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"What the hell do you want?"
The lead sellsword rode straight up to Leo's group, voice thick with menace. He was speaking the Common Tongue of Westeros—perfectly.
Varyn lost it first. "You've got some nerve! You speak our language and you still can't tell a noble when you see one? Show some damn respect!"
The three sellswords burst out laughing.
The leader threw his head back and roared. "Noble? Which house you supposed to be from, 'my lord'? No banners, no sigils—looks to me like you're just another bunch of frauds."
He spat on the ground. "Even if you really are highborn, you're out here in the Disputed Lands with no colors and no retinue. Far as I'm concerned, you're just like us—washed-up bastards who couldn't cut it back in the Seven Kingdoms and came crawling to Essos for work."
He leaned forward, eyes hard. "So drop the act. In Myr, steel is the only law. We're hunting two runaway slaves for a very important client. Stay out of our way or we'll kill every last one of you and sell what's left at the slave market. You'll fetch a nice price."
"Insolent bastard—" Varyn snarled, hand flying to his sword.
He never got the chance to draw.
A dagger flashed through the air and buried itself dead-center in the lead sellsword's face. The man's head snapped back. He toppled off his horse without a sound, eyes still wide with shock.
Leo had thrown it.
He'd unlocked [Heroic Throw] back at the tourney and had been itching to test it in the real world. The skill turned out to be ridiculous. He could pull a dagger straight from his Collections tab and hurl it with insane accuracy. At this range—five or six yards—it was impossible to miss.
The second sellsword barely had time to blink before Leo's group was on him. Varyn charged first, sword flashing. The man tried to parry but panicked when he realized all seven of them were coming straight at him. Two quick strikes to the chest and he tumbled from the saddle, dead.
The last sellsword spun his horse and bolted downhill, screaming a warning to the rest.
Leo's eyes narrowed. Another dagger left his hand. It punched through the man's backplate and he pitched forward off his mount.
EXP numbers popped up in Leo's vision. Seven, eight hundred each. Not bad for the first real kills since the tourney.
"Kill them all," Leo said, voice flat.
He drew the Grand Marshal's longsword, kicked his horse into a gallop, and led the charge down the slope.
The sellsword captain saw them coming and barked orders—half his men peeled off to intercept while he and two bodyguards raced straight for the caravan wagons. Their goal was obvious: finish the job and claim the bounty on the "escaped slaves."
Leo triggered [Charge]. He blurred forward like a cannonball and crashed into the first sellsword in his path. One clean slash and the man's head rolled. He spun and threw another dagger—second man down before he could even raise his shield.
Varyn and the five loyal men hit the line right behind him. These weren't the same green sellswords from the Kingswood anymore. Good food, better gear, and months fighting under Leo had turned them into something dangerous. They carved through the sellswords like a hot knife through butter.
The hired blades had come for easy coin. Once they saw their friends dropping in seconds they broke. A few tried to fight; most just scattered, running for their lives across the open ground.
Leo felt a flicker of disappointment. He'd been hoping for more EXP.
The sellsword captain and his two men were still frantically searching the wagons, stabbing through canvas and yanking people out by their cloaks. Anyone who wasn't the target got shoved aside—or cut down in frustration.
The caravan master, pale as milk, dropped to his knees when he saw Leo's group riding up. "Don't kill us! Take whatever you want—just spare our lives!"
At that exact moment the curtain on the largest wagon flew open.
A silver-haired boy stepped out, pulling the hood from his head and lowering the scarf that had hidden his face. Sharp, handsome features, violet eyes—Viserys Targaryen. Right beside him stood a terrified silver-haired girl with the same striking purple eyes—Daenerys.
"No need for that," the boy called out, voice steady despite the fear in his eyes. "They're looking for me."