NOVEL NEXT Chapter 98 : The Crossing
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It had been eleven days since Arthur left Winterfell.
Four of those days were spent crossing the Last River and skirting the Barrowlands, where the cold wind rolled over the downs. Two more took him along the northern branch of the Blue Fork, passing through villages that barely lifted their heads when strangers rode by.
He had slept beneath roofbeams only half the nights. Where there was no inn, he hunted – hares in the frost-crusted grass, a lean stag brought down with an arrow, and once a string of river trout smoked over a low fire.
When coin ran out in those first days, he made it back by steel – killing a bandit chief and three of his kin on the North Road, stripping their camp of what silver and gear could be carried. He left their corpses hanging from the trees as a warning to the rest.
As the miles fell away and the air grew warmer, he noticed the qi thinning. In Winterfell, it had been like the slow, deep breath of the godswood – dense, grounding. Here in the Riverlands, it was weaker, stretched thin over wide plains and tilled fields, dissipating in the damp air.
Seven days south of the Neck, his senses were no longer brushed constantly by that hum of living force. He drew it in still, but it was like drinking from a shallow stream instead of a deep pool. Enough to move as he wished – but he felt the difference.
On the morning of the eleventh day, the Green Fork came into view, its brown waters twisting toward the south. Mist hung over the banks, and through it, the two squat towers of House Frey – stone sentinels glaring down at the only bridge for leagues.
Arthur nudged his horse onward, the sound of shouting at the crossing growing clearer with each step.
The Kingsroad narrowed as it approached the Twins, two squat towers glaring at one another across the Green Fork. Mist clung to the riverbanks, curling like smoke around the pilings.
House Frey's banners – two blue towers on silver – hung limp in the damp air, but the men beneath them bristled with suspicion. Travelers bunched at the far end of the bridge, held up by shouted arguments over tolls and "missing records."
Arthur kept to the back of the line, hood drawn.
Up ahead, Ser Aenys Frey emerged from the gatehouse, his blue-and-silver cloak trailing in the damp. He scanned the travelers like a hawk, until his gaze locked on a cart driver with a battered cap.
"You," Aenys barked, pointing. "Step forward."
The man obeyed, nervous. "Ser, I only –"
"You've insulted my House," Aenys declared, raising his voice so the crowd could hear. "Mocked our right to this crossing."
"I said only that the toll's doubled since spring –"
The backhand came fast and hard, splitting the man's lip. He staggered to his knees, spitting blood into the mud.
"Bind him," Aenys ordered, turning to his guards. "We'll see how quick his tongue is after a night in chains."
"Yes, ser," one guard replied, drawing a cudgel. Another uncoiled a rope.
Arthur's gaze flicked to the amulet beneath his tunic. He exhaled, slow and quiet.
A breath of will slipped outward, subtle as mist over the river. The cudgel-bearer's boot slid in the slick clay; he lurched sideways into the man with the rope. The rope tangled in both their arms, the cudgel clattered to the planks.
"What in the –?" the rope-man swore, trying to free himself.
The tangle carried them into Aenys himself, jolting him backward. "Fools! Watch your –" He caught himself against the railing, cheeks flushing crimson.
The cart driver didn't wait. He dove into the press of travelers, vanishing among them before anyone thought to grab him.
"Find him!" Aenys roared, scanning the crowd. "I want that man found!"
Murmurs rippled through the line.
"Seven save us, did you see that?" a woman whispered. "Boot slipped," a man muttered back. "That's all." "Twice?" another said skeptically.
Arthur stood motionless, his hood shadowing his face. When the line moved again, he stepped forward with the others.
At the toll keeper's table, the man looked him over. "One silver stag, ser."
Arthur counted it out, his voice calm. "Fair weather to you."
The keeper grunted and waved him through.
On the far bank, he glanced once over his shoulder. The towers loomed in the mist, the shouting still faintly audible.
By the time he passed the last hamlet before Seagard, the story was already being told in the low voices of the road: Ser Aenys Frey humiliated at the crossing. Guards tripping over themselves, a prisoner slipping free. Some say the wind caught them. Others say… something else.