The sun was just beginning to peek through the trees when Darvin Casterly adjusted the straps on his backpack and left the makeshift camp where he'd spent the night. He had been traveling alone for several days since leaving Casterlyrock—as he had ever since abandoning his life as a bandit. He trusted no one, not even his own shadow. His only company was the weight of the curved daggers hanging from his belt and the reinforced rope coiled around his left forearm, a testament to the many times he had ended his targets' lives. Besides, he had learned many summers ago that loyalty was a luxury he couldn't afford.
The journey to King's Landing was long and crowded with men like himself. During one of his breaks, he decided to rest briefly at an inn near the Trident. That night, he shared a table with a group of travelers who were loudly discussing the Blood Game. One of them—a man with a scar on his neck and breath reeking of cheap wine—tried to intimidate Darvin.
"Are you heading to the tournament, kid? You don't strike me as the kind of man who can last more than five minutes in that arena," the man said in a heavy, loaded tone that Darvin took as an insult.
Darvin merely looked at him and said nothing. He slowly shifted his gaze until he fixed his eyes on the mercenary like a predator. The man burst into laughter as if he wasn't dying to run away, but something in Darvin's expression silenced him. No one else spoke as Darvin finished his meal and left the inn without looking back.
When he arrived in King's Landing, the stench of the city hit him like a slap from a jealous woman. There was rotten garbage, human excrement, and the smoke of a thousand bonfires mingling with the sickly-sweet aroma of burnt meat. It was a place he hated as much as newborn sea turtles despise crawling toward the ocean—but he had no other choice. He needed to be there, even if it meant facing individuals far worse than himself.
He headed to the market without paying much attention to what was happening around him, even though that was against his nature; he had heard from a woman that some of the tournament participants would gather before the event. He didn't expect to find anything useful, yet something in his primal instincts told him he should be there.
When he arrived, he saw a tall man with dark hair and a scar on his cheek surrounded by three figures disguised as merchants. Jasim Stackhouse was in trouble, and although Darvin wasn't known for helping people, something inside him urged him to act. He unsheathed his daggers and moved swiftly through the crowd. The attackers didn't see him coming. With movements faster than the breath of an ice dragon freezing a human and as precise as those of an Arcian, he disarmed one and slit another's throat before they could react. The third tried to escape, but Darvin hurled his dagger, embedding it in the back of the man's neck.
Jasim looked at him with a mixture of surprise and distrust, clenching the hilt of his longsword as he tried to stand—only to collapse back into his seat.
"Why did you help me?" he asked, his voice colder than any winter in the North.
Darvin shrugged and wiped the blood off his daggers on the clothing of one of Jasim's attackers.
"Don't ask me—I don't even know myself," he replied, drier than the Dornish desert.
When it was all over, Darvin extended his hand to help Jasim up. Then he offered his shoulder, and together they returned to the tavern.
"What happened here?" asked the innkeeper, who had just come back from relieving himself. Yet this time, upon seeing Jasim in his current state, he didn't feel the same reaction. Wiping both his hands on his apron, he approached Darvin and Jasim to help them get to a room.
"You could have let me die," said Jasim as Darvin changed the bandages on his wounds. "Why didn't you?"
Darvin looked at him for a few seconds before replying,
"Because we both need to stay alive—the tournament isn't easy, you know."
"You smell like Toma," Jasim abruptly changed the subject, catching the aroma emanating from Darvin. It smelled of gold coins, the blood of those he'd killed, and the cries of their mothers, fathers, or children. But he said no more.
"Who's this Toma?" Darvin asked, trying to hide the growing lump in his throat.
Despite himself, his mind drifted back to that night years ago when a man he didn't yet know had hired him to assassinate Toma Stackhouse.
"My brother," Jasim replied.
"Your brother?" Darvin asked, feeling the knot in his throat begin to ease even as it threatened to tear at him. In that moment, Toma had been nothing more than another name on his list of targets. But now, hearing Jasim say that Toma was his brother, Darvin's conscience began to weigh on him for having taken a life.
"I'd better go downstairs to see if Seban has already prepared the cloths to bring down your fever," he murmured as he moved toward the door, effectively ending the conversation.
As soon as he stepped out, he encountered Seban.
"Leaving so soon?" the innkeeper asked.
"Yes. I think you can take care of him—and don't worry about the money, it's all on me." Darvin pulled out a bag of coins and tossed it to Seban. "Besides, someone has to register him for the tournament."
Seban Crowlin watched him leave; he knew him too well to fall for any pretense. There was another reason to steer clear of that place. However, as long as Darvin paid, he wasn't going to get involved in a matter that didn't interest or suit him. He went into the room and placed the cloths on the Northern warrior's forehead.
Hours later, Darvin entered Jasim's room again.
"Why are you helping me?" Jasim asked, breaking the silence.
"Let's just say I'm not helping," Darvin interjected, preventing the Northerner from prying any further into his life. "Let's say I'm investing."
The Southerner's words made the seriousness on Jasim's face fade for a moment.
"Investing? So you mean I'm an investment to you?"
Darvin looked at Jasim. He didn't want to sound rude, but he also didn't want to seem overly friendly.
"Look, I'm here for one reason only. I want to win the tournament and achieve my goal. I want to purge the remorse I carry for having taken so many lives"—Darvin felt as if a part of him was lifting—"And what brings you here?"
"Revenge," Jasim replied, shaking his head as he tried to process the man's words.
Darvin smiled and extended his hand to Jasim.
"You know I'm also entering the tournament, but for now, why don't we join forces?"
"I'm not one to trust people I've just met, but I'll give you a vote of confidence," Jasim answered.
Just then, Seban Crowlin entered the room carrying a tray with a piece of lamb and a jug of beer.