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The morning sun cast golden light across the deck of the Sea Rose as Arthur Snow stood before three bound figures, his expression radiating the sort of benevolent cheer that made sensible men check their purses and bar their doors. The assassins—Brother Tormund of the Faith, Gareth the Crown's agent, and Sorrin of Volantis—sat trussed like festival hogs, their earlier attempts at his life having earned them Arthur's particular brand of mercy.
"Good news, lads," Arthur announced cheerfully, loud enough for the crew to hear. "These three gentlemen have graciously volunteered to assist with ship maintenance as penance for their... misunderstanding last evening."
Captain Blackwater, a weathered man who'd seen enough of life to know when not to ask questions, nodded approvingly. "Generous of them, considering they started that brawl over dice."
Arthur's black stallion, somehow managing to look smug despite being a horse, snorted what sounded suspiciously like laughter. The beast had taken to following Arthur's conversations with an intelligence that would have been unsettling if anyone had time to think about it properly.
"Indeed," Arthur agreed, untying the assassins' hands while leaving their feet securely bound. "I believe honest labor builds character. Don't you agree, Brother Tormund?"
The Faith militant, his usually stern face now sporting a magnificent bruise from Arthur's casual backhand, could only glare through his gag. His eyes promised holy retribution if he ever got free, which Arthur found endlessly amusing.
"Splendid! Your enthusiasm is infectious." Arthur produced three small brushes—the sort used for cleaning inkwells and detail work—and set them before the bound men. "We'll start with deck scrubbing. I want every plank spotless, every grain of wood visible. Take your time; thoroughness is what matters."
Gareth, the Crown's man, stared at the tiny brush in horror. He was accustomed to subtle poisonings and convenient accidents, not... whatever this was. His professional dignity demanded he maintain cover, but scrubbing decks with what amounted to a twig seemed designed to break a man's spirit.
Sorrin, the Volantene, picked up his brush with hands that had once wielded curved daggers in the fighting pits. His dark eyes burned with the sort of rage that toppled empires, but Arthur seemed supremely unconcerned with the warrior's obvious murderous intent.
"I'll check on your progress periodically," Arthur said, settling comfortably against the rail with his horse beside him. "Remember—pride in your work is the foundation of all virtue."
The next hour was a masterpiece of controlled humiliation. Brother Tormund attacked his section of deck with religious fervor, muttering prayers through his gag and treating each scrub stroke as penance for some imagined sin. Gareth attempted to maintain professional composure while crawling about on his bound legs, but his careful dignity crumbled as splinters embedded themselves in his knees. Sorrin worked with barely contained violence, each brush stroke accompanied by what were undoubtedly Valyrian curses of increasing creativity.
"Excellent progress!" Arthur called out, receiving approving nods from passing crew members. "Though I notice some inconsistency in the wood grain visibility on Sorrin's section. Perhaps we should start that area over?"
The Volantene's response was muffled but clearly anatomically impossible, even for someone as flexible as Arthur.
By midday, Arthur had escalated to sail mending. He provided each assassin with needles that seemed designed for embroidering butterfly wings and thread so fine it was nearly invisible. Their task was to repair a section of canvas with stitches so perfect they would make a Myrish lacemaker weep with envy.
"I'm afraid Gareth's work is rather sloppy," Arthur announced after his fourth inspection. "See how uneven these stitches are? We'll need to start fresh."
Gareth's eye twitched as Arthur casually undid an hour's worth of painstaking needlework. The spy had endured torture before, but this felt worse somehow—death would have been merciful compared to this endless cycle of futile labor.
Brother Tormund, meanwhile, had apparently found religious significance in the suffering. His stitches were becoming genuinely impressive as he channeled his frustration into achieving perfection. "The Father guides my needle," his expression seemed to say, "and through tedium, I shall find enlightenment."
"Inspiring dedication," Arthur murmured to his horse, who had taken to observing the proceedings with what could only be described as equine schadenfreude. "Though I think Sorrin might benefit from some kitchen duty. Nothing builds character like honest cooking."
The afternoon brought fresh torments as Arthur escorted his bound workforce to the ship's galley. The cook, a massive man named Willem with arms like tree trunks, welcomed the extra help with the sort of enthusiasm reserved for unexpected treasure.
"Can they handle knife work?" Willem asked, eyeing the three volunteers with professional interest.
"Oh, they're quite skilled with blades," Arthur replied with perfect sincerity. "Though I think we should start them with vegetables. Basic cutting techniques, you understand."
