The wagon rolled at a steady pace, wheels creaking in a rhythm that almost lulled me into forgetting where I was.
Almost.
Wyllam flicked the reins lazily, eyes forward, but I could feel his attention drifting back to me again and again—measuring, weighing. Merchants survived by knowing when a story didn't add up.
"So," he said at last, casual as a tossed copper, "Stormlands, you said."
"That's right."
"Got the look of it. Built like you wrestled storms for fun." He glanced sideways. "Don't got the look of a knight, though. No shield, no sigil. That sword's too big for tourneys."
I shrugged. "Never liked shields."
"Uh-huh." He let that sit. "And how does a Stormlands bastard end up washing ashore near Rosby in armor worth more than my wagon?"
There it was.
I leaned back slightly, eyes on the road ahead, and gave him the version I'd already rehearsed a dozen times.
"Didn't stay in Westeros long," I said. "No name worth keeping. Took ship east when I was young."
"Essos?"
"Myr."
That got his attention. "Myr, eh? Fancy city. Dangerous."
"Danger paid better than home."
I kept my voice flat—no pride, no bitterness. Just fact.
"Worked as a sellsword. Guarded caravans. Fought in other men's wars. Lived long enough to get paid and lucky enough to spend it on steel." I tapped a knuckle against my breastplate. "Everything I'm wearing came one piece at a time."
"And the shipwreck?"
"Bought passage west," I said. "Storm caught us. Don't remember much after the mast went."
Wyllam grunted. Not disbelief. Consideration.
"That tracks," he said finally. "Narrow Sea's been mean this year. Lost a cousin that way."
I inclined my head. "Sorry to hear it."
Silence followed—comfortable now.
After a few moments, I turned the questions back where they belonged.
"So," I said, "what kind of mess am I riding into?"
Wyllam barked a short laugh. "Depends on how close you get to the Red Keep."
I raised an eyebrow.
"King's Landing's full," he went on. "Gold, food, noise, whores, and fools. Robert Baratheon sits the throne still—strong as an ox, loud as thunder, and spends gold like it grows on trees."
"Lavish court?"
"That's a polite way of saying it. Tourneys. Feasts. Banquets every time the man wakes up breathing." He shook his head. "Treasury bleeds for it, but the people love him."
I frowned slightly. "How long's he been king now?"
"Near fifteen years." Wyllam snorted. "Feels like longer when you're paying taxes."
"And the lords?"
"They smile," he said. "They always smile."
That told me enough.
Wyllam continued, warming to the topic. "There's talk of a big tourney coming up. King's thirty-fourth name day. Melees, jousts, archery—the works. Purse'll be fat. City'll be packed."
My pulse ticked up.
"A melee?" I asked carefully.
"Oh aye. Open to knights, sellswords, any fool with armor and courage." He glanced at me again. "You thinking of trying your luck?"
I looked down at my hands—big, steady, scarless but knowing. I could still feel the sword's weight in them even now.
"I didn't come back west to starve," I said.
Wyllam chuckled. "Fair answer. Win a few rounds, you'll earn coin and eyes. Lose, well… at least you'll lose loud."
Reputation.
Money.
A controlled environment where violence was expected—and rewarded.
Exactly the kind of opening I needed.
"Sounds like King's Landing will be busy," I said.
"Always is," Wyllam replied. "But during a tourney? City's a tinderbox. Drink, pride, and sharp steel everywhere."
He smirked. "You'll fit right in, Garen Storm."
The wagon rolled on, the city's distant silhouette growing clearer with every turn of the wheel.
Gold waited ahead.
So did knives.
I rested my forearms on my knees and stared toward the rising walls of King's Landing.
A bastard sellsword.
A borrowed name.
A body built for war.
And a melee where the whole realm would be watching.
"…Good," I murmured.
"Let's make an entrance."