Chapter 9: Journey To The West

The road to Seagard was long and fraught with peril. Arthur Rivers knew he couldn't trust anyone, not even the shadows that danced around him as he rode through the night. The moon offered a sliver of light, just enough to keep him on the path, but not enough to illuminate the dangers lurking within the dense forests that flanked the narrow, winding track. His thoughts were as scattered as the stars above, torn between the burden of his heritage and the promise of a new destiny that lay ahead.

As dawn approached, Arthur found himself at the outskirts of a village, the first sign of life he had seen since leaving Stone Hedge. The sight of it, though, was not a welcome one. The thatched roofs were caved in, the crops trampled, and the air was heavy with the acrid smell of smoke. The cries of a desperate man broke the stillness.

The old man staggered out from the wreckage, his eyes wild with fear. He was a picture of despair, his clothes torn and his face etched with lines of grief. He spotted Arthur and hobbled over, his hands reaching out in a plea. "Mercy, my lord," he croaked, "my daughter, she was taken by brigands."

Arthur dismounted his horse, his heart heavy with the weight of his own mission. "I am no lord," he said solemnly.

The old man's eyes searched Arthur's face, desperation clutching at his voice. "You have the look of a warrior. Will you not help me?"

Arthur hesitated, his mind racing with the implications of his decision. The path to Seagard was fraught with danger, and any delay could mean the difference between victory and defeat for the Riverlands. Yet, he could not ignore the plight of the innocent. His father's legacy, the very essence of chivalry and justice, compelled him to act.

"Which way did they go?", Arthur asked steeling himself.

"Wha- what!?", The old man asked.

"In which direction did those brigands go?", Arthur asked again, more steel in his voice.

The old man pointed shakily to the east, his eyes brimming with hope. "They took her towards the rising sun, my lord. I beg of you, please, save her before it's too late."

Without another word, Arthur swung back into the saddle and spurred his horse in the direction indicated, his resolve unshaken. The village disappeared behind him, swallowed by the encroaching shadows of the forest. The sun had barely crested the horizon, casting a pale light over the landscape, as he picked up the brigands' trail. The signs of their passage were unmistakable: a snapped branch here, a disturbance in the underbrush there. The tracks grew fresher with every passing minute, and the sound of distant laughter reached his ears—the cruel taunts of men who knew no mercy.

The path grew narrow and treacherous, but Arthur's horse, a sturdy beast bred for war, navigated it with ease. His eyes remained focused ahead, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. The air grew thick with tension, and the forest around him seemed to hold its breath, as if anticipating the battle to come.

As Arthur approached the spot where the brigands had made camp, the sound of their merriment grew louder, taunts and shouts echoing through the trees. His heart hammered in his chest, and he could feel the warmth of anger spreading through his veins. These men were the scourge of the lands, preying on the weak and defenseless, and he knew that their fate was sealed. He would show them no mercy.

He tied his horse to a nearby tree, drawing his sword with a metallic ring that seemed to silence the very air around him. The camp lay in a clearing, a small ring of fires casting flickering shadows across the faces of the men as they drank and laughed. Arthur's gaze found the girl, tied to a post at the edge of the camp, her eyes wide with fear, her gown was torn and she shivered in the cold morning air.

The brigands had not noticed his approach, and Arthur used the element of surprise to his advantage. He stepped into the clearing, his sword glinting in the firelight, and called out to them. "Release the girl," he said, his voice filled with rage.

The men fell silent, their laughter dying in their throats as they stared up at him. They were a motley crew, a mix of Andal and First Men, their armor patched and weapons notched with the marks of previous battles. They looked at each other, unsure of what to do. Then, one of them, a burly man with a scar across his cheek, took a step forward. "Who are you to tell us what to do?" he sneered.

"I am Arthur Pendragon," Arthur said, his voice like thunder. "Son of the Hammer of Justice, and sworn enemy of any who would harm the innocent."

