In the dim low wooden shed Ethan sat motionless on the narrow bed where Jimmy had once slept quietly wiping the blade of his longsword with slow deliberate strokes. He said nothing.
A heavy oppressive silence filled the small space.
Albert tried several times to speak—to find some topic to chat about with his prospective new master to build a little rapport—but Ethan always brushed him off with the same quiet excuse: "I'm resting my strength."
Eventually Albert fell silent too.
A boy's nature however made prolonged quiet difficult. Once his initial fear eased he began picking up small stones from the dirt floor amusing himself by stacking and knocking them over.
Ethan didn't stop him. As long as the child stayed inside the shack he let him occupy himself however he wanted.
In that wordless waiting the sun sank behind the western hills along the White Knife River. Thick night rolled over the outer harbor.
Ethan glanced at the darkening sky through the broken window frame.
He stood rose slowly strapped on his breastplate cinched it tight covered it with his outer cloak and slung "Sea Serpent Strike" across his back.
Then in a low voice he said:
"Let's go child."
"Yes Master!"
Albert dropped the stick he'd been playing with pushed open the rickety door with excitement and led Ethan out of the deserted corner toward the outer harbor docks.
When they reached the waterfront Albert pointed toward a noisy two-story building and whispered:
"Master—that's the Longfish Gang's gambling den. At this hour everyone including the boss is inside."
Ethan placed a gentle hand on the boy's shoulder.
"Go home now. No matter who asks say you haven't seen me."
He flicked two silver stags into Albert's small palm.
Then without another word he turned and strode toward the gambling house.
"Sea Serpent Strike" was perfectly suited to places like this—enclosed yet with enough room to swing its full length.
Ethan could feel the longsword trembling faintly against his back almost humming with anticipation. It was starving for flesh and blood.
The outer harbor docks were where merchant vessels bound for White Harbor moored and discharged cargo.
A dense concentration of stevedores sailors cheap eateries low taverns small brothels and gambling dens clustered here serving men who risked their lives for wages and then squandered every coin on fleeting pleasures.
The Longfish Gang—as one of the more "enterprising" groups entrenched in the docks—naturally took full advantage of this steady stream of disposable income.
The tavern called "Fish Horn"—which doubled as their main gambling operation—was one of their own properties.
After finishing their daytime "collections" the gang's core members usually gathered on the second floor of Fish Horn.
First to report to the boss and collect their cut.
Second to enjoy a few hands at their own tables—and incidentally keep an eye out for troublemakers who might get too rowdy.
The Longfish boss "Big Mouth" Rad was currently lounging on the second floor listening to the usual litany of reports:
So-and-so from their crew had a run-in with another gang… someone's tendon got cut during a debt collection… the same tired stories every night.
Rad didn't particularly want to hear them but he couldn't ignore them either. It was part of being the boss.
Even if he made no decisions simply occupying that gaudily carved armchair sent a clear message to everyone: this little gang was still under his control.
For him that mattered.
"By the way—didn't Big Joey hook a big fish yesterday? How'd it go?"
Rad asked suddenly.
His lieutenants exchanged glances. No one had an answer.
After an awkward silence a curly-haired youth ventured:
"Boss… didn't you send them out to make inquiries yesterday?"
"Did I?"
Rad rubbed his temples trying to remember through the haze of last night's wine.
Yesterday he'd been summoned to the inner city and dressed down by his own superior Ser Gadley.
Afterward he'd drowned his frustration in drink.
When word came about some out-of-towner flashing coin on Silversmith Street he'd impulsively dragged Big Joey along to the brat who'd guided the mark there.
He remembered roughing the kid up a little too much.
Too rough perhaps… but what could he do?
The little bastard had dared refuse him.
Didn't the boy know who he was dealing with?
Didn't he understand that a boss's dignity was worth more than a child's life?
How dare he!
Even though the kid had provoked him first Rad now felt a faint twinge of regret. After all—it was only a child.