What followed was perhaps the greatest display of knife skill ever witnessed in a ship's galley, albeit completely by accident. Arthur demonstrated proper dicing technique with casual perfection—his blade moving so quickly it seemed to blur, reducing an onion to perfect cubes in seconds. The assassins, forced to replicate this with their bound feet and bruised pride, produced results that would have embarrassed children.
"Too uneven," Arthur declared, examining Gareth's massacred turnip. "Consistency is key in cooking, as in life. Start again."
Sorrin's proud warrior hands shook with rage as he attempted to julienne carrots with the delicate precision Arthur demanded. Each failure meant starting over, each mistake earned gentle correction that felt like sandpaper against his warrior's pride.
"I must say," Arthur commented loudly to Willem, "these three show remarkable dedication to improvement. See how Sorrin keeps practicing the same cut until he gets it right?"
Willem nodded approvingly, completely missing the murderous intent radiating from the Volantene. "Good workers are hard to find. Mind if I borrow them for dinner service?"
The dinner service was, from Arthur's perspective, a delightful success. The three assassins were forced to serve meals to the very crew members who had witnessed their "drunken brawl" the night before. Each sailor thanked them politely for their service, praising their work ethic and commenting on how refreshing it was to see men take responsibility for their mistakes.
Brother Tormund bore this with saintly patience, apparently having achieved some sort of transcendent acceptance of his fate. Gareth maintained professional composure through sheer stubborn pride, though his smile grew more strained with each grateful comment. Sorrin looked as though he might spontaneously combust from sheer rage, his dark skin flushed with the effort of not strangling everyone within reach.
"Heartwarming," Arthur observed to his horse as the three cleared tables with the sort of grim efficiency usually reserved for preparing mass graves. "Nothing quite like honest appreciation for honest work."
The horse whinnied what sounded distinctly like agreement, causing several crew members to comment on the animal's unusual intelligence.
As evening approached, Arthur announced the day's final task with the sort of cheerful enthusiasm that had come to fill his workforce with existential dread.
"Crow's nest cleaning," he declared, producing a length of rope that seemed designed specifically for this purpose. "Since you've been working so well as a team, I thought you might appreciate a group project."
The rope arrangement was diabolically simple—all three assassins bound together in a line, forced to climb to the ship's highest point while remaining connected. If one stumbled, all three would fall. If one worked too quickly, the others would be dragged along. It required cooperation from men who had spent the day fantasizing about each other's deaths.
"Take your time," Arthur called from the deck as his workforce slowly ascended the rigging like the world's most reluctant chain gang. "Safety first! And remember—every speck of dust, every bit of salt spray. I want that crow's nest spotless enough for a prince's inspection."
The ship chose that moment to hit rougher seas, adding a gentle rocking motion that transformed their precarious ascent into a test of will, balance, and the tensile strength of Arthur's knots. Brother Tormund prayed audibly, Gareth cursed creatively, and Sorrin seemed to be composing what sounded like an epic poem about revenge in Old Valyrian.
Arthur's horse watched the proceedings with what could only be described as satisfaction, occasionally snorting in ways that sounded suspiciously like laughter whenever one of the assassins slipped and dragged the others with him.
"Excellent teamwork!" Arthur shouted up at them as they finally reached the crow's nest and began their cleaning duties. "See how adversity brings people together?"
The cleaning itself became an exercise in coordinated misery. Every movement required negotiation between three men who spoke different languages, followed different gods, and shared only their mutual hatred of the cheerful bastard watching from below. They developed a grudging efficiency born of necessity—Sorrin's warrior reflexes, Gareth's careful precision, and Brother Tormund's methodical thoroughness combining into something approaching competence.
"Beautiful work!" Arthur called as they descended, their bound feet making each step a careful negotiation with gravity. "I can see the crow's nest gleaming from here!"
As they reached the deck, salt-stained and exhausted, Arthur inspected their work with the critical eye of a perfectionist. He nodded approvingly, then pointed to a spot they had apparently missed.
"Just one tiny area needs attention," he said with devastating cheer. "Back up you go!"
That was when they finally snapped.
Brother Tormund's religious patience cracked like ice in spring, Gareth's professional composure shattered like glass, and Sorrin's warrior pride exploded like wildfire. All three launched themselves at Arthur with a coordinated fury that would have been impressive if it weren't so completely futile.
Arthur defeated them without spilling a single drop from the wash bucket he'd been holding.
