The moment William's consciousness slammed back into his body, tearing free from that suffocating fear, he roared with unrestrained fury:
"Garlan!"
Blood sprayed through the air as William yanked the axe from his breastplate. Without a pause, he hurled it straight at the Ironborn soldier who was lunging at Garlan again. The spinning axe split through the air and struck the Ironborn's head with brutal precision, sending the man flying backwards like he'd been hit by a speeding cart—landing flat on his back, dead before he hit the ground.
"AHHHH!!" William let out a guttural scream, forcing himself to his feet. A jagged crack split his breastplate, blood pouring from the wound. He felt a fire raging inside his chest—burning hot and wild, searing his spirit, consuming him with pain so raw it made him want to rip everything around him to pieces.
The largest of the Ironborn, clearly their leader, barked out something with a cruel grin. Perhaps he promised rewards, because the rest of the Ironborn howled in excitement and surged toward William.
But William didn't hesitate. His sword crashed down on the first one who came near.
The Ironborn raised his round shield, maybe thinking he could block the blow and score an easy kill—but he had no idea what he was up against. The sheer force behind William's strike shattered the shield like it was made of driftwood. The blade kept going, cleaving through the man's shoulder and nearly splitting him in half.
The Ironborn's last sound on this earth was a scream of pure agony.
Seeing that body drop seemed to dull the burning pain in William's chest—just a little. It was enough. Enough to feed the rage, enough to push forward. He ignored the weapons slashing at him, didn't care about the blades grazing his arms and legs. With every step, he swung his sword, and every swing claimed blood, claimed life.
One by one, the Ironborn began to break, faltering in fear. Their leader snarled and charged in, raising his giant axe—its cold edge gleaming as it rushed toward William like death itself.
Danger!
The magic that had saved him once before had already dissipated. But his instincts screamed louder than thought. This strike—he couldn't afford to take it head-on. So he did what he'd done before: shifted at high speed, dodging the deadly blow, and struck from the side.
CLANG!
His blade slammed into the axe, sparks flying.
The Ironborn leader, surprisingly agile for his size, reacted just in time to parry. William's eyes flared with fury. He launched into a furious assault—CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!—relentless, overwhelming.
The Ironborn staggered back step by step, his expression growing grim. He never imagined someone from the Reach could overpower him in both strength and speed. All he could do now was hope the mad knight would tire soon, that this reckless frenzy would burn itself out… then maybe, maybe, he could counterattack—or at least escape.
But William didn't slow.
If anything, his strikes grew heavier.
The Ironborn leader's arms began to tremble, his muscles screaming in protest. Then came a thunderous overhead slash. The leader raised his axe again to block—reflexively, instinctively.
But this time, William twisted his wrist, his blade dancing into a sudden flourish. The sword curved like a silver crescent and struck the wooden shaft of the axe instead.
With a screech of splitting wood and a blur of steel, the sword sheared through both the axe and the man, cleaving him into four jagged pieces.
Blood exploded like a crimson fountain.
William stood beneath it, drenched in gore, raising his head to the sky with a feral howl.
He looked like a demon of war, and the Ironborn finally broke.
Screaming, they turned and ran.
William gave no mercy. He chased them like a storm.
The terrified Ironborn scattered in all directions, but William was tireless. He hunted them down from one end of the village to the other. Most of those who survived the initial onslaught fled for the river, desperate to board their longships and escape this living nightmare.
But fate was not so kind.
William followed them past the village outskirts, slaying every Ironborn he laid eyes on until he reached the riverbank. There, he saw a few empty longships rocking in the water—and not a single Ironborn still breathing.
He froze.
It was like waking from a dream. He dropped to his knees by the riverside, one hand clutching his sword, the other sinking into the dirt as he gasped for breath. His head throbbed with pain—spirit drained, body pushed beyond its limits. The world spun.
Time passed.
He didn't know how long until he heard hoofbeats.
Through his blurred vision, a cavalry unit approached. The golden rose on a green field fluttered in the breeze—the sigil of House Tyrell.
William wanted to smile. All he managed was a twisted grimace.
He forced himself to stand, pain screaming in every fiber of his being. He planted his sword like a crutch, pointed toward the town, and shouted:
"Find Garlan! Garlan!"
The cavalry squad stirred. Most of the riders wheeled around and galloped toward the village. Two remained behind, riding up to William.
When they dismounted and took in the trail of corpses stretching from the town to the river, and the lone figure standing amid it all like a blood-soaked war god, they couldn't hide the awe in their eyes.