Tomorrow he'd send one of the boys with a couple of fresh fish as apology. Once the kid recovered he could bring him into the fold—give him some small job as compensation.
But that was tomorrow's problem.
Tonight after wrapping up business he needed to find a girl and blow off steam.
As for whether the boy would survive the next few days?
May the Seven watch over him.
Rad was just about to wave someone over to fetch two girls when a panicked scream erupted from the ground-floor common room.
One of his men stumbled up the stairs shouting:
"Boss—boss—someone's making trouble! Jamie and Dorian are dead! Ahhh—!"
Before he finished a steel point suddenly punched through the loyal henchman's chest.
The man reached feebly for the cold metal—but the blade withdrew as swiftly as it had appeared taking the last of his life with it.
He pitched forward and tumbled down the stairs.
A tall blood-drenched figure holding a longsword in both hands slowly climbed into view.
"Big-Mouthed Rad—who is this?"
At those words every eye in the room snapped to their boss.
Rad's face flushed dark red. He hesitated for a long moment before finally forcing out one hoarse word:
"Fuck."
"It's you… sorry for dropping in unannounced. I didn't bring any proper gift—but I hope this shows my deepest respect."
Ethan stepped fully onto the second floor with an almost playful smile and casually tossed a severed head onto the table in front of Rad.
Rad recoiled instinctively.
He recognized the face immediately: "Black Fist" Ralph—his most trusted enforcer.
"Who the hell are you?" Rad forced down his fear and demanded: "What did I ever do to you that you'd come here like this?"
"This morning I was robbed by a pack of bandits calling themselves the Longfish Gang.
They tried to take my property.
My newly hired personal servant was beaten to death in his own home.
I think that might be what you did to offend me."
Fuck!
Those useless idiots hadn't even come back to report!
Worse—now the aggrieved party had come looking for blood and there wasn't even a scapegoat ready.
What was the point of being boss if he couldn't even shift blame?
Rad frowned trying to project calm authority.
"I think there's been some misunderstanding here…"
Ethan advanced as he spoke bringing all six men seated around the round table within easy reach of his longsword.
Without another word he swept the blade in a flat arc—severing the arms of the two thugs who tried to rise.
Thanks to Rad's habitual paranoia none of the inner-circle members carried weapons during these meetings. Their gear was even lighter than what the street-level muscle wore downstairs.
Though he wielded a full-length longsword Ethan gripped the hilt in one hand and the dull lower half of the blade in the other—wielding it almost like a short sword.
Even in the cramped space he moved with fluid deadly grace.
Moments later no one remained standing on the second floor.
Rad had seized the chaos to hurl himself out the window.
Rad's luck had been rotten these past two days.
The moment his feet hit the ground his ankle twisted violently.
With a sickening crunch sharp pain dropped him hard.
He staggered upright ready to keep running—only to find that terrifying figure already standing directly in front of him.
Rad swallowed thickly.
"My lord—I was wrong. I shouldn't have crossed you. I'm willing to compensate—whatever you lost I'll pay double—no ten times—just spare my life!"
Ethan calmly touched the torn sleeve of his right arm and the bleeding gash beneath.
"Look—I'm injured. And it's my sword arm.
I killed so many of your men. Can you really tolerate that? Why don't you take revenge?"
Rad forced a shaky smile.
"My lord—you joke. I'm an only child—where would I get brothers?
Do you know Ser Gadley…?"
As he spoke his hand crept toward the dagger hidden at his lower back.
Before his fingers even brushed the hilt a cold light flashed across his throat.
Rad clutched his neck collapsing in frantic spasms.
Hot blood poured between his fingers pooling red on the dirt.
Moments later the gang leader lay still.
Ethan crouched searched the body quickly and found an ornate dagger several gold trinkets and a handful of mixed gold and silver coins.
Just as he straightened the gamblers who had fled earlier returned—this time with several city guards clutching long spears.
Ethan glanced toward the shadowed corner where he had parted from Albert.
The boy was gone.
He breathed a quiet sigh of relief.
