Chapter 22

  I slept at the dockside inn with one eye open that first night in Oldtown, waiting for Malora and her Hightower goons to burst down my door for whatever perceived deception I had unknowingly pulled on her.

  Tired and paranoid, I moved my things to the Fair Winds the very next day, and slept on the ship for my final night in the city as well.

  Still shaken, the lads did not stray far from me either. The twins had spent the near two hours Malora had kept them at the inn thinking they’d brought ruination to myself and my cause, as well as contemplating their own possible deaths. All for some stupid quest for Qyburn’s whereabouts.

  Instead of using my most loyal, favored men, I needed to come up with more disposable spies. At the very least, spies that wouldn’t cause me to weep should I lose them in the field.

  Jace’s report on that end was nothing exciting. Qyburn was still a relatively known maester in the Citadel at this point, famed for his efforts and knowledge in the healing arts, with some whispering that he was aiming to take Ebrose’s spot as Archmaester.

  I knew that, barring some unforeseen circumstance, such would not come to pass.

  Qyburn would be exiled in disgrace, his maester’s chains stripped, and he would end up somewhere in the east, joining up with the scum-of-the-earth mercenary group known as the Brave Companions.

  It would be a massive boon to get a skilled healer like him in my camp. I might even be able to skip sending my boys to the Citadel for medicine if I was able to draft him.

  Granted, he would likely only stay loyal to me if I allowed him to further his learning through his more unsavory experiments, but I figured I could keep him occupied with even my most off-the-top modern knowledge about medicine. Germ theory itself should buy me a few years.

  On the final day before we left, I went down to some of the better shops by the harbor to buy presents—a hunting leather satchel for Lord Selywn, a new riding crop for Mother, a silver sewing kit for Arianne, and a bolt of fine linen for Alysanne.

  They were the kind of gifts that would’ve cost me triple if I’d bought them at Dawnrest, considering how few merchants stopped by our port compared to the second largest city in Westeros.

  I had only brought some five hundred gold dragons with me for the trip, the rest of the coin from the tournament was going back to Tarth with my father and our party. Safest that way, and less tempting for me should I find something to spend on. I needed all the money I could save for the next phase of my plans.

  I spent the rest of my time in Oldtown locked in the captain’s quarters, staring at my trunk as if it would burst into cursed Valyrian flames and burn the world with it. Neither women nor money had ever tempted me as much as the promise of what I hid in that trunk.

  That night, I couldn’t contain my curiosity any longer and took out the tall black candle from underneath my clothes.

  I stared at it in the half-darkness of my room, with only the silvery light of the moon illuminating its sleek dragonglass body. Fear. Excitement. Greed. I didn’t know what I felt the most while looking at the glass candle.

  The stories said the ancient Valyrians could see across great distances through it, or slip inside men’s dreams and give them visions, and even talk with each other from opposite ends of their great empire.

  Was that what Malora meant when she said we would speak later? Did she have another with her she could use to communicate with me? Did they come in pairs and could only be used with its bonded candle? Just how did I use it?

  I had so many questions, and like a hydra, each of them only served to sprout two more whenever I thought I had an answer.

  Still, even after we set sail, I took the glass candle out every night upon retiring to my quarters, just to see that it was still there, that it was real. And once, only once, after we had crossed the Redwyne Straits and we could see a glimpse of the Dornish Desert like a hazy mirage to the north during the day, did the candle lit up for me.

  In the flames, which brightened up my dark room like a miniature sun, I saw two ships, their hulls covered in shadows, floating in a dark sea. Then the vision was gone as quickly as it came.

  I stood stunned for a moment, eyes wide, heart thumping madly. When the flames were completely snuffed out, a small cackle burst out of me.

  Our ships. I couldn’t quite make out the details of the ships in the gloom, but surely, that had been the Fair Winds and the Western Will, Ser Gerion’s carrack. Only I had seen them from above, like I had warged into a hawk’s mind and flew over our position.

  Magic.

  It was real. I knew it was, of course, given my knowledge of the world and Arianne’s revelation, but seeing it with your own eyes, right in front of you, was something else. Scary and exhilarating all at once.

  I tried again every night after that with no results.

  xxx

  We hugged the southern Dornish coast for several days after that. Hellgate Hall first, then Salt Shore, then Planky Town. Never stopping for long, just enough to take on fresh water, barter for fruit that hadn’t gone soft in the hold, or wait out the occasional squall when the wind turned ugly. Storms in the Summer Sea came fast and loud, but they rarely lingered. Once they passed, the sea settled as if nothing had happened.

  We passed Sunspear at evenfall some two weeks after leaving Oldtown.

  I stood at the rail as we did, watching the city slide by in the amber light of the setting sun. The Sandship rose from a ridge like something half imagined, all sweeping curves and pale stone, its long hull-shaped base catching the glow of dusk. Flanking it, two towers loomed in the Rhoynish fashion. One was tall and sharp as a spear, the other squat like a drum with a domed top, both backlit so perfectly it looked as though the sun itself had chosen to rest there for the night.

  It was striking. Strange. Entirely unlike the castles of the Stormlands. Like the Hightower, seeing something so alien lit a fire in me.

  It made me want to see the Wall, climb the Giant’s Lance and catch the Eyrie as the sun rose in the east, stand beneath the shadow of Volantis’ black walls. What would Valyria look like?

  The captain knew these waters well. Jarak barely altered course as we slipped past the harbor mouth, confident and unhurried. The sea was calm, the air warm, and with no reason to put in at port, