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Three days into their voyage, the Sea Rose had settled into a comfortable rhythm. The crew went about their duties, Captain Blackwater checked his charts twice daily, and Arthur Snow spent his mornings tending to his horse in the ship's small cargo hold. The magnificent black stallion—a gift from his company back north—had adapted to sea travel better than most men, though it occasionally gave Arthur looks that suggested it found the whole enterprise beneath its dignity.
What none of the legitimate crew realized was that they were sailing aboard the most overstaffed assassination attempt in maritime history.
Brother Tormund, the Faith's chosen killer, had spent two days looking for the perfect opportunity to slip poison into Arthur's food. Unfortunately, his target had the annoying habit of eating only what he prepared himself, and seemed to survive perfectly well on hard bread and dried meat from his own supplies.
"Suspicious bastard," Tormund muttered, watching Arthur feed his horse an apple. "What kind of man doesn't trust good ship's cooking?"
From across the deck, Gareth the Crown's agent was having similar frustrations. His orders had been clear: make it look like an accident. Pirates, storm damage, man overboard—anything but an obvious murder. The problem was that Arthur Snow seemed incapable of having accidents. The man moved across a swaying deck like he'd been born at sea, never stumbled, never grabbed the wrong rope, never even looked like he might slip on the wet planks.
"It's unnatural," Gareth complained quietly to himself. "No one has balance that good."
Meanwhile, Sorrin of Volantis was growing increasingly irritated with the whole affair. He'd been promised a challenging target, a warrior worthy of his skills. Instead, he'd spent three days watching a boy tend to a horse and stare thoughtfully at the horizon. Where was the legendary fighter who had defeated Ser Jaime Lannister? Where were the mysterious powers that had caught the attention of his priestess?
"Perhaps the reports were exaggerated," he mused, fingering the poisoned blade concealed in his sleeve.
What none of them realized was that Arthur was thoroughly enjoying himself.
On the fourth morning, things finally came to a head.
Brother Tormund had decided that if he couldn't poison Arthur's food, he'd poison his water. He crept toward the barrel Arthur used for his morning ablutions, a vial of concentrated nightshade in his trembling hands.
At the same time, Gareth had concluded that Arthur's daily routine of checking his horse presented the perfect opportunity for an "accident." A loose rope, a startled animal, a tragic kick to the head—it would be perfect.
And Sorrin, finally losing patience with subtlety, had decided to simply kill the boy during his dawn meditation and claim the death was the work of Essosi pirates.
All three converged on Arthur's location simultaneously.
Arthur was brushing his horse's mane, speaking quietly to the animal in what sounded like an ancient northern dialect. The stallion's ears were pricked forward attentively, as if it understood every word.
"Now then, old friend," Arthur was saying, "I count three would-be killers approaching. The one with the poison moves like a septon trying to sneak past temple guards. The one with the rope has the subtlety of a charging boar. And our Volantene friend thinks he's invisible, which is amusing since he's wearing enough perfume to choke a dragon."
The horse snorted, and Arthur could swear it was laughing.
Brother Tormund reached the water barrel first, uncorking his vial with shaking hands. Unfortunately, in his nervousness, he failed to notice Gareth approaching from the other side with his "accidentally" frayed rope.
"What are you doing?" Gareth hissed, seeing the septon hovering over the barrel.
"Ship's business," Tormund snapped back. "Move along."
"That's Lord Snow's water barrel, you fool!"
"I know exactly what it is."
Their heated whisper-argument was interrupted by Sorrin emerging from behind a stack of cargo, poisoned blade gleaming in the morning sun.
"Stand aside, both of you," he commanded in accented Common Tongue. "I have business with the Northern boy."
All three men froze, staring at each other in dawning horror.
"You're here to kill him too?" Tormund gasped.
"And you?" Gareth demanded of the septon.
"All three of us?" Sorrin's eyes narrowed dangerously.
The situation might have devolved into a three-way knife fight, but Arthur chose that moment to turn around, still holding his horse's brush.
