The wind whipped the banners of House Stackhouse as Jasim tightened the straps on his horse.
The morning was gray, as it almost always was in this place where the cold seeped through the bones, even through the chainmail Jasim wore beneath his cloak. There was no one to see him off, only a couple of stable boys eyeing him warily from a distance. Not that he expected anything else. Ever since he swore to avenge the death of his older brother, he had learned to live without company. Only with the weight of the Valyrian steel longsword hanging from his waist, which reminded him daily of who he was and why he was here.
"Let's go, Mordisco," he muttered through his teeth to the horse, which neighed and pawed at the frost-covered ground like a fierce and temperamental beast unafraid of battle, and began the long journey south.
On his way to King's Landing, he encountered a group of bandits near The Neck attacking Eddar Reed, lord of the crannogmen. However, upon seeing him, they fled as if the devil himself were chasing them, mistaking him for one of the Others.
Those bandits had taken refuge there, but they were not wicked people—just hungry and as desperate as any man who had not eaten or earned a single coin in days.
Jasim sighed after Eddar Reed thanked him.
Jasim Stackhouse was not a man who enjoyed confrontations; besides, his mind was elsewhere—on the tournament, on his brother's killer, and on the blood that would soon stain the grounds of the Dragonpit.
For the following weeks, he rode alone. Sometimes, he shared a campfire with merchants or mercenaries, but never for more than one night.
He listened to men talk too much, and he had no patience for stories about failed harvests. In one of those conversations, a red-haired man had boasted about deflowering a maiden in a tavern. The only thing that mattered to Jasim was reaching that damned city in time.
One night, in an inn near the Trident, a drunkard tried to steal his coin pouch while he slept. Jasim woke up before the thief could touch him. With a swift movement, he unsheathed his curved dagger and pressed the blade against the man's throat.
"Do you think I'm stupid?" he growled, his voice low and dangerous, like the cracking of an ice floe. "Get lost before I decide to cut off more than just your hand."
The drunkard bolted, leaving behind a trail of urine and blood. Jasim wiped the dagger on the sheet before sheathing it again. Then, he stepped out of the tavern, walked to a small stream, and splashed cold water on his face. It wasn't the first time someone had tried to deceive him, and it wouldn't be the last.
But each encounter had hardened him into what he was.
He was aware that in the tournament, there would be no clumsy thieves or drunkards. There, only the best—the deadliest—would be present. And among them, he would find the one responsible for Toma's death.
The morning he arrived in King's Landing, the stench hit him like a punch to the stomach.
The foul odor of rotting garbage, filth, and the intense scent of sweat and cheap perfume soon gave way to the fragrances of rose oil, lavender, and sandalwood as he reached Steel Street. It was impossible to ignore. Nor were the moans coming from the inns.
Jasim continued guiding Mordisco through the crowded streets, where ragged beggars crawled through the muddy puddles, and nobles in silk garments gleamed as they passed in their gold-plated carriages.
No one paid any attention to the northern warrior, his modest clothing, or the narrowed eyes that scanned every detail of the city.
After a while, he settled in an inn called "The Lame Raven," where the innkeeper—a fat man with a greasy tuft of hair falling over his sweaty forehead—attempted to strike up a conversation with Jasim.
"So, you've come for the Blood Game, huh?" he said, wiping a mug with a filthy rag. "Many say it's madness, but I say if you've got guts, you've got a chance. Who knows? Maybe you'll be the next champion."
Jasim's gray eyes locked onto the innkeeper, who swallowed hard and stepped away, feeling both urgency and panic. First, his stomach twisted, as if something inside him were churning. Then, an uncomfortable heat crawled up his spine, followed by a shiver that screamed: find a privy now, or you'll become a legend for the worst reason.
That night, Jasim walked through the city. He needed fresh air, though that was hard to find in this human cesspool. His boots echoed against the cobblestones as he made his way to the port, where a group of drunken sailors sang obscene songs and prostitutes called out to him.
After a while, he found a half-rotted plank and sat down to watch the dark waters of the sea. He thought of Toma, of how his body had been found floating in the Acorn Water river.
Who had killed him? Why? Those questions haunted him like ghosts.
"You shouldn't be here this late," a female voice said behind him. He turned as quickly as he could, his hand already on his sword's hilt.
Then he saw her—a young woman, barely out of adolescence, looking at him with a mix of curiosity and caution. She wore a tattered dress and a scarf covering her hair, but her green eyes gleamed with intelligence.
"Oh yeah? And what else do you know?" Jasim replied.
"I know that outsiders who come for the tournament often end up dead before they even reach the Dragonpit. You know? This place isn't safe for anyone—not even for guys like you."
Jasim arched an eyebrow. The girl had piqued his interest.
"Guys like me? Look, girl, I appreciate the warning, but if you'll excuse me, I have to return to the tavern," Jasim replied and stood up.
"Wait, man. There's something you should know. Tomorrow, at the market, some of the other participants will be gathering to make deals. If you want to learn how to survive the tournament, you might want to be there."
"Where?" Jasim asked, stopping to look into the girl's eyes.
"The market, man. Are you deaf?" she replied, flashing white but crooked teeth as she grinned.
"And why are you telling me this? What do you want in return?"
"You'll find out when you get there," she answered.
Jasim sighed and opened his mouth to ask the girl's name, but she moved so quickly through the crowd on the beach that he lost sight of her. All he could find was the scarf that had covered her hair—perhaps it had fallen when she ran away.
Jasim bent down to pick it up. He brought it to his nose and inhaled. It had a sweet, natural scent with traces of hibiscus flowers and the salty air of the port.
Jasim returned to the tavern. There was the innkeeper, drinking some mead after fate had aligned to allow him a sigh of relief. But the moment he saw the northerner again, his dignity and desperation entered into battle.
Jasim ignored him and went up to his room, but he barely slept. He sat by the window, sharpening his sword, slowly sliding the whetstone along the blade.
"Damn it," he muttered, shaking his head to dispel the thoughts that had begun to torment him. "Who was she? And why did she give me that information?"
At dawn, he dressed carefully, adjusting each piece of his armor as if it were the last time he would do so. He took the scarf he had found and went downstairs to the inn's dining room, where the innkeeper served him a meager breakfast—hard bread, old cheese, and a bowl of seafood soup. Jasim ate in silence, ignoring the innkeeper, who seemed eager to say something. When he finished, he paid his bill and stepped out into the street, ready to face whatever awaited him at the market.
He didn't know what he would find there—perhaps a trap, or maybe the girl had given him valuable information.
The moment he arrived at the market, the noise of the crowd filled his ears so much that he didn't hear the young woman's steps as she followed him from a distance.
"Hey, handsome!" she shouted from a lettuce stall. "I think you have something that belongs to me. Would you give it back?"
Jasim took a step toward her, but then three men disguised as merchants lunged at him.