched toward the fortress kitchens.
Rhaegar stepped down the last stair and gripped my arm. His gaze traced the contrast of my tied-back hair, half dark and half white, and stopped on the violet of my left eye. The prince's hand loosened for an instant, as if some ancient trait had appeared before him and escaped before receiving a name.
"I owe you a blood debt for bringing Dark Sister back to my House," Rhaegar said, his voice sounding warm and friendly before taking on a more urgent, hushed tone. "I hope we can drink together in brighter days, Arthur. But for now, take your men and leave King's Landing before nightfall. The king is consumed by paranoia, and Varys has ears in every stone of this castle."
I nodded once, making the strap of my breastplate creak with the movement.
Elia Martell adjusted the orange silk of her dress.
"You have proven yourself a rare man in this city, Arthur Snow," Elia said, holding Oberyn's arm to help his step. "May the gods protect your path. If you ever tire of the ice, you will always have a roof and wine in the gardens of Sunspear."
Arthur Dayne crossed the distance between us and extended his arm covered in white enameled plates. Even being tall, he had to lift his chin slightly to face me.
"May your blade remain swift, Snow," Ser Arthur Dayne said. "You are even larger up close. Mind your intentions from now on. If you toy with my sister and hurt her, I'll forget today's draw and march North to tear off your head."
"I take very good care of what I learn to value, Ser Arthur," I replied, slapping my hand right onto the Dornishman's forearm in a firm grip that made the leather crack loud.
The royal retinue climbed the stone stairs and disappeared into the gallery's shadows. The wind blowing from Blackwater Bay kicked up gray sand and swept the yard's floorboards.
Only Ashara and I remained.
She shrugged her shoulders under the silk shawl and walked slowly, stopping close enough for the lavender oil to overpower the sea breeze. Ashara looked directly into my eyes, lingering on the violet of the left before meeting the gray of the right.
"My brother always keeps the promises he makes, Snow," Ashara warned, her violet eyes tracking the movement of my hands as I tore off the right glove with my teeth. "I would be careful if I were you."
I spat the sweaty leather into the palm of my hand and dusted it off on the side of my thigh.
"I handle straightforward swords better than the intrigues of this court, my lady," I answered, freeing my fingers in the fresh air. "The real danger for a man is distraction."
"And do you get distracted easily, Arthur?" Ashara asked, lowering her eyes to my scratched leather breastplate before looking back up at my face with a challenging smile.
The answer died on my tongue for a moment. Ashara noticed. The corner of her mouth lifted.
"Only when the view is worth the risk," I replied, recovering my voice.
Ashara slipped her fingers into the fold of her dress and untied a narrow ribbon of lilac silk.
"They say the Northern snow freezes the blood and erases the memories of travelers," she commented, sliding the soft fabric directly over the thick calluses of my open hand. "Take a piece of the South in your luggage. To ensure you won't forget your adventure through our lands anytime soon."
I closed my fingers over the fine silk, feeling the contrast of the material against the rough skin, and tucked the ribbon into the leather pouch attached to Truth's belt.
"Ice preserves memory very well, Ashara," I assured her, closing the last fraction of space between us. "And I never forget the adventures that are worth it."
She raised her chin. Her breath touched my skin, and her warm lips brushed my jawline, too close to the corner of my mouth.
She pulled her face away slowly, turned her back, and climbed the limestone steps. The silk followed the sway of her hips until it disappeared at the top of the stairs.
I went up to the guest wing of the Red Keep and pushed open the heavy oak door of the room.
Morghaz was chewing a piece of dark meat leaning against the wall, holding a skin of ale by its strap. Kevin adjusted the tension of his bowstring near the high window, while Perseus locked the steel buckles of the leather trunk in the center of the Persian rug.
The archer pulled the sinew string to his chin and eased the tension, shooting a sidelong glance in my direction as soon as I entered.
"Took a long time down there," Kevin remarked, an insolent smile marking his face as he leaned the bow against the wall. "Did the noble from Starfall lose her way to her chambers again, or were you too busy admiring the court's view?"
