Chapter 33: Another Fierce Warrior Joins

Queen's District, Day Five of Grinn's Rule

On the fifth day of Grinn's swift and merciless consolidation of the Queen's District, reinforcements from Whispering City finally arrived in King's Landing.

Fifty men disembarked at the Blackwater docks—soldiers of House Clébé, handpicked and delivered under the watchful eye of Monton Waters.

The Crab Claw Peninsula, much like the North, was home to the descendants of the First Men. These men were broad-shouldered, tall, and grim-eyed, their hair and eyes dark with few exceptions. Not for them the fair coloring of the Andals, nor the fierce sun-blessed features of the Dornish. These were men born of stone, sea, and salt.

([In Westeros, the three great bloodlines are the First Men of the North, the Rhoynar of Dorne, and the Andals of the South. The royal titles reflect them still: "King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men..."])

Despite Grinn's absence from their homeland, the discipline of these soldiers had not wavered. As they drilled in the Queen's District courtyard, their march was sharp, their posture proud. Grinn, observing them, allowed himself a rare smile.

He liked the soldiers of the Crab Claw Peninsula. There was a rough purity in them—a breed of men who asked no questions, only awaited orders. Men made to strike when the sword rose.

With men like these, and discipline like this, Grinn was certain that the Clébé host would one day stand as the strongest force in Westeros.

Among the crowd, Grinn noticed someone who clearly did not belong.

A wiry youth stood at the rear, ill-matched in his worn leathers. He carried a bow slung across his back and bore an awkward air about him—freckled cheeks, a cascade of curly red hair, and eyes that flicked about with cautious intelligence.

Grinn raised an eyebrow and beckoned him forward.

The red-haired boy glanced nervously toward Monton before jogging to Grinn's side.

"Your lordship," the boy said with a respectful bow, "my name is Ange."

Grinn's eyes narrowed slightly at the name. "How did you come to be here?"

([In the lore, Ange won the archery tournament celebrating Eddard Stark's appointment as Hand. He would later join the Brotherhood Without Banners and become one of the most feared archers in Westeros.])

"I was with a sellsword company, my lord," Ange replied respectfully, "but they disbanded. I've been haunting the docks, looking for a new company to take me in. This morning, I met your guard, Ser Monton. He brought me here."

As it turned out, Monton's instincts were sharper than most. While waiting at the docks, he had picked out Ange from a crowd of nobodies—something in the boy's posture, perhaps, or the way he carried that bow. A beast's nose for danger—or for talent.

Monton himself soon appeared, looming large with his usual simple grin. "Lord Grinn," he said, "I thought the boy had something special. Brought him with me."

Grinn gave a nod, then turned to Ange. "What is it you do best?"

Ange's spine straightened. "Archery, my lord. I hit where I aim. Always."

Grinn already knew the truth of it. This was no braggart. Ange was a rare marksman, and Grinn had no intention of letting him slip away. One like Monton for the blade, and one like Ange for the bow—a perfect pair of bodyguards.

Of course, promoting a newcomer could stir resentment. But when a man's skill was that extraordinary, exceptions could be made.

Grinn sat back in his chair, clapping his hands for silence.

"Ange," he said, "show us."

The red-haired boy glanced around, then up to the sky. With unhurried precision, he stepped forward and drove an arrow into the ground, half-burying the shaft. His wiry frame concealed surprising strength.

Then he retreated several paces, drew an arrow from his quiver, and nocked it.

The bow creaked under tension as he drew it fully, aiming not forward but skyward. The motion was smooth, natural—utterly confident.

The arrow loosed with a whispering hiss, vanishing into the blue above.

There was a breathless pause.

Then, with a sharp whistle, the arrow returned from the heavens—falling fast, straight, and true.

It struck the arrow in the ground dead-center, cleaving it in two with a loud crack before burying itself deep in the soil below.

Gasps rippled through the soldiers. No one spoke.

Grinn's eyes gleamed. The crowd's awe had sealed it.

"From this day," he declared, "Ange will serve as my personal guard."

Cheers broke out. Ange's freckled face flushed with emotion.

For a boy of common birth, such an honor was no small thing. Bodyguards to lords often found themselves knighted—or more.

Ange dropped to one knee, his voice firm despite his excitement. "I will serve with all I am, my lord!"

Grinn offered a gentle smile and waved to Monton.

"See him settled," he said.

Monton, still grinning like a fool, nodded and clapped the boy's shoulder.

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