Stannon picked up his sword from the ground and slid it back into its sheath.
"How are the others?" Stannon asked.
Syrio chuckled, stepping back to lean against the wooden wall. "Decent enough with the sword. Not Braavosi, but they won't die like fools either." His tone was light, but Stannon knew the former First Sword was never one to offer empty praise. If he said they were decent, then they had improved significantly.
Syrio gestured toward the chairs by the wooden table in the corner. "Come, let's sit," he said.
The two of them moved to a table nearby and sat down on the chairs, continuing their conversation. Stannon leaned forward slightly and spoke, "Ser Syrio, I am leaving for King's Landing tomorrow. Have you thought about my offer?"
Syrio smiled and shook his head. "Stormblade, I am a free man. I serve no man, no lord, and no king."
Stannon sighed. This wasn't the first time he had asked Syrio to join him as his subordinate. He had hoped to take Syrio with him to the Red Keep. Having Syrio by his side would make him much safer, and as a great teacher, Syrio could continue training him.
More than that, Stannon wanted Syrio to continue training his people. Over the years, he had invested heavily in building a force of his own, a personal network of fighters, spies, and informants. He had spent a fortune hiring mercenaries and taking in men and women who had nowhere to go. Some were soldiers who had lost their lords in battle, others were street urchins with quick hands and sharp minds, and a few were former bandits who had traded their old ways for loyalty to a new cause.
Of course, he wasn't foolish enough to believe that all of them were completely loyal. He had done his best to weed out potential spies and traitors, testing their backgrounds, questioning their motives, and keeping a close eye on their behavior. Even so, in the game of power, betrayal was always a possibility.
But there was one group of people he trusted more than any other.
The Wildlings.
Three years ago, Stannon had first come across a band of Wildlings who had been captured by the Night's Watch. They were not raiders, not the kind who had crossed the Wall to pillage and steal. No, these were refugees—people who had fled the far North, running from something that even the Night's Watch had yet to believe in.
The White Walkers.
The men of the Watch, bound by duty and tradition, saw them only as enemies. Their stories of ice-eyed demons and walking corpses were dismissed as lies or madness. Stannon, however, had listened.
He had seen the fear in their eyes, the desperation in their voices. These were not cowards; these were warriors, men and women hardened by a lifetime in the cold.
So he had made them an offer.
Protection. Land. Food.
In return, they would fight for him.
Of course, it had not been so simple. The Wildlings did not follow weaklings. They followed strength, cunning, and those who could ensure their survival. And to them, a thirteen-year-old boy, no matter how noble his birth, was not someone they would kneel to.
Their leader, a massive warrior named Ragnok, had laughed in his face. "A pretty boy with a soft life behind walls," he had sneered. "You think we'd follow you? You think we'd fight for you?"
Stannon had not answered with words.
Instead, he had challenged Ragnok then and there. A fight to prove his worth.
It had been brutal. Ragnok was a giant of a man, wielding an axe as heavy as a full-grown hound. But Stannon had not relied on brute strength alone. He had been faster, sharper. He had studied his opponent's movements, waited for the right moment, and when it came—he struck.
In a few minutes, Ragnok lay bleeding in the snow, his axe knocked from his grip, a blade at his throat.
The Wildlings had watched in silence, and when Stannon stepped back, offering Ragnok the chance to rise, the man had done so with a grunt.
"You fight well, boy," Ragnok had admitted, wiping the blood from his lip. "Better than I thought."
That night, the first of the Wildlings had sworn their loyalty to him. Over time, more had come. Some had been freed from the Night's Watch, bought with gold and favors. Others had been drawn by the promise of safety, of food, of a leader who could offer them more than just another battle for survival.
Now, three years later, he had over 153 Wildlings under his banner. Warriors, hunters, scouts. They were not noble knights, nor disciplined soldiers, but they were fierce, resourceful, and utterly loyal—so long as he remained a leader worthy of following.
They had no ties to the lords of Westeros. No secret allegiances, no old oaths to betray him for. That was what he valued most about them.
But keeping control over them had been a challenge. The Free Folk did not take orders easily. They wanted a leader who was not only strong but also wise, a leader who would ensure their survival no matter the cost. If he ever showed weakness, if he ever lost their respect, they would leave him without hesitation.
And in the deadly game of Westeros, he needed every ally he could get.
Stannon returned to the present, looking at Syrio who seemed to be lost in his own thoughts.
"Well, I guess this is goodbye then, huh, teacher?" Stannon said, with a sigh.
Syrio was pulled out of his thoughts by Stannon's words. He looked up, a bit confused. "Goodbye? What goodbye?" Syrio asked, his voice light. "You still have a lot to learn. How could I leave my student half-taught?"
Stannon was surprised and blinked in shock. "But... didn't you say you weren't coming?" he asked.