The scar-faced brigand sneered, drawing his sword with a metallic hiss. "You're just a boy playing at being a knight," he spat. "You've got no power here little bastard, how's bout I tear your head from your shoulders and take that fancy sword of yours."

Arthur's eyes narrowed, and he took a step closer to the girl. "If you wish to fight, you'll die at my hand," he said, his voice steady. "I fight for justice, and the gods are with me."

The scar-faced brigand laughed, there was a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Justice?" he mocked. "What do you know of justice, halfbreed?"

Arthur felt the rage boil within him, but he didn't let it show. He knew that anger could be a weapon, but it could also be a liability. He had to stay in control. "I know that no man has the right to take what isn't his," he said calmly, his eyes never leaving the brigand's.

With a roar, the scar-faced brigand charged him, his sword raised high. Arthur's hand shot out, grabbing the man's wrist and twisting, forcing him to drop his weapon. The other brigands took that as their cue and rushed forward, their own swords and axes glinting in the flickering light of the campfire. Arthur knew he was outnumbered and outmatched, but he had been trained by the best the Riverlands had to offer. He had faced death before and had the scars to show for it.

The world around him seemed to slow as he drew his own sword, the blade singing a deadly tune as it sliced through the air. He met the first attacker with a swift parry and a kick to the chest that sent the man flying back into his comrades. The clang of steel on steel filled the night as Arthur danced among the brigands, his movements fluid and precise. He could feel the power of his ancestors coursing through him, the legacy of the Andal warlords and the Mudd kings melding into a force that could not be denied.

The scar-faced leader lunged at him again, teeth bared like a cornered animal. Arthur stepped aside, letting the man's momentum carry him past, and in a flash, he brought his sword down, slicing through the ropes that bound the girl. She screamed in terror as she was released, but Arthur had no time to comfort her. He had to survive.

The other brigands closed in, their weapons a whirlwind of steel. Arthur's blade arced through the air, deflecting blows and finding flesh with cold precision. He was a storm of vengeance, each swing and parry a declaration of his intent. The girl's cries grew more distant as the fight consumed him, the world narrowing to the dance of death before his eyes.

The scar-faced brigand circled him, his expression a twisted mix of rage and disbelief. He had underestimated Arthur's skill, and now he would pay the price. Arthur waited for the opening, his heart racing. When it came, he struck like lightning, his sword carving a crimson path through the man's throat. The brigand's eyes went wide, his life's essence spilling onto the earth as he collapsed to his knees.

The remaining brigands, seeing their leader fall, charged Arthur with renewed fury. They were desperate men, driven by fear and greed, and they knew that if they failed here, their lives were forfeit. Arthur felt the ground tremble beneath their footsteps, the thunder of their approach echoing through the camp.

He took a deep breath, centering himself as he had been taught. The world around him grew still, the clanging of steel and the shouts of battle fading to whispers. In that moment of clarity, he knew that he was more than a bastard with a borrowed name. He was a son of kings, and he would not falter.

The brigands charged him, a ragged wave of anger and desperation. Arthur's sword sang a deadly melody, cutting through the air with a grace that belied the brutality of its purpose. The first man to reach him was a brute with a heavy axe, his face a mask of snarling malice. Arthur stepped aside, his blade a silver streak that parted the air and sent the axe clattering to the ground. With a swift kick, he sent the man sprawling.

Another brigand, quicker and more nimble, swiped at him with a dagger. Arthur felt the sting of the blade graze his cheek, a crimson line of pain that brought him back to the immediacy of the fight. His response was swift and decisive—a counterstrike that buried his sword in the man's chest, ending his life in a gasp of surprise. The third and fourth attackers fell to swift, precise cuts, their armor no match for Arthur's speed and skill.

Suddenly he heard a cry and turned quickly in the direction of the girl. The axe-wielding brute had taken hold of her. Tears streamed down her face.