"Ser William," one said, voice reverent. "We're here to take you back to camp. You… you need treatment."
—
The tent reeked of blood.
Margaery Tyrell stepped inside without flinching.
The first thing she saw was William's helmet—once playful, now stained deep crimson. The open-mouthed bat sigil looked less like a jest and more like a snarling demon. Blood had matted his hair, smeared his handsome face.
Then her gaze fell on his armor.
She had never imagined a suit of armor could endure so much punishment. It was torn and dented from head to toe. The deep gash across his chest plate made her heart clench.
But his eyes still gleamed with life.
When their gazes met, he even smiled at her. It was a weak smile, one that made her heart ache.
She'd come in ready to scold him—furious, burning with worry. But now, she found she couldn't say a word.
After a long silence, William finally spoke.
"Ser Jon told me Garlan's going to be alright."
Ser Jon Rowan, the knight who'd led the reinforcements at Ten Mile Town, had visited earlier and updated William on Garlan's condition.
Margaery's eyes welled with tears. She clenched her fists.
"'Alright'? He's still unconscious! We don't even know if he'll survive the infection!"
Everyone was worried, but William truly believed there was nothing to fear. As long as Garlan pulled through the worst of it, everything else could be handled. Especially with Margaery.
He'd seen what she could do. Back at the start of their journey, when her latent power had awakened, he became convinced: together, they could face anything. Even death.
"Relax, Margaery. I told you, remember? Miracles," William said, glancing at the three young Tyrell ladies who'd followed her in.
Margaery let out a deep breath, finally releasing her clenched fists. She turned toward the girls. They exchanged glances, then slowly smiled. In unison, they turned to leave. As they exited, Elinor even stuck out her tongue at William playfully.
Ever since they returned to camp, William had noticed people looking at him differently. Everyone except Margaery.
Once they were gone, Margaery stepped closer and whispered harshly, "Your miracle almost cost me my brother!"
Her voice was quiet, but the heat behind it made William wince.
"I didn't think Garlan would come. If it were just me—"
Margaery cut him off sharply. "Just you? Then I'd be talking to your corpse instead!"
He had no retort. She was right. If not for Garlan, that Ironborn leader's axe might've finished him. If any of them had struck while he was losing control…
His journey through Westeros would've ended right there.
"At least it worked out in the end. Garlan's alive, I'm alive, and we saved a lot of people," William mumbled, avoiding her eyes.
"I don't care about 'a lot of people.' Garlan means more to me than all of them."
William looked at her. And then, without thinking, he asked,
"What about me?"
Margaery's face flushed faintly.
"You idiot. Ser Knight… how could you possibly compare to Garlan?"
She turned away, muttering, "Anyway, I don't want to learn magic anymore."
A wave of helplessness hit William.
I just wanted someone to walk this path with. Learn together. Grow together. Why's it so damn hard?
Still, he tried to salvage it.
"Margaery, magic is just knowledge—like swordsmanship, music, or painting. It's powerful, sure, but it's still just a skill."
"But it brings misfortune. I barely touched it… and I almost lost my brother. Maybe that's why it disappeared. Maybe people abandoned it for a reason."
Her tone was calm, but William could feel the weight of her resolve. He was silent for a moment.
Then his eyes lit up with mischief.
"Alright, alright. I won't force you. But Garlan's still in danger. So—for his sake—how about we work together one last time?"
She turned, curiosity flickering in her expression.
"I believe you have magic now. But why do you need me to help Garlan? Can't you do it yourself?"
"Magic isn't one-size-fits-all," William explained quickly, seizing the chance to reel her in. "Everyone has different affinities. Mine leans toward combat—not healing. But yours… yours is tied to life. Remember the magic that made the flowers bloom? That might be something passed down from your ancestor—Garth Greenhand himself."
Margaery frowned in thought, nodding slowly.
Just then, a voice came from outside the tent.
"Ser Vernon, good day!"
"Elinor, Alla, Megga—good day to you as well!" came the reply, slightly gravelly with age.
The tent flap opened, and the old knight acting as camp physician entered with several attendants. He bowed toward Margaery.
"Lady Margaery."
"Ser Vernon."
"Lady Margaery, we need to remove Ser William's armor to treat his wounds. May I ask you to give us a moment?"
Margaery glanced at William, her expression unreadable. Then she smiled at the old knight and said, "Of course, Ser."
And walked out without another word.