Chapter 14: Smoke Before the Fire
The small courtyard still felt awkward.
Arthur rubbed the sore spot on his lower back and looked at Ena, who was crouched in the corner with her back to him, her ears still red. Somehow, she was the one who had kicked the door open, seen him in the bath, screamed at him, punched him several times, and then acted as if she had been the one wronged by all seven kingdoms. It was a strange kind of justice. Very human. Very stupid.
"I really did not mean for that to happen," Arthur said, for what felt like the hundredth time. "You kicked the door open while I was bathing. I was not exactly waiting there naked as part of some grand trap."
"Shut up," Ena snapped without turning around.
The wooden stick in her hands cracked. A few splinters fell to the ground.
Arthur looked at the broken stick and decided that dignity was less valuable than his bones. He moved closer, crouched beside her, and softened his voice. "Fine. It was my fault. I should not have gone to Sheephead Mountain without telling you. Next time, no matter where I go, I will tell you first and I will not act alone. Is that better?"
Ena's shoulders moved slightly. She did not answer, but she also did not throw the broken stick at his head. Progress, then. Civilization had begun with smaller miracles.
Arthur quickly pressed on before her temper recovered. "I will also give you ten percent of the profit from the bandit raid as an apology."
"Who wants your stinking money?" Ena turned sharply, her eyes a little red, whether from anger or something she would rather stab him than admit. "If you dare leave me behind again, I will... I will..."
"You will what?" Arthur asked, unable to stop himself.
Ena glared at him for a long moment, searching for something suitably terrible. Nothing came. In the end, she gave a fierce huff, turned her face away, and threw the broken stick aside.
Arthur let out a quiet breath. The danger had passed. Probably. With Ena, "passed" often meant "waiting for better aim." He rubbed his lower back again and accepted that this was the price of having someone worry about him. A ridiculous arrangement. Warm, too, which made it worse.
A few days later, the Smoky Wood Tavern was as loud as ever. Ale, smoke, wet wool, and cheap tobacco filled the air, while rumors moved from table to table faster than coin. Arthur sat in his usual corner with a cup of weak ale, looking calm enough to be ignored. That was useful. Men rarely watched the quiet man drinking slowly in the corner. They watched the drunk, the loud, the rich, and the fool with a pretty knife. Arthur preferred being none of those.
"Have you heard?" a man whispered at the next table, though badly enough that half the tavern could hear him. "Bran Stark fell from the old tower."
"The abandoned one on the west side of the castle?"
"That one. They say he is barely alive. Maester Luwin has not left his side. Some say the boy will not last the night."
"Gods. A child like that. Was it an accident?"
"What accident? I heard servants whisper he was pushed. Keep your voice low, unless you want House Stark to take your tongue."
Arthur's hand paused on his cup.
Bran. A fall from a tower. Vague memories shifted in his mind like shapes beneath ice. He had known something like this was supposed to happen, but the timing had blurred after transmigration, battles, coin, and all the petty cruelties of surviving day to day. In the story he remembered, Bran's fall was no accident. It was a secret trying to protect itself with murder.
At another table, a different rumor had already begun to rot in the air. "There is more trouble in town. Barro is at odds with One-Eyed Kettle. They say Kettle seized a batch of fine furs Barro meant to ship to White Harbor, and now the bastard refuses to admit it."
"With Barro's temper, he will not let that pass."
"He might have to. Kettle has Bolton backing from the Dreadfort, and Barro has Manderly friends in White Harbor. When great houses start pushing each other, small men should stand far away unless they want blood on their shoes."
Arthur set down his cup.
His eyes cooled.
Bolton and Manderly. That was not a tavern quarrel. That was a pit with banners around it. The Battanian Rangers had grown, but not enough to step between northern powers and pretend iron would solve everything. Steel was useful. Stupidity was not. If Barro wanted to wrestle with a Bolton-backed brute over furs, Arthur would need payment, proof, and a very good reason not to walk away.
He settled his tab and asked the tavern keeper about the price of grain, salted meat, arrows, and cart repairs before leaving. If they were going south soon, he needed numbers more than rumors. Rumors killed men by making them curious. Numbers at least had the decency to be cruel honestly.
Ena waited near the street corner, leaning against a wall with her hood up. When he stepped outside, she followed him without a word, keeping half a step behind. She had forgiven him enough to remain close, but not enough to make it easy. Apparently that was mercy.
"You heard?" Arthur asked quietly.
"Bran Stark, the fire of rumors, or Barro's new trouble?"
"All of it."
Ena's gaze shifted toward the opposite alley. "Kettle's men are watching Barro's shop. They have been there since morning. Looks like they want more trouble."
Arthur followed her eyes and saw several hard-looking men near the alley mouth, pretending to loiter while watching Barro's general store. Too thick in the shoulders, too still in the eyes. Men waiting for violence always looked bored until they were not.
"It has nothing to do with us," Arthur said.
"For now?"
"For now," he admitted.
Back at their temporary base, Arthur opened the system panel. The Sheephead Mountain mission was already marked complete, its reward received, the soldier advancements active. Below it, smaller commissions waited: helping Old Harth transport tools, gathering herbs for merchants, assisting the local guards in finding missing hunting dogs. The rewards were pitiful. Enough to keep the company fed, perhaps, but not enough to grow.
Wintertown had given him what it could. A name. Coin. First blood. Men who had survived battle. Local trust. But the pond was now too small for what he needed. Small commissions would not carry the Battanian Rangers into the coming chaos. He needed larger roads, richer contracts, more dangerous clients, and a place where gold and murder gathered in equal measure.
His eyes moved to the southern end of the system map.
King's Landing.
The capital of the Seven Kingdoms. The royal court. The center of the vortex. A city where men sold honor by the pound and called it politics. Gold flowed there, and so did blood. If Arthur wanted to grow beyond a northern sellsword captain with a strange company, that was where he needed to go.
He finalized the thought that night.
Then the sky over Winterfell burned red.
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