Syrio smiled, looking pleased. "I never said that," he replied. "I only told you that I don't want to be your subordinate. That doesn't mean I won't come with you."
Stannon's eyes widened as he tried to understand. "You'll come to the Red Keep? As my teacher?" he asked in disbelief.
Syrio nodded. "Yes, as your teacher. You have potential, Stormblade. I will help you reach it."
Stannon couldn't help but grin. "Thank you, Ser Syrio. This means a lot to me."
Syrio chuckled as he stood up. "You are my student. It's my job to help you succeed. But remember, a teacher can guide, but only you can walk the path."
Stannon stood too, feeling lighter than before. "I will. I promise."
Just as Stannon was about to speak again, a knock on the door interrupted him. Syrio, who had been getting ready to leave, glanced at the door and smiled. "I guess this is my cue to leave," he said, his tone light. Stannon nodded, a small sigh escaping him. Syrio stood up, preparing to take his leave.
Stannon walked toward the door, opening it to reveal the bartender standing with about ten people in the hallway. The bartender gave a quick nod. "These are the ones you've been expecting," he said.
Stannon stepped aside to let them in, his eyes scanning each of them carefully. They were Wildlings, but not all of them were the same. While many of the Free Folk were known for their ferocity, Stannon had carefully chosen the most civilized among them—the ones who had adapted to life beyond the harshness of the wild. These were the ones who had learned to work together, to trust their leader, and to follow him not just out of necessity but respect.
Stannon couldn't take all 153 Wildlings with him to King's Landing—that would be too risky and too dumb. It would draw too much attention, and the city would be too dangerous for such a large group. He needed to be careful. He watched them with a smile on his face as Syrio took his leave.
The first to step inside was Ragnok, the giant warrior who had once challenged Stannon for leadership. His face was scarred from countless battles, but his eyes held a certain intelligence that Stannon had come to admire. Ragnok's greeting was one of the Wildling customs, a strong but respectful nod. "Stormblade," he greeted, his voice low and deep.
It was the Wildling custom to greet their leader with respect, but not in a way that would show weakness. It was a warrior's greeting, one that spoke of both acknowledgment and equality.
Following him was Thessa, a scout with sharp eyes and a keen mind. Her red hair framed a face that, though hard from the cold, carried an air of quiet wisdom. When she saw Stannon, she gave him a slight bow—not too deep, but enough to show respect. "My leader," she said, her voice firm, her gaze unwavering.
Next was Varek, one of the quickest fighters Stannon had ever seen. Though not the tallest, Varek's agility made him just as dangerous as any warrior. He raised his fist over his heart, a common Wildling gesture, acknowledging Stannon as their leader. "Stormblade," he said simply, his tone steady and loyal.
Behind him came Kaera, a healer with a soothing presence. Her hands were worn from years of tending to the sick and injured, but her eyes were kind and compassionate. She stepped forward, her voice calm. "I've brought what you requested, Stormblade. The herbs and poultices you'll need for the journey."
Fjorn, a quiet scout known for his skill in navigating treacherous terrain, entered next. His movements were smooth and silent, like a shadow in the night. He gave a brief nod to Stannon. "We'll keep watch. No one will get past us."
The rest of the group filed in: Arvid, a solid fighter with a no-nonsense attitude; Tyr, a tracker whose sharp senses had kept the Wildlings safe on countless occasions; Hilda, a strong woman skilled in both combat and survival; and Birna, another healer who carried a wealth of knowledge passed down through generations. While Hrokk, Stenvar, Kaelrik were among the best fighters in the group and the remaining one Yrsa was a good hunter and a cook.
All of them had one thing in common—they had seen more than just the violence and chaos that most people thought of when they heard the word "Wildling." They were not savages, but survivors who had learned to adapt, to cooperate, and to form bonds stronger than the coldest winds of the North. They had lived among the Free Folk, but their loyalty was not just to the wilderness. It was to Stannon, their leader, the one who had shown them a new way—a way where strength came not only from bloodshed but also from wisdom, unity, and respect.
Ragnok was the first to speak, his deep voice carrying through the room. "We've traveled far, Stormblade. The road was cold, but it's nothing we can't handle. You've earned our trust, and we'll see this through to the end."
Thessa nodded in agreement, her sharp gaze taking in the room. "The road ahead won't be easy, but we're ready. We'll scout the path and make sure no one follows us."
Varek, ever the fighter, cracked his knuckles with a grin. "And if there's fighting to be done, you'll have us at your back."
Stannon couldn't help but feel a bit proud of himself for gathering such a group under him. Although the group was divided into different classes but all of these were actually fighters. Even the gentle looking Kaera could hold her own in a battle. Sometimes he even wondered whether Kaera was a Wilding as she definitely didn't behave like one.
Stannon shook off his thoughts and addressed them. "Thank you, all of you. Tomorrow, we head for King's Landing. The road will be dangerous, but we will make it through. Together."
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