Arthur stumbled through the alleys of King's Landing, his heart hammering in his chest like a drum, each step driven by the singular need to find Mira. The city was a labyrinth at night, its narrow streets choked with refuse and quite a few people with nowhere to sleep. He kept his head low, the hood of the dark cloak pulled tight to conceal his face; he'd gotten the cloak last night when using the otherworld token much to his disappointment, there was nothing special about it, the cloak was common, threadbare at the hems, but it was better than nothing.
Last night he had collapsed in an alleyway after fleeing the inn, exhaustion and the lingering effects of Red Sleep dragging him down like chains. By some miracle, no cutpurse had found him while he slept, his four silver moons still tucked in the overlarge breeches he'd stolen from the innkeeper.
His body screamed with every movement, the aftereffects of months of drugging and starvation clawing at him. His stomach churned, and he doubled over in the alley opposite Madame Lysa's brothel, retching bile onto the cobblestones, the sour taste burning his throat. The months of Red Sleep had ravaged him— as well as too much wine, too little food, his skin felt clammy and feverish. The adrenaline that had carried him through the brawl at the inn had long since faded, leaving only a bone-deep exhaustion that threatened to pull him under again. He wanted nothing more than a hot meal, a soft bed, a moment to breathe. But Mira was out there, somewhere in Willem's grasp, and Lysa was his only lead. She would know where the trader's manse was.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, the taste of vomit lingering, and steadied himself against the alley wall. The brothel stood across the street, its lanterns glowing red through the windows, laughter and moans spilling into the night like a siren's call. Guards stood at the entrance, more than before—likely because of the chaos he'd caused the night before. His fists clenched, the memory of Mira's face steeling him. He would get answers, no matter the cost. He adjusted the cloak, pulled the hood lower, and prepared to slip inside.
Arthur slipped across the street, his hooded cloak blending into the shadows as he moved toward the Rusty Anchor. The brothel's entrance was guarded by three men now, their bulk filling the doorway, cudgels resting on their shoulders and eyes scanning the night, though clearly not veryw well. Arthur's heart pounded, but he forced his steps to remain silent, his feet finding the gaps between stones. He circled to the alley behind, where a narrow servants' entrance stood unguarded, the door ajar to let out the kitchen's heat. He slipped inside, the air made him gag, it was filled with the scent of cheap perfume and spilled wine and various bodily fluids.
The corridor was dimly lit, velvet curtains muffling the moans and laughter from the common room. Arthur pressed himself against the wall. He moved past a serving girl balancing a tray of goblets, her eyes flicking to him but dismissing him as just another client. A drunken patron stumbled from an alcove, his arm around a giggling whore, and Arthur ducked into a nook, waiting until their footsteps faded. The stairs to the upper rooms were at the hall's end, and he climbed them silently, avoiding the creaking boards. The guards below didn't notice, their attention on the raucous crowd, but Arthur knew more would be patrolling after his last outburst.
He reached Madame Lysa's private chambers, a heavy oak door carved with roses, the faint glow of a lantern seeping beneath. He tested the handle and found it was unlocked and slipped inside, closing it behind him with a soft click. The room was opulent, a four-poster bed draped in crimson silk, a fancy desk littered with ledgers and a silver inkpot, tapestries of lovers in tangled embraces lining the walls. Arthur crouched behind a velvet screen, the bludgeon stolen from the innkeeper in his hand. He waited, every muscle tensed for the moment Lysa appeared.
The door opened minutes later, Lysa's heels clicking on the floorboards as she entered, a goblet of wine in one hand. She hummed softly, oblivious to his presence, setting the goblet on the desk and moving to the mirror to adjust her bodice, her breasts straining against the silk. Arthur moved like a shadow, springing from his hiding place and clamping his hand over her mouth, his arm locking around her waist as he dragged her back against his chest.
"Don't scream," he whispered, the bludgeon pressed to her side. "I'll snap your neck if you do."