Brother Tormund found himself dangling upside-down from the rigging, his robes tangled around his ankles. Gareth somehow ended up folded into a storage barrel with only his legs visible. Sorrin was suspended horizontally between two ropes, spinning slowly like a very angry weathervane.
The crew burst into applause.
"Magnificent!" Captain Blackwater shouted, clearly believing he had just witnessed an impressive display of acrobatic entertainment. "How did you manage that juggling act with the wash water?"
Arthur bowed modestly, still holding the bucket without having lost so much as a splash. "Practice, Captain. Lots of practice."
As the three assassins were untangled and helped to their feet, Arthur announced his final judgment with the sort of paternal pride usually reserved for successful children.
"I believe you've all learned valuable life skills today," he said warmly. "Teamwork, dedication, attention to detail, and the satisfaction that comes from honest labor. Perhaps you'd like to seek employment at our next port? I'd be happy to provide references."
He produced three scrolls from somewhere in his coat, each bearing an elaborate description of their work ethic, dedication to improvement, and remarkable ability to handle constructive criticism. The documents were so glowing they could have secured positions in royal households.
"Your... rehabilitation has been truly inspiring," Arthur continued as the ship approached a small harbor town. "I'm sure you'll find honest work far more rewarding than your previous... misunderstandings."
The three assassins looked at their glowing references, then at each other, then at Arthur's cheerful smile and his horse's knowing expression. Without a word, they began edging toward the ship's rail, intent on leaping into the harbor at the first opportunity.
They never got the chance.
A shout from the crow's nest—now immaculately clean, thanks to their efforts—split the air: "Black sails to the east! Three ships bearing down fast!"
The crew erupted into motion. Captain Blackwater barked orders, men rushed to arms, and the mood of easy port arrival vanished into the grim rhythm of battle readiness. The approaching vessels flew no recognized banners, their dark hulls cutting through the waves with predatory intent.
Arthur's smile didn't falter. He tucked the reference scrolls back into his coat and patted his stallion's neck.
"Change of plans, lads," he said pleasantly to the assassins. "It seems we have visitors who lack proper manners."
The raiders came fast—sleek longships designed for quick strikes and quicker escapes. Pirates, most likely, drawn by rumors of merchant cargo and undefended prey. Three vessels full of armed men bearing down on a single trading ship should have been a massacre.
Should have been.
Arthur glanced at his bound workforce one final time, his expression shifting from cheerful instructor to something altogether more dangerous. "Wait here. Consider this part of your education."
Before any of them could respond, Arthur vaulted the rail with fluid grace that defied the laws of balance and gravity. He landed in the ship's small dinghy as though the sea itself had reached up to catch him, the tiny boat barely rocking despite his landing.
The assassins were herded to the rail by sailors eager to watch, though Captain Blackwater wisely ordered the rest of the crew to prepare for boarding rather than engage in open battle. From their vantage point at the ship's edge, only Tormund, Gareth, and Sorrin witnessed what happened next.
What they saw would haunt their dreams for years to come.
Arthur rowed toward the lead pirate ship with strokes that seemed to propel the dinghy faster than any oared vessel had right to move. The pirates, seeing a lone figure approaching in a tiny boat, erupted in mocking laughter.
"Look at this fool!" shouted one raider, hanging over the rail. "Coming to surrender himself!"
"Must be touched by the sun!" another cackled, slapping his knee. "Row faster, little fish! We promise to make it quick!"
"Maybe he's bringing us his purse to save us the trouble!" A third pirate made exaggerated rowing motions, causing his companions to howl with renewed mirth.
As Arthur drew closer, steadying himself in the dinghy with unnatural grace, a few of the pirates began to frown. There was something unsettling about the way he moved, too calm, too controlled.
"Turn back, boy!" called their captain, though his voice carried less amusement now. "Last chance before we introduce you to our steel!"
"Aye, swim for shore while you still can!" added another, but the jeering edge had faded to something more uncertain.
Arthur looked up at them with serene eyes and simply stepped upward, rising straight into the air as though climbing invisible stairs.
The deck fell silent except for the sound of dropped weapons hitting planking.
"Seven hells..." someone whispered.
"That's not... men can't..."
"Sorcery! He's a bloody sorcerer!"
Arthur landed softly on their deck with perfect balance, his boots making no sound against the weathered wood. The pirates stood frozen, hands halfway to weapons they suddenly doubted would be of any use.
"Good morning, gentlemen," Arthur said pleasantly, his voice carrying the same cheerful tone he'd used with his bound workforce. "I do hope you have a moment to discuss your recent career choices."