I crossed the room and pulled out a polished wooden chair. I undid the binding of my black and white hair, letting it fall loose over my shoulders now that the training was over, as I liked to keep it free for everything else.
"We were discussing the distance to the North," I replied, tossing my sweaty glove onto the table.
"The distance," Kevin repeated, feigning surprise as he grabbed an apple from the silver fruit bowl untouched by the lords. "Violet eyes that size, a dress that outlines everything when the wind hits... and the boss is focused on discussing geography. A man could endure the whole winter on the Wall remembering that Southern heat."
Morghaz tore off a chunk of meat with his teeth and let out a harsh laugh with his mouth full. Perseus shook his head in silence, tightening the trunk's last strap.
I leaned back in the chair and crossed my arms over my scratched leather breastplate.
"You talk a lot about heat and women for an archer, Kevin," I pointed out. "You spent the whole journey passing out crooked smiles to every maid from the Kingsroad to King's Landing. In all these years, I've only ever seen you sleep hugging that curved piece of wood."
Morghaz's laugh echoed loudly this time, making the mercenary truly choke on the ale and beat his own chest to clear his throat. Perseus let out a short laugh through his nose and stood up from the floor, dusting off the knees of his trousers.
Kevin froze with the apple inches from his mouth. His smile wilted for a second before he bit into the fruit hard.
"I am a man of high standards," the archer defended himself, chewing with his mouth open while pointing the bitten apple my way. "Perfection takes time to find. And my bow never complains when I pull the blanket or turn to the other side of the bed."
"At least your bow hits a target once in a while," I replied, ending the joke by pushing the chair back.
I stood up and grabbed my dark wool cloak hanging on the iron hook on the wall. Morghaz swallowed the rest of the meat in two brutal bites.
"Finish chewing on the way," I ordered, tossing the cloak over my shoulders and adjusting Truth's weight on my belt. "Grab the trunks and the weapons. We're going down to the inn to collect the rest of our things and see how Fenrir and Hela are handling all that commotion. Then, straight to the docks."
I walked out through the iron gates of the Red Keep and headed down toward the lower city. The smell of fish, sewage, and woodsmoke replaced the castle air. I pushed open the worn wooden door of the rustic inn where we had left the mounts.
A black shape leapt from the shadows before the wood stopped creaking. Fenrir rested his heavy paws on my breastplate and let out a deep growl. I patted the direwolf's head and thick fur. Near the unlit hearth, a black shadow glided silently across the old floorboards. Hela meowed hoarsely. The shadowcat rubbed her flanks against my boots and lightly dug her long claws into the leather of my trousers.
Eldric was tightening the knots of a heavy canvas sack on a table. His longsword rested nearby.
"The Mad King didn't cut your head off," Eldric said, crossing his arms. "And the little birds on the docks are already singing that the Northerner turned the purple-eyed lady's head. Too fast for someone who lives buried in the snow."
"Keep your tongue focused on your trip to the Westerlands," I countered, dropping the belt with my coin pouch onto the wooden table. "I still remember the day Rhoslyn dropped you in the mud during our short sword drills. You were so busy admiring her smile that you got swept off your feet and nearly broke your nose on the ground. The girl grew up next to us, shared the same campfire and the same blood in the yards, and you still stutter when you get two steps near her."
The blood rushed up Eldric's neck instantly. The tips of the Northerner's ears turned red. He cleared his throat loudly, avoided my gaze, and hastily grabbed the bag's ropes.
"I have unfinished business to sort out in those lands," Eldric muttered, adjusting the sack's weight on his back. "And I don't stutter anymore."
I leaned over the table as he tried to pack up too quickly.
"Don't stutter?" I teased. "Then tell me what happened between you two on the road after we left the Dreadfort and the group split up before meeting me here in the South. The last time I saw Rhoslyn waving goodbye to our caravan, she was in an excellent mood. Ever since, you look over your shoulder like someone expecting a knife."
Eldric pulled the canvas knot until his fingers turned white.
"Leave Rhoslyn out of this," he cut in. "Aerys spent the whole night screaming at the pyromancers. The man is losing whatever is left of his mind, Arthur."
My fingers stopped on the table. Aerys's name drained the room of any amusement.
