Bent low over his galloping horse, William glimpsed through the slit of his helm five ironborn, raggedly wrapped in mismatched clothes and armor. They paid no heed to the lone rider, brandishing their gleaming axes with savage grins. But just as they were about to hack the knight into pieces, they saw him suddenly leap from the saddle, swooping down like a hawk. The smiles of the two men at the front froze in place.
With a thunderous crash, William and the two foremost ironborn tumbled together. Prepared for this, William rolled to his feet in one motion, while the unlucky pair writhed helplessly in a pool of blood.
Before the others could react, William lunged at the nearest ironborn and swung his sword. Steel bit, blood spurted, and the man's ferocity melted into terror before he collapsed lifeless to the ground. By then William was already locked in battle with the remaining two.
He did not dodge nor flinch. The great axes thudded against his body—clang! clang! His heavy cavalry armor cracked under the blows, but the strikes did no more. His powerful frame absorbed the impact without so much as a stagger. With practiced, steady motions drilled a thousand times, William swung twice more. The ragged bits of armor draped over his foes were no defense against his blade. With two screams, two more corpses fell before him.
The feeling of killing really is a bit sickening.
William swallowed hard, his mouth full of blood's copper tang. Blankly, he looked at the corpses scattered about, then gave his sword a small flick, spraying crimson droplets across the ground. This was Westeros, where life was as cheap as grass. From lowly peddlers to high lords, who did not die at a word, sometimes by the dozens? Yet William did not want to die. He had long realized that whether he liked it or not, his hands would inevitably be stained with blood. Still, he had limits. He could not bring himself to practice the art of killing on the innocent. So when he heard of bandits in Ten Mile Town, the thought of slaughter stirred in him; Margaery's request merely tipped the scales.
Even so, to see living beings perish in his hands for the first time left him with an indescribable feeling. But the town's towering flames and shrill screams greatly eased his guilt. If he had a choice, he would always prefer such circumstances: though some died, others would live because of it.
These men commit every crime imaginable. Their deaths are deserved. What I've done is justice!
Steeling himself, William surveyed Ten Mile Town. It was fairly large, with more than one street and houses two or three stories high. Once a prosperous place, now it lay in chaos, thick smoke billowing from every corner. The ironborn busied themselves with plunder, murder, and arson. After cutting down five sentries at the town's entrance, William had stood there for several minutes, steadying his nerves. Yet no other ironborn had come.
Even while looting, they kept men outside on watch. This band must have a strong leader, William thought, weighing his next move. If I'm surrounded by an organized force, that could be trouble. But if it leads me straight to their leader, so much the better. A quick strike to sever the head—then the rest will scatter. Less work for me.
He regretted, suddenly, killing those sentries too swiftly, without giving them the chance to sound an alarm. Perhaps they had some way to warn others. He had not dared to search the bodies. Clearly, I've still a long way to go.
Step by step, he decided. From the gate he could not see what lay within, nor could he devise tactics. So he simply advanced. His pace was unhurried, but whenever he came across ironborn in twos or threes committing their vile deeds, he became swift as lightning. He rushed in swinging, taking no guard, trading blow for blow, each strike ending a life. Soon no fewer than twenty had fallen to his merciless blade. Along the way he saved dozens of townsfolk—mostly women, some hidden in cellars or secret rooms. Each time, he directed them toward the temporary camp.
At last he came upon a large house. Suddenly, more than a dozen ironborn burst out from every side, surrounding him in the street.
"So they've finally noticed. Their reaction really is slow," William muttered, shifting into a defensive stance. He chose to wait, to strike second. But the men, wary of his ferocity, held back despite their numbers.
The standoff dragged. William smiled. "Not coming? Then I'll take a little rest." He let his guard relax, spreading his hands, his greatsword dangling idly to the ground.
"Ahhh!!!" A hulking brute with a face full of scars finally broke, charging forward with his huge axe. His cry spurred the rest into a roaring rush.
Then let me grant your wish! William wasted no more thought. He lunged at the leader, and when steel met steel, the man actually braced his axe sideways in a guard.
William, poised to kill with abandon, had not expected that this brutish ironborn would show such caution. Coward! he sneered, lips curling in disdain. With a sudden burst of strength he lunged, shifting his stance in a blur. In the man's stunned gaze, William turned his body from head-on to sideways. As they brushed past each other, his longsword swept upward, tearing a gaping wound across the man's chest and belly. Without pausing, he spun smoothly and drove his blade clean through another ironborn's back. He didn't spare a glance at the two falling corpses before he launched himself at the next nearest foe.
His effortless slaughter of two men drained the ironborn's courage. Their faces twisted in dread, and whenever William pressed forward, they stumbled back. He tired of chasing them, turned to another, only for that one too to retreat in haste. Yet none fled outright—they simply scattered when he advanced, then regrouped around him. These half-fighting, half-fleeing men were vexing. Though powerless against him, they clung like leeches, keeping him from saving others.
The stalemate dragged them to a crossroads. Suddenly, three well-armed warriors burst from a side street, charging the ironborn from behind. Four or five fell at once in a storm of blades, their screams filling the air. William seized the moment, joining the fray. His sword struck true with every blow, and in the space of breaths the four fighters together annihilated the band.
Pushing up his visor, William beheld flowing brown hair and a handsome face. Joy and surprise lit his voice. "Garlan, what are you doing here?"
Garlan's eyes brimmed with reproach. "William, courage is not recklessness. Seeking glory is not seeking death! Your decision was far too rash."
"Don't be so tense, Garlan. Look—I'm fine, aren't I?" William answered with a grin, though his heart was deeply moved. He had magic. Even in this den of dragons, he had confidence to escape unscathed. At best, that was daring, hardly bravery. But Garlan had truly risked his life to come after him. Such loyalty—how could he ever repay it?
Garlan said no more. On his way he had encountered some of those William had rescued. They had survived only because this young man had thrown himself into danger without hesitation—a duty that rightly should have been the burden of knights of Highgarden.
But before they could speak further, a new thunder of boots echoed from another street, dozens strong. Garlan clapped William's shoulder. "Quickly! Ser Jon waits outside with men to cover us."
Were he alone, William would not have feared. But in a melee he could not protect others. If Garlan were hurt—or worse—the guilt would be unbearable. He yielded, running with the others.
Then a sudden chill seized his heart. Danger! Instinct drove him to shove Garlan aside. Staggering, Garlan barely kept his balance—just in time to see William turn toward the oncoming street. A massive axe whistled past Garlan's face, the wind of its swing stinging his cheek. A heartbeat later, crunch! The blade smashed into William's breastplate, driving him hard to the ground with crushing force.
In the instant his protective magic shattered beneath the blow, death's terror clutched his heart. Cold swallowed him whole. All turned void—no sound, no sensation, no thought, no control of his body.
He saw Garlan's lips moving desperately, calling out—but he could not hear, nor wished to reply.
He felt Garlan trying to drag him to safety. He was numb, unwilling to help.
Then the ironborn closed in. A giant, taller than Garlan by a head, swung an axe larger than any William had ever seen, bringing it down to cleave him.
Garlan fought fiercely; even that massive brute could not bring him down.
Chaos reigned.
Garlan and his squires fought as one, disciplined and steady, covering each other's flanks. Though outnumbered tenfold, the ironborn could not overcome them, and several fell instead. But when some turned their blades upon William's prone form, Garlan strained to shield him, their formation faltered. Still he would not abandon William. They bled. One squire fell. Then another. At last an axe struck Garlan's back.
He collapsed. As he fell, he looked toward William, and in his eyes lingered a deep, aching apology.
No, Garlan… it is I who should be sorry…