Consciousness slammed back into his body. Breaking free of that crushing terror, William suddenly heard his own roar: "Garlan!"
With a spray of blood, he wrenched the axe from his chestplate and hurled it at the ironborn who was charging after Garlan. The spinning weapon flew true, striking the man in the head. He was flung backward as though struck by a speeding cart, crashing flat onto the ground.
"AHHHH!" William bellowed as he rose. A gaping crack split his breastplate, blood pouring around it. He felt fire raging in his chest, scorching his very soul with a pain so sharp it made him want to tear apart everything before his eyes.
The largest of the ironborn, clearly their leader, gave a savage grin and shouted promises of reward. At once, his men roared in excitement and surged forward. William didn't even think—he swung down hard at the nearest foe. The ironborn raised his round shield, thinking to block and then seize glory with a counterstroke. But the sword's might shattered the shield to splinters, and the blow carried through, nearly cleaving him in two from the shoulder. His final sound in this world was a scream of sheer agony.
Seeing the corpse at his feet eased the burning pain within William—just a little. It steeled him further. He ignored the blades slashing at him, caring nothing for defense. Each step forward brought another sword stroke, and each stroke sent up a fresh spray of blood, reaping another life.
The lesser ironborn faltered, close to breaking, when their leader howled and rushed in, his massive axe gleaming as it loomed larger and larger in William's eyes.
Danger!
His protective absorption magic had already faded; this blow could not be endured. In a heartbeat, William twisted, changing direction at impossible speed, dodging the head-on strike and attacking from the side.
CLANG! His blade smashed against the axe with a resounding crash. The ironborn leader, shockingly swift for his size, had managed to parry the fatal strike.
William's fury only burned hotter. He struck again and again, steel ringing in rapid succession.
The leader staggered back under the relentless assault, his face dark with grim focus. Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined anyone in the Reach could overpower him in both strength and speed. His only hope now was that this mad knight would soon exhaust himself, leaving an opening—or at least a chance to flee.
But William's every strike seemed heavier than the last. There was no faltering. The ironborn's arms numbed, his strength failing. William roared and brought his sword down in another overhead slash. By instinct, the leader raised his axe to block—
This time, William's blade twirled in a flourish, tracing a deadly arc. The longsword curved gracefully, then bit through the wooden haft. In the leader's despairing eyes, the sword cleaved him and his massive weapon into four pieces.
Blood erupted in a crimson rain. William, drenched in it, threw back his head and howled. To the surviving ironborn, he was no longer a man but a demon. Their courage broke. Screaming, they turned and fled. William gave no quarter, chasing them down.
Panic-stricken, the ironborn scattered in all directions. Tireless, William hunted them through the town, cutting down every foe in sight. At last, the few survivors fled the town entirely, desperate to reach their longships and escape this nightmare.
But their hope was in vain. William followed them beyond the town, striking down every figure his eyes found, until he reached the riverbank. Longships sat empty on the shore, and not a single ironborn still lived.
At last he awoke from the frenzy, halting, then dropping weakly to his knees on the bank. One hand gripped his sword, the other braced against the ground, his chest heaving. The backlash of drained spirit power stabbed his skull, spinning the world around him.
He did not know how much time passed before hoofbeats thundered into his ears. A column of riders entered his sight, their banner a golden rose on a field of green. William wanted to laugh, but only managed a twisted grimace. Fighting through the agony wracking his body, he forced himself upright on his sword, pointed back toward the town, and roared: "Find Garlan—Garlan!"
The column wavered, then most of the riders wheeled and galloped toward the town. Two continued forward, dismounted, and approached William. They saw the trail of corpses stretching from the town to the riverbank, and the blood-soaked figure standing like a dark god over the carnage. Awe rose unbidden in their hearts, and they looked at him with a mingling of worship and fear.
"Ser William, we'll take you back to camp. You… you need healing."
—
Lifting the tent flap, the stench of blood rushed out, but Margaery entered without hesitation.
Her eyes first fell upon William's helm, now stained almost entirely red. The gaping-mouthed bat upon it, once comical, seemed to drip with gore, monstrous rather than amusing. His hair beneath was clotted into strands, his handsome face streaked with blood.