The slaughter that followed was less a battle than a demonstration of impossibility made manifest.
Arthur moved through the armed raiders like death given form. Blades struck where he had been moments before, finding only empty air. His sword—when he bothered to draw it—cut through armor, bone, and steel with equal ease. Men who had survived years of piracy, who had fought in a dozen desperate battles, fell like wheat before the scythe.
But it was the manner of their defeat that shattered the watching assassins' understanding of what was possible.
Arthur caught arrows in flight and turned them back on their archers. He walked on water between the ships as easily as crossing a tavern floor. When pirates tried to overwhelm him with numbers, he moved so quickly that he seemed to be fighting them simultaneously from multiple positions, his blade appearing and disappearing like lightning.
The first ship burned within minutes, its crew either dead or leaping into the sea to escape. The second tried to flee, but Arthur simply ran across the water's surface and boarded it before they could build speed. The third turned to fight, and Arthur—apparently growing bored with conventional methods—picked up the mainmast of the second ship and hurled it like a javelin, punching through the attacking vessel's hull and leaving it dead in the water.
When the brief, impossible battle ended, Arthur stood alone on the deck of the first pirate ship, surrounded by bodies and wreckage, not a single drop of blood on his clothes. He gathered what appeared to be their cargo manifest and a few choice weapons, then simply walked back across the water to his dinghy as though the intervening distance were solid ground.
The crew of the Sea Rose saw only distant smoke and debris. To them, it seemed as though the pirates had been driven off by bad luck or divine intervention. They cheered and went about their business, grateful to have avoided a fight.
But the assassins had watched every impossible heartbeat of the destruction. They had seen Arthur sink three ships and slaughter dozens of armed men without breaking stride, defying every law of nature and warfare they understood. Their gags muffled any words, but their eyes told the truth: horror, awe, and the first spark of something approaching worship.
Arthur climbed back aboard the Sea Rose, not even breathing hard, his smile as pleasant as ever. His horse whinnied once—a sound smug and knowing, as though the animal had expected nothing less.
"Problem resolved," Arthur announced cheerfully to Captain Blackwater, handing over the pirates' cargo manifest as though it were a dinner invitation. "They were carrying some interesting goods. You might want to send a boat to salvage what's floating."
The captain accepted the manifest with trembling hands, his weathered face pale as he read descriptions of cargo that would make the voyage profitable beyond his wildest dreams. "How did you... I mean, where did they..."
"Sailed away, mostly," Arthur replied with perfect sincerity. "Though I think one of them might have hit a reef. Dangerous waters around here."
The crew cheered, believing the pirates driven off by luck and bluster. Captain Blackwater clapped Arthur on the shoulder, muttering something about "blessed fortune" and "divine protection."
Arthur only nodded, eyes glinting faintly as he glanced at the assassins. They said nothing, each lost in the realization that what they had witnessed was not skill alone—it was something beyond the realm of mortal possibility.
Later, as night fell and the Sea Rose sailed on through calm seas made rich by salvaged pirate treasure, the assassins sat in contemplative silence, still bound but no longer thinking of escape.
Brother Tormund whispered prayers to gods he suddenly wasn't sure could answer them, his faith shaken by witnessing power that seemed to render divine intervention irrelevant.
Gareth calculated and recalculated, discarding every plan and stratagem as he realized the Crown itself might not comprehend the nature of what they had tried to eliminate.
And Sorrin stared at the stars with clenched fists, the warrior in him both humbled and strangely exhilarated by the knowledge that such perfection of combat existed in the world.
Arthur, gently brushing his horse's mane while the animal dozed contentedly, spoke softly enough that only the assassins could hear.
"Rehabilitation," he said with quiet satisfaction, his voice carrying the weight of absolute certainty. "It works best when paired with proper demonstrations of what excellence truly means."
The horse snorted in sleepy agreement.
The assassins said nothing. They understood now that their failure had never been in doubt. Against a man who could walk on water and hurl ship masts like spears, assassination was not just impossible—it was a fundamentally flawed concept.
As the Sea Rose sailed through the night toward distant ports, three of the realm's most dangerous killers sat bound and silent, their thoughts no longer on murder or mission completion, but on the terrifying and wonderful realization that they had been chosen to witness the impossible made real.
They were no longer assassins.
They were witnesses to something far greater than they had words to describe.
And somehow, in the depths of their professional pride and personal terror, that felt like the most honest work they had ever done.