"Drop your sword, or she dies," the brigand snarled, his teeth bared like a cornered animal.

Arthur's gaze never left the man's eyes, his sword arm unwavering.

"Let her go," he demanded, his voice low and steady, the authority of a king resonating in his tone. "Your fight is with me, not her."

The brute's eyes narrowed, the girl's whimpers growing louder. Arthur could feel the tension in the air thicken, the fate of the girl hanging in the balance.

"Drop your sword," the man repeated, pressing a dagger against the girl's throat.

Arthur's heart hammered in his chest, but his resolve did not waver. "Let her go," he said, "You know you cannot win this. I offer you mercy, she lives, you leave here alive."

The brigand's eyes narrowed, his grip tightening around the girl's neck. "Mercy?" he spat. "I've seen what your kind does with mercy. I'd rather die than trust a word from your silver tongue."

Arthur swallowed deeply and let out a sigh he didn't know he was holding in. He felt his grip loosen and his sword fell to the ground, "Now let her go." Arthur said.

The man laughed, a deep and dark sound that seemed to echo through the forest. He pushed the dagger into the girl's neck and she fell over blood spewing from her wound, then he charged, an animalistic cry escaped his throat and he stabbed his dagger forward aiming for Arthur's heart. Arthur threw himself to the ground, rolling to create distance.

His eyes scanned the ground for weapons and he saw the axe of the charging brute and grabbed raising it just in time to parry a slash from the dagger wielding brigand.

With a roar of anger and sorrow Arthur swung the axe in an arc, catching the man's leg and sending him to the ground with a pained cry. The brigand looked up at Arthur, fear and anger etched on his scarred face.

Arthur took a step closer, axe still raised. He could feel the power of the weapon in his hands, the weight of it singing with the promise of death. But then he saw the girl, lifeless and still, and the rage within him cooled. He knew what he had to do.

The brigand on the ground snarled, trying to pull himself up. But Arthur was faster. With a swift, decisive motion, he brought the axe down, ending the man's life with a wet thunk. The rage that had fueled him moments ago drained away, leaving only a cold, empty feeling in its wake.

He looked down at the girl's small form, her eyes open and lifeless. Gently, he picked her up, cradling her in his arms like a precious burden. He couldn't save her life, but he could at least bring her back to her village, to give her the proper burial she deserved. It was the least he could do after failing to prevent her death.

Arthur secured his sword to his belt and mounted his horse. The journey back was a silent one, filled with the creaking of saddle leather and the solemn rhythm of his steed's hooves on the earth. The girl's corpse was a grim reminder of the cost of war, of the lives snuffed out by the ambitions of men.

As he approached the village, the smell of smoke and charred wood hit him first. He knew that the villagers would not be expecting his return with such a macabre cargo.

Arthur's heart felt heavier with each step his horse took closer to the village gates. He could see the faces of the people he had hoped to save, peering out from the ruins of their homes. They watched him, eyes wide with hope that quickly turned to despair as they recognized the stillness of the girl in his arms.

The village was a scene of desolation, remnants of lives torn apart by the ravages of war. Arthur dismounted, the weight of the girl's body seeming to double in his arms. He walked through the debris, his eyes meeting those of her grieving father. The man's eyes filled with tears, and Arthur knew that words could not mend the gaping wound that had been left in his heart.

He laid the girl gently on the ground before the village's Weirwood. The father fell to his knees beside her, his cries echoing through the stillness. Arthur stepped back, his hand tightening around the hilt of his sword. It was a grim reminder of the cost of his failure—a cost paid not just by him, but by the people who had placed their trust in him.

The villagers gathered around, their expressions a mix of anger and sorrow. They had hoped for salvation, for a hero to emerge from the shadows of war and deliver them from their suffering. Instead, they had been given a harsh truth: that even those who sought to protect them could not always save the innocent.

Sorry for the late update, there was no internet at my house yesterday. Thanks for reading.