Then she saw his armor. She had never imagined a suit of plate could bear so much punishment—slashes from blades, dents from hammers, a vast rift torn across the chest. The sight made her chest tighten.
Yet his eyes still shone with life. When their gazes met, he even managed a smile. That smile pained her heart. She had come intending to scold him bitterly, but now found no words at all.
For a long moment, they simply looked at one another. At last, William broke the silence. "Ser Jon tells me… Garlan's condition isn't too bad."
Ser Jon Rowan, the knight who had commanded the force at Ten mile Town, had stopped by earlier to see William and share word of Garlan.
At the name, Margaery's eyes filled with tears. Her fists clenched as though she wanted to strike someone. "Not too bad? I just saw him. He's still unconscious—no one knows if he'll even survive the infection from his wounds!"
Although everyone was deeply worried about Garlan's condition, William truly felt there was no need for concern. As long as Garlan recovered, nothing else mattered—though without Margaery, it would still be a problem. The experience of awakening Margaery's magic before they set out had convinced him that, as long as he and Margaery worked together, Garlan's injuries were hardly worth mentioning.
"Relax, relax, Margaery, I told you—miracles," William said with a smile, glancing at the three Tyrell girls trailing after her.
Margaery drew a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and loosened her clenched fists before turning to look at the girls behind her. This time, they were very cooperative—first glancing at one another, then letting their lips curl into small smiles. Together they turned and left with light steps, and as she went out, Elinor even made a face at William.
Since returning to camp, William had noticed that nearly everyone's gaze toward him was different from before—everyone's except Margaery's.
Once the girls left, Margaery moved closer and lowered her voice. "Your miracle nearly cost me my brother!" Her tone was quiet, but the anger within made William squirm.
"I didn't expect Garlan to go. If it had only been me—"
Margaery cut him off sharply. "Only you? Ha! Then I'd be speaking to your corpse instead!"
William had no reply. If not for Garlan, he might have been struck down by the ironborn chief's flying axe. And if the Ironborn had struck again while he lost control, his journey in Westeros would have ended right there.
"At least the outcome was decent. Garlan and I are both alive, and we saved many people," William said awkwardly, avoiding her eyes.
"But I don't like this feeling. No one can compare to Garlan in what he means to me."
William looked at her, and before he knew it, asked, "What about me?"
A faint blush touched Margaery's cheeks, but she replied, "Are you foolish, ser? How could you compare yourself to Garlan?"
Then she rose and turned her back to him. "Either way, I don't want to learn magic anymore."
A wave of helplessness washed over William. I just wanted a partner to walk this path of magic with me, someone to learn and grow together with. Why is it so hard? After all the effort I put in—was it all for nothing?
He tried to salvage the situation. "Margaery, magic is only a kind of knowledge, or a craft. It may seem wondrous, but at its core it's no different from martial skills, music, or painting."
"But I think it brings misfortune. I only brushed against it and nearly lost my brother. Why did magic die out? Perhaps that's why it was abandoned."
Her tone was calm, but William could feel the unshakable resolve behind it. He fell silent. After a while, his eyes flicked sideways. "All right. If that's how you feel, I won't force you. But Garlan is still in danger. For his sake, let's cooperate just once more—what do you say?"
Margaery turned back, her expression tinged with curiosity. "I believe you truly have magic now. But why can't you heal Garlan yourself? Why must it be through me?"
"Because everyone has different gifts. It's the same in the world of magic, Margaery." William seized the chance to continue. "My gift lies in battle. I don't have the power to heal others. But your talent is tied to life itself. Do you remember that spell that made the flowers bloom? That must be the same magic your ancestor, Garth Greenhand, once wielded."
Margaery nodded slowly, lost in thought. At that moment, Elinor's voice sounded outside the tent. "Ser Vernon, good day!"
"Lady Elinor, Lady Alla, Lady Megga, good day to you," came Vernon's slightly aged voice.
The tent flap lifted, and the old knight—acting as a makeshift physician—entered with a few servants. He bowed to Margaery, who was standing a few steps from William. "Lady Margaery, good day."
"Good day, Ser Vernon."
"Lady Margaery, we must help Ser William out of his armor to tend to his wounds. Might I ask you to step outside?"
Margaery cast William a complicated glance, then smiled at the old knight. "Of course, ser." She turned and left the tent.