Lysa stiffened, her eyes wide in the mirror's reflection, but she nodded, her body trembling under his grip. Arthur turned her roughly to face him, keeping his hand over her mouth, his other arm pinning her arms to her sides. Her perfume choked him, jasmine and musk cloying in his throat, but he held her gaze, his eyes burning with rage. "Where's Mira? Where's Willem's manse? Tell me now, or I swear I'll kill you."
Lysa's eyes darted to the door, her composure cracking, but she composed herself,. "Arthur, sweet boy, let's not be rash. Willem's dangerous... more than you know. He could have me killed for telling you anything. You don't understand the web you're in."
He tightened his grip, his fingers digging into her jaw, the bludgeon pressing harder. "Don't play games with me. Where is his manse!?"
She hesitated, her eyes flicking to the door again, a faint shadow moving beneath it. A sly smile curled her lips, her fear giving way to arrogance. "You think you can scare me, boy? When they drag you back here—and they will—I'll give you to the sick old sword swallowers from Flea Bottom. They'll ruin that pretty arse of yours, tear you apart until you're nothing but a husk." She laughed, a throaty cackle that echoed in the room, her confidence returning as the shadow grew larger.
Arthur glared at her, his rage boiling, but before he could respond, the door crashed inward, splintering off its hinges. Karl strode in with a smug grin on his face, his dark hair falling over eyes that gleamed with amusement. Two gold cloaks flanked him, their swords drawn, armor clinking as they spread out to corner Arthur against the wall. Lysa stepped back, her smile triumphant, brushing her gown as if dusting off his touch.
A notification flashed in Arthur's vision.
_______________________________
[NEW QUEST RECEIVED]
ESCAPE THE ANCHOR
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Description:
The Rusty Anchor is no longer just a brothel—it's a trap. Guards loyal to Madame Lysa are closing in, and her enforcers are already searching the halls. You must escape before they catch you and drag you back into chains. Every second counts.
Objectives:
– Flee the Rusty Anchor before capture
Bonus Objectives:
– Escape without being hurt
– Retrieve your stolen belongings before leaving
Rewards:
– 100 XP
– Random Weapon
Bonus Rewards:
– +1 Agility
– Random Skill Scroll
Failure:
– Capture
– Enslavement
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Arthur's heart pounded, his grip tightening on the bludgeon, his body trapped between the advancing guards and the wall at his back. He was cornered they'd overwhelm him for sure, these were trained soldiers not farmers, but Mira's face burned in his mind, giving him no choice but to fight.
Karl stepped forward looking around the room a little distatsfulky before his gaze settled on Arthur. His ugly features twisted into a mocking grin, his dark eyes gleaming with an amusement as he looked Arthur up and down. Madame Lysa stood to the side, her emerald gown brushing the wall, her smile mocking as she adjusted a jeweled pin in her hair.
"Well, well, you must be Arthur," Karl said in a taunting boice. "Willem's hurt, Arthur, in fact he's seven near-heartbroken that you didn't like your fine accommodations here. All those noble ladies singing your praises, and you run off like an ungrateful cur. Shameful, lad."
Arthur's chest heaved, rage boiling over like a kettle left too long on the fire. He took a step forward, the bludgeon raised. "Where's Mira? Tell me now, or I'll beat it out of you," he said in a low growl.
Karl laughed, a sharp bark that echoed off the walls, and the gold cloaks joined in, their chuckles grating as they shifted their grips on their swords. "You trying to Intimidate us?" Karl said, his grin widening. "You? A half-starved farm boy in overgrown rags? You're bold, I'll give you that."
Lysa sauntered closer, her hips swaying, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "Be a good boy, Arthur. Come back quietly, and we'll forget this little tantrum. You can live in luxury here, bedding noble ladies, drinking fine wine, no worries but pleasing your betters. Doesn't that sound better than the being tossed in the blackwater Mmm?"
Arthur's eyes burned with fury, his knuckles whitening around the bludgeon. "You're a vile snake, Lysa, peddling flesh for coin. I'd rather die in a ditch than touch any women that come here. You and your whores can rot in the seventh hell."