*Child—it wasn't that I broke my promise. You simply failed to seize the chance.*
Sheathing his sword Ethan sprinted toward the docks.
Near the water's edge he leapt into the dark harbor leaving only a blurred shadow for his pursuers.
He stayed submerged as long as his lungs would hold then broke the surface.
Behind him the harbor was already just a faint smudge on the horizon.
As he rose the little wooden duck slipped from his tunic and floated away on the gentle waves.
Ethan reached out instinctively to catch it—then stopped inches short.
Let it go.
Let the little duck drift free and happy across the sea.
This was where it belonged.
Here no one would chop it for kindling or trample it underfoot as worthless trash.
"Goodbye little duckling" Ethan murmured.
Under silver moonlight the tiny toy bobbed joyfully into the dark water and vanished.
Twenty minutes later on a muddy flat outside the city walls Ethan—drenched and shivering—dragged himself ashore.
He hadn't lied to Rad.
He really was injured.
After all—even wearing only a breastplate fighting a dozen armed thugs single-handed inside a cramped building without any supernatural aid had been far beyond reasonable.
His torso was protected but his arms legs and shoulders had taken numerous slashes stabs and even bites.
Fortunately it had been a surprise attack. Killing the ground-floor sentries instantly shattered their morale. Otherwise Ethan would most likely have cut down a few in rage before retreating in disarray—just as he was doing now.
Killing the gang leader had been an unexpected bonus.
Paying a price for it was only fair.
Limping inland from the mudflats Ethan staggered for over an hour before finally reaching the small town just outside White Harbor's walls.
At the crossroads he saw Kevin anxiously pacing back and forth.
After so long in cold salt water and losing too much blood from his wounds Ethan's head swam.
He called weakly:
"Hey… kid…"
Then he collapsed.
A long time later thirst dragged Ethan back to consciousness.
He lay still eyes closed listening to the sounds around him.
Finding nothing alarming he finally opened his eyes.
A thick straw mat covered him.
Hay bales were stacked all around.
Occasional soft whinnies came from nearby horses.
Kevin sat dozing against one of the bales.
His wounds had been roughly bandaged.
Ethan tried to speak his student's name—"Kevin…"—but his voice came out hoarse and faint.
Even so Kevin snapped awake joyfully.
"Teacher—you're awake?!"
"Where… are we?"
"This is a farmer's stable in Evening Bell Town. We're staying here for now.
After you were hurt the inn refused to keep us—they were afraid of trouble. I paid ten copper coins to get this family to let us use their stable."
Poor travelers ambushed and wounded by bandits—this was the cover story Kevin had quickly invented.
Ethan asked with effort:
"How long…?"
"You mean since you passed out? Not even a full night—it's still before dawn."
He'd been unconscious most of the night…
This body really was fragile.
Though Kevin hadn't fought tonight simply seeing Ethan's wounds told him how savage the battle had been.
His teacher—who normally emerged from fights without a scratch—was now covered in gashes.
So when Ethan insisted they leave immediately Kevin had worried. With so many injuries wouldn't moving too soon make everything worse?
But Ethan—despite the pain—cared far more about being tracked by the gang or their backers and dragging more innocents into the mess.
One Jimmy was already too many.
After waking Ethan re-bandaged his wounds.
Under cover of pre-dawn darkness master and apprentice slipped away quietly with their gear and three horses.
At the main road outside town two forks diverged each marked by a signpost.
Ethan couldn't read so he had Kevin read them aloud.
"Teacher—the left road goes south to King's Landing. That's the one we want."
Ethan considered in silence for a moment then asked:
"And the other?"
"That one goes north to Winterfell."
"Then we'll take this one."
"Huh? But weren't we planning to go to King's Landing all along?"
Ethan shook his head voice still rough:
"We're not going anymore. While we were in the city we asked everyone about ships to King's Landing. Someone must have overheard.
Whoever's after us is either waiting at the docks to spring a trap or they've already sent people to watch the southern road.
We can't be sure anyone's coming—but in my current condition I'm not willing to take the risk."
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