Hunched low on his galloping steed, William peered through the narrow slit of his helmet. Ahead, five Ironborn stood scattered, their bodies wrapped in a chaotic mix of mismatched armor and furs. They paid him no mind—just a lone knight, probably mad—and raised their gleaming axes with cruel, mocking grins.
But just before those axes could fall, the knight soared into the air like a hunting hawk. His target: the two Ironborn at the front. Their sneers froze on their faces.
With a thunderous crash, William slammed into them. The three of them tumbled to the ground in a blur of steel and blood. William had planned for this. He rolled with the impact, rose smoothly, while the two unlucky Ironborn spasmed helplessly in a growing pool of crimson.
Before the others could react, William surged forward, closing the distance in two strides. His sword flashed. One more fell, blood gushing from a throat now too torn to scream. The ferocity in the man's eyes turned to pure terror before he collapsed.
William didn't stop. He launched himself at the last two Ironborn, blade dancing.
He didn't dodge. Didn't block. Let their axes crash into him. Bang! Bang! The heavy blows cracked his plate armor, but that was all. His powerful frame absorbed the shock like it was nothing. His footing never even wavered.
Then came two swift, practiced swings—motions honed in countless drills. Their crude armor might as well have been paper. Swords shrieked, men screamed, and the last two Ironborn dropped lifeless at his feet.
"Killing... really is kind of sickening."
William swallowed, his mouth thick with the taste of blood. Blank-eyed, he glanced at the corpses, then absently flicked his blade to send the blood spattering to the ground.
This was Westeros. Here, life was cheap—whether peddler or prince, anyone could die in a heartbeat. And often, many did. William knew he didn't want to be one of them. He had accepted early on that if he wanted to survive in this world, he'd have to stain his hands red.
Still, he had his limits. He wasn't going to hone his killing technique on innocents. That's why, when he heard the rumors of bandits attacking Ten-Mile Town, his heart stirred. A perfect excuse for slaughter. Margaery's plea had only tipped the scale.
It was still a shock, though—watching a living person die by his own hand. The feeling gnawed at him. But the town's blazing rooftops and the screams echoing through the streets eased his guilt. If he had to kill, let it be like this—because when these people died, others lived.
"These bastards deserved it. This is justice."
He forced himself to calm down and took stock of the town. Ten-Mile Town was larger than he'd expected—more than one street, most houses two or three stories tall. A bustling place, once. Now it was a mess of smoke and chaos. Ironborn roamed freely, pillaging and burning.
After cutting down the five sentries at the gate, William had taken a few moments to compose himself. No other Ironborn had appeared.
"Even during a raid, they left guards posted? These Ironborn must have a real leader." William frowned, considering his next move. "If they're organized, this could turn into a trap. But if I can take out the leader fast enough, the rest might scatter. A clean decapitation."
He regretted killing the guards so quickly—maybe they had signaling tools, something he could've triggered to lure more out. But the thought of rifling through corpses turned his stomach.
> "Still got a long way to go," he muttered.
He couldn't see the layout of the town from the entrance, so he decided to just move in. His pace was steady—not fast, not slow—but the moment he spotted Ironborn attacking civilians, he exploded into motion. No hesitation. No defense. Just blade to flesh. Strike for strike.
Before long, over twenty Ironborn lay dead by his hand, all slain in that same brutal, single-stroke style. Along the way, he'd saved dozens—mostly women, a few hiding in cellars or hidden rooms. Every one he rescued, he pointed toward the makeshift camp outside town.
Eventually, he came to a large house.
That's when a dozen Ironborn suddenly burst from alleys and buildings around him, encircling him in the middle of the street.
"Finally noticed me. Took them long enough," William thought, raising his sword into a defensive stance. The Ironborn hesitated. His violent entrance had clearly shaken them. Despite their numbers, none rushed in.
They stared at him. He stared back. Then William chuckled.
"No takers? Great. I could use a breather." He loosened his shoulders, spreading his arms casually, letting his massive greatsword rest tip-down against the ground.
"RAAAAH!!"
The first to break was a hulking brute with a pig-like face, charging in with a wild roar. The others followed his lead, their yells overlapping in a chaotic surge.
"Your funeral."
William darted toward the pig-faced one. The man surprisingly shifted into a defensive stance, angling his axe across his chest.
William snorted in disdain. Coward. He twisted his body mid-stride, shifting his angle. As they passed each other, William's blade sliced upward in a brutal arc, carving a gaping wound across the man's chest and belly. Without pausing, he spun on his heel and drove his sword straight through another Ironborn's back.
Two more down in seconds.
The rest faltered. Faces pale. They backed away from him instinctively.
William let them go, choosing a new target. That one skittered back as well. The others moved in behind him, trying to trap him again.
"Cowards," William muttered. They didn't dare fight him head-on, but they wouldn't run either. With them tailing him like this, he couldn't rescue anyone else.
They kept him boxed in as they crept toward a crossroads. Then—
Three fully-armored warriors burst from a side street, ambushing the Ironborn from behind. Four or five went down instantly in a chorus of screams.
William leapt into the fray, blade flashing, and in moments the Ironborn were all dead.
He flipped up his visor.
That flowing brown hair. That chiseled face.
"Garlan! What the hell are you doing here?" William asked, stunned and elated.
Garlan glared at him.
"William, courage isn't the same as recklessness. Chasing glory shouldn't mean throwing your life away. What you did—was foolish."
William grinned sheepishly. "C'mon, don't be so dramatic. Look at me, I'm fine."
But inside, he was deeply moved.
He had magic to protect him. Even here, even surrounded, he was confident he'd get out alive. His bravery was calculated. But Garlan? Garlan had come for him without that safety net.
That kind of loyalty... William didn't know how he could ever repay it.
Garlan didn't say more. On his way in, he'd met some of the people William had saved. They all owed their lives to the boy's reckless valor. And that should've been the duty of knights like him.
But before they could speak further, the sound of boots echoed from the next street. Dozens of them.
Garlan slapped William's shoulder. "Move! Ser Jon and the others are waiting outside!"
If it were just him, William might've stayed to fight. But in a chaotic melee, he couldn't protect everyone. If Garlan got hurt because of him...
They ran.
But then William's instincts screamed.
He turned—and shoved Garlan aside.
Garlan stumbled, barely regaining his balance. Just in time to see a massive axe whistle past his face, so close he felt the wind sear his skin.
A splat followed.
The axe struck William's chestplate with bone-crunching force, driving him to the ground.
The moment his magical barrier shattered and the axe dug in, fear swallowed him whole. A deathly chill seeped into his limbs. Silence fell. He couldn't move. Couldn't think.
He saw Garlan shouting at him—he couldn't hear it. Couldn't care.
Garlan tried to drag him up—William didn't respond. Didn't help.
Then the Ironborn were on them.
A giant of a man raised a colossal axe, swinging it down at Garlan like a headsman's blade. But Garlan was strong—stronger than he looked. He met the blow and fought back.
Chaos followed.
Garlan and his men fought with discipline, protecting each other's flanks. Even outnumbered ten to one, they held firm. Ironborn fell one after another.
Then the Ironborn turned on William's prone form. Garlan rushed to defend him. Their formation frayed.
Garlan refused to leave him.
They were wounded. One retainer fell. Then another. Finally, a heavy axe slammed into Garlan's back.
He crumpled.
And in that final moment, as he collapsed, he looked at William. In his eyes—regret.
"It should be me apologizing, Garlan…"