Lysa's smile faltered, her face flushing with anger, but Karl let out a loud laugh, slapping his thigh. "Gods, lad, you've got a tongue on you! That cut deeper than a Valyrian blade. Pity it won't save you." His grin vanished, his voice turning cold as steel. "Sorry Lysa but Willem wants him dead, and he wants it to hurt. Boys!" He gestured to the gold cloaks, who stepped forward and raised their swords.
Arthur's heart raced, panic surging as he saw the guards in heavy armour approaching him. He was outnumbered, cornered, his was already exhausted, even if he was at his best this wasn't a fight he could win. But Mira's face flashed in his mind and he squared his shoulders. "I'm not dying here," he growled, activating Novacaine and Demon Back.
The first gold cloak lunged, his sword slashing in a high arc toward Arthur's head. Arthur dodged left, the blade whistling past his ear, and swung the bludgeon with all his might, the wood cracking against the man's helmet with a sound like a hammer on stone. The guard's head snapped back, his body crumpling to the floor, unconscious, the helmet dented and blood seeping from his temple. The bludgeon splintered in half, useless now, and Arthur dropped it, leaving him open.
The second gold cloak seized the moment, his sword slashing across Arthur's shoulder and down his side, cutting a long groove through flesh. Blood welled instantly, soaking this outfit, but Novacaine dulled the pain completely. Arthur surged forward, using his body weight to slam into the guard, his shoulder driving into the man's chest with all his weight. The guard stumbled back, tripping over a rug and crashing to the floor with a clatter of armor, his sword skidding across the boards.
Arthur scrambled for the fallen guard's sword, snatching it up and whirling to face Karl, the blade steady in his hand despite the blood dripping from his side. He pointed it at the man. "Tell me where she is, or I'll gut you."
Karl laughed again completely unfazed, he then drew own sword drawn in a fluid motion, the steel flourished in his hands with a casuall grace. "Let's see how skilled you are, boy. You've got spirit, but I know how to break spirits."
Karl rushed Arthur, his sword slashing down in a brutal overhead strike. Arthur brought his own sword up, the blades clanging together with a force that vibrated through his arms. Karl was taller, his reach longer, and he used it, grabbing Arthur's arm with his free hand and yanking him to the side, leveraging his height to throw Arthur off balance. Arthur stumbled, his feet slipping on the blood-slicked floorboards, and Karl's boot slammed into his side, the kick landing hard against his ribs. Arthur grunted, keeping his grip on the sword, and managed to deflect a follow-up slash from Karl, the steel scraping with a screech that echoed in the small room.
Arthur reversed his grip, thrusting the sword forward with both hands, aiming for Karl's chest. Karl hopped back, surprise flickering across his face as the blade missed by inches, slicing only air. "You know your way around a sword, boy," Karl said, his voice a mix of mockery and grudging respect. "But I've beaten seasoned knights before. You're nothing to me." He charged again, his slashes faster now.
The second gold cloak also scrambled to his feet, and joined the fray, slashing at Arthur from the side. Arthur stepped out of the way, the blade grazing his hip, drawing a thin line of blood, but the move put him right in Karl's path. Karl kicked his leg, the blow connecting with Arthur's knee, and followed with a hilt-strike to his chest, sending him sprawling to the floor with a thud that rattled the desk, inkpots and papers scattering. Arthur barely blocked Karl's next downward strike, the force pushing his sword arm down, the blade trembling in his grip.
The gold cloak lunged again, his sword arcing toward Arthur's neck. Arthur rolled out of the way, the blade embedding in the floorboards with a splintering crack, and kicked the guard's kneecap, the man's shout of pain filling the room as he staggered. Arthur scrambled to his feet, his breath ragged, but Karl was relentless, his slashes coming faster, stronger, each one driving Arthur back toward the wall. Arthur parried desperately, the steel ringing with each clash, but Karl's skill was undeniable he knew exactly what to do and how to lead the fight.