"Before you take the road West, drop more of that gold into our contacts' hands," I said, leaning on the table as he finished packing. "I want our people mapping every hole in the Red Keep. Fake passages, servant tunnels, blind stairs... everything. It's behind the stones that we'll hear what the lords won't say at the table."
"The coins are already in the right hands," Eldric answered, pulling the canvas knot tight. "The people know where to dig without making noise. If the eunuch tries to pull anything on us, we'll be the first to know."
"Just warn everyone to keep a loose knife in their sheaths," I warned, looking at him seriously. "That castle is infested with spies doing the exact same job in the dark. Aerys is hanging by a thread and Varys just keeps stoking the fire. If the name of the North leaves that madman's mouth behind a closed door, I need to know before the first raven leaves the cage."
"Leave it to me," Eldric said, slinging the canvas sack over his shoulder. The Northerner grabbed the longsword scabbard off the table and hooked it to his leather belt in a swift, practical motion.
"The lions of the West bite hard, Eldric," I said, stopping near the door. "Don't trust anyone's smile in those lands."
"I grew up with the wolves, boss," Eldric answered. "I know how to spot when a beast wants to bite."
I extended my right arm. Eldric gripped my forearm hard. The leather of our gloves scraped loudly. The grip lingered before our hands let go.
"Safe travels, brother," I said.
"Good return to the North," he replied.
Eldric let go of my arm, walked past me, and marched toward the stables at the back of the inn. Less than a minute later, the sound of his horse's hooves clattering on the street stones echoed through the alleys, fading into the fog of King's Landing.
I called Fenrir and Hela with a dry click of my tongue and headed back out to the main street. Kevin, Morghaz, and Perseus were already waiting with the pack animals. Without looking back, we led our march through the alleys of the lower city toward the western docks. The morning mist still clung to the cobblestones, mixing the smell of salted fish with hearth smoke.
The merchant carrack bobbed in the dark water. Davos sat on a barrel near the boarding ramp, stitching a tear in a thick net with a bone needle.
Hearing the weight of our boots and the scrape of the wolf's claws on the dock boards, he looked up. He set the needle aside and walked over to the rail.
"Lord Snow," Davos said, assessing the armed group at my back. "You returned."
"I returned," I replied, stopping two paces from the damp wood. "Forgive the delay. Unforeseen events kept me in the city longer than I expected."
"Happens to any man who sets foot in King's Landing," Davos commented. His brown eyes quickly appraised the mercenaries' sheathed weapons before returning to me.
I approached the vessel, resting my leather glove on the mooring post.
"What was the answer, Davos?" I asked. "Do Marya and Dale agree to leave the capital to start over in the North?"
Davos watched the dark water lapping against the hull.
"I spoke with Marya last night," the sailor said, scratching his short beard. "She knows these streets well. She knows Flea Bottom offers no future for a boy. Dale deserves to grow up in a place where he can run without having to flee from thieves before he learns to write."
He took a deep breath. The cold air came out white from his mouth. "She agreed. If the promise holds, we will go."
I nodded once, keeping my posture straight. "My word remains the same."
Davos rested both calloused hands on the rail, leaning his body slightly forward. "There is one condition, my lord."
I raised my chin, waiting for him to finish.
"I refuse charity," the smuggler declared, holding my gaze without blinking. "I refuse land given out of pity or a roof raised by a lord just to be generous. If Marya and Dale are to live under the protection of Winterfell, I want to earn it with my work."
He rapped his knuckles on the wood of his own ship.
"I've spent my entire life securing food with these hands. Often in the shadows. I won't trade Flea Bottom for dependency on a castle," Davos finished, his voice firm.
I remained silent, crossing my arms over my leather breastplate.
"Give me a trade," Davos asked, gripping his fingers against the salty rail. "A ship to steer. A cargo to transport. Some dock to unload at. A job that makes me a useful man. I want to look at my children when they grow up and state that the wood of their house was bought with their father's sweat."
The wind blew between the masts. The thick ropes creaked against the carrack. Davos kept his shoulders tense and his feet planted on the deck floor, waiting for the answer.