Chapter 2

Cristoff woke weary from yesterday's fight. He swung his legs of his bed and stretched his neck and arms. He dressed himself with his usual attire; a rough spun tunic and cloak, the only inconspicuous clothes that escaped the sacking of his home. He broke his fast with a bowl of fruit and milk from his goat in the back. The normally quiet nanny bleated when Cristoff approached to feed it, and it took some time for Cristoff to calm it down.

"What is wrong with you, stupid animal." Cristoff said to the goat, who turned away from him in response.

Cristoff shook his head and contemplated what to do from here. The guards were out looking for him here too. It was only a matter of time that news of his bounty would reach his home city of Asshai. He had no way to make money here, and nothing to trade with except the meagre produce his family's small garden provided, and it was often more trouble than it was worth. At the very least, he should arm himself. He went up to his father's study, where he kept his accounts and other hidden items. Cristoff opened the secret panel on the floor beneath his father's desk, where his father kept his most treasured possessions, including a dagger and a sword.

"I remember the first time my father showed me these." Thought Cristoff. It had been his sixteenth name day, and Cristoff was given a horse as a gift; a magnificent stallion specially bred for strength and intelligence, an experiment of his father's stable master. His father brought him up here and showed him the dagger, saying that one day this would be his too. Only a few weeks later Cristoff's family been killed.

Cristoff shook the memory out of his head and picked up the dagger. It was carved from dragonbone, and the blade was the finest steel money could buy, besides Valyrian steel. It had no guard between the blade and hilt, but that was because the blade was curved back for plunging into the enemy or slitting throats. There were four finger holes covered by a carved piece of sharp dragonbone, meant for punches which followed up with the slightly curved blade. This dagger could easily turn a single punch into a killing strike, and it was reasonably concealable. Cristoff attached the sheath to his belt and covered it with the folds of his cloak.

"Knucklebreaker, I remember you well." Said Cristoff to the dagger as he covered it. 'Knucklebreaker' was the name that his father gave the dagger, since it broke men using only the wielder's knuckles. A poor reason for such a name, thought Cristoff, but still a name.

Cristoff pulled out a second blade, this one a much different. It was designed in the style of the Dothraki arakh, with a curved end and a hand-and-a-half hilt. The blade was fine Valyrian steel which glittered in the sunlight filtering in from the window. He strapped the unnamed blade to his belt as well, as his father never revealed its existence until after he died, when Cristoff was drawn to his father's study and the fabulous dagger within.

Cristoff went down to the stables today, where the guards were fewer and less vigilant. He sat on the bench nearby and watched as people came in and rented out horses, haggled for selling them and so on. The constant motion was interesting, watching how everything here revolved around these dumb animals. Cristoff thought of his own horse that was taken by the men who murdered his family, Shakha. It meant 'wisdom' in his mother's old tongue. And Shakha was indeed wise, at first. She did everything Cristoff needed her to, she could sense his intention and perform it before he even made a command, but showed no loyalty to him when the men took her away.

"That's a nice piece of steel you got there." Said a voice in front of Cristoff. He turned and saw three men towering over him. The one in front gestured to the Valyrian steel blade.

"Might I have a look then, or I just take it for my own." The man leant forward to snatch the blade from Cristoff, but he leant back and kicked the man with both his legs and stood up. The man got right back up and gestured to his lackeys.

"Gut the bastard!" he snarled

Cristoff tried to back off, but there was nowhere to go. He drew the blade and placed his feet apart and bent his knees.

"I'll warn you now; I'm the son of lord Belron. And I know how to wield a blade." Said Cristoff, hoping his dead father's name still meant something to these scum. It didn't, the leader spat on the ground and said, "Your lord father? You mean that prick who was killed for his son's stupidity? Oh, that's you then." He gestured to the other two men, "Boys, let's reunite him with his father, then we'll take his sword."

The two men swung swords at Cristoff simultaneously. He ducked and they collided together. Cristoff went right first, using the curve of the blade to deflect it in front of the leader, cutting him off, while ramming the second man with his shoulder, throwing him off balance. Cristoff slashed at his neck once with the tip of the blade and he drowned internally from his own blood. The first man tried a punch, which Cristoff blocked and sidestepped around his back and stabbed the other man in the back with the curve, pulling it out while the man turned to face him. He snarled and was about to attack when a white shape fell behind him and a small blade jutted out from his chest. He looked down at it, then fell off it, dying. Cristoff watched as the man closed the dying man's eyes, whispering, "May your gods give you peace." The man stood up, and Cristoff got a better look at him. He was wearing a white and red hooded cloak, with a belt lined with throwing knives.

"Who, who are you?" asked Cristoff

The hooded man looked at him with a small smile.

"I am Rothor Forel," said the man in a peculiar accent, "And I have a proposition for you, Cristoff Malekan."