"You're outmatched, boy," Karl taunted, his blade thrusting forward, aimed at Arthur's shoulder. Arthur twisted, the sword grazing his arm, blood welling, but he countered with a slash of his own, catching Karl's forearm and drawing a thin cut. Karl hissed, his eyes narrowing, and pressed harder, going into a short combination that forced Arthur to retreat step by step, his back nearing the wall.
Novacaine wore off then, the pain from his shoulder, side, and now his arm crashing through him like a tidal wave, nearly making him drop the sword. His vision swam, his knees buckling, but he steadied himself, gripping the hilt with both hands, his knuckles white. "I'm not dying here," he growled, his voice raw with defiance. "Not until I find her."
Karl laughed, a cold, mocking sound. "Find her? You'll be dead before dawn lad, it's over for you." He rushed forward, his sword slashing in a high arc, and Arthur blocked, the force driving him to one knee. The gold cloak rejoined, his blade swinging at his lower body, and Arthur barely rolled out of the way, the sword grazing his thigh, blood soaking the breeches. Arthur's strength was fading, his body battered, but he lunged forward, thrusting his sword at Karl's chest. Karl parried with ease, his blade knocking Arthur's aside, and followed with a brutal kick to Arthur's stomach, sending him crashing into the wall, the wooden wall cracking under the impact.
Arthur tried to rush forward and take him by surprise but realised he couldn't move. His vision went hazy for a moment and there was an unbearable pain coming from below. He looked down and saw Karls sword embedded in his stomach. Arthur gasped, his sword slipping from his grip, clattering to the floor. Karl smirked. "Weak," he said, his voice dripping with contempt. "I hope you enjoyed your little hero fantasy because it's over now."
Arthur brought his shaky hands to the blade though he had no strength to even try and move it. The attempt only made Karl laugh at him more. "Just a gutter rat, like Willem said. I'll enjoy watching him wed your woman, fuck an heir into her. Couple of years, she won't even remember your name."
Arthur's vision burned red, rage flaring so fiercely it drowned the pain. He activated Novacaine again, the numbness flooding back, and pushed himself forward, the sword in Karl's hand still buried in his stomach now going deeper . Blood poured from his wounds, but Arthur grabbed Karl's head with both hands, headbutting him once, twice, three times, each crack ringing out as Karl's voice nose shattered, blood spraying across both their faces. Arthur shifted his weight, using Shibukawa-ryū to kick Karl's front leg forward, twisting his body to slam his head against the wall with a sickening crunch that left a smear of blood on the plaster.
The gold cloak saw all of this and charged, his sword raised, but Arthur was already moving, ripping the blade from his stomach, blood gushing as he stumbled. He didn't know how he ran, but he did, his legs carrying him toward the window as the guard's blade whistled behind him. He curled into a ball, diving through the wood, the wood splintering around him as he hit the cobblestones outside, rolling to his side. Pain seared through him, Novacaine fading again, but he forced himself up, blood streaming from his stomach, his shoulder, his thigh, and ran into the night.
The alley swallowed him and made for a good hiding place but his vision blurred, the edges darkening as he staggered forward. He pressed his hand to the stomach wound, blood seeping through his fingers, and tore a strip from the innkeeper's overlarge tunic, wrapping it tightly to slow the bleeding. His head swam, the world tilting, but he forced himself to focus. The gold cloaks would be hunting him, Lysa's guards too, and Karl, if he was still conscious, would want his head. Arthur leaned against the crates, his eyes scanning the alley for movement.
He hadn't got the notification that he had completed the quest yet which meant he wasn't out yet, but he would be. He had to be... for Mira. He pushed off the crates, his legs trembling, and moved deeper into the alleyway, each step a fight against collapse. He kept on walking, but with each step his vision started to fade, all until it went completely black.
(AN: you know I find that a lot of people complain about the MC when he loses a lot, but I honestly don't get it. Like he loses in the short term, only to win in the long term. Like do people really just want a story about someone who wins all the time? I mean if someone wins right away then is there even much story? Idk anyway hope you enjoyed)
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