"Good morning, gentlemen," he said pleasantly. "Lovely day for murder, isn't it?"
Three sets of eyes turned to him in shock.
"You... you knew?" Tormund stammered.
"Of course I knew," Arthur replied, giving his horse a final pat. The stallion seemed to roll its eyes at the assassins' stupidity. "Brother Tormund of the Faith Militant—well, former Faith Militant—sent to poison me with nightshade. Rather crude, but I suppose the Seven value enthusiasm over expertise."
He turned to Gareth. "And you must be one of Lord Varys' little birds. Interesting choice, trying to make it look accidental. Very professional. Though you might want to work on your rope-fraying technique—it's rather obvious."
Finally, his grey eyes settled on Sorrin. "And the famous Sorrin of Volantis. Your reputation precedes you, though I must say, that blade work in Tyrosh was somewhat sloppy. The fire priest deserved better."
Sorrin's face went white. That assassination had been his most secret work, known only to his priestess and...
"How could you possibly—"
"Know about your various murders?" Arthur smiled. "Let's just say I have an interest in keeping track of dangerous individuals."
The three assassins exchanged glances, and Tormund made the first move, lunging forward with a poisoned dagger. Arthur sidestepped casually, and the septon crashed into Gareth, who had been reaching for his own weapon.
Sorrin, seeing his opportunity, leaped forward with his blade aimed at Arthur's heart.
What happened next was almost too fast to follow.
Arthur moved like flowing water, his hand shooting out to catch Sorrin's wrist. The Volantene found himself flying through the air to crash into the water barrel, which exploded in a shower of splinters and nightshade-tainted water.
Brother Tormund, trying to untangle himself from Gareth, suddenly found his own poison dagger pressed against his throat—held in Arthur's other hand.
"How did you—" Tormund began.
"Experience," Arthur said simply, then tapped a pressure point on the septon's neck. Tormund collapsed like a sack of grain, snoring loudly.
Gareth, now weaponless and terrified, tried to scramble away, but Arthur's boot came down gently on his back, pinning him to the deck without apparent effort.
"Please," Gareth gasped, "I was just following orders!"
"I'm sure you were," Arthur said kindly. "Sleep now."
Another pressure point tap, and Gareth joined his fellow assassin in enforced slumber.
Sorrin, soaked and furious, climbed out of the wreckage of the water barrel, fire magic beginning to flicker around his hands.
"You think you can—"
Arthur flicked a piece of wood from the broken barrel. It struck Sorrin's forehead with a soft thunk, and the fire priest toppled backward, unconscious before he hit the deck.
The entire fight had lasted perhaps ten seconds.
Arthur's horse whinnied softly, and Arthur could swear it sounded approving.
"Yes, I know," Arthur said, scratching behind the stallion's ears. "Hardly worth the trouble, was it?"
Captain Blackwater came running at the sound of the commotion, stopping short when he saw three unconscious men scattered around Arthur and a destroyed water barrel.
"Lord Snow! What happened? Are you hurt?"
Arthur looked down at the three would-be killers, then at his horse, which seemed to be smirking.
"Just a small misunderstanding, Captain," he said cheerfully. "These three gentlemen appeared to be suffering from some form of shared delusion. I helped them find some rest."
"Should I... should I put them in chains?"
Arthur considered this. "I don't think that will be necessary. When they wake up, I suspect they'll be far too embarrassed to cause any more trouble. Though you might want to assign them to different shifts—they don't seem to work well together."
As the captain departed, muttering about the strangeness of passengers, Arthur returned to grooming his horse.
"Well, old friend," he said quietly, "that was certainly educational. Three factions, three assassins, and not one of them bothered to do proper reconnaissance. It's almost insulting, really."
The horse snorted in what sounded remarkably like agreement.
Far below deck, three professional killers slept peacefully, each dreaming of career changes and wondering why they'd ever thought assassination was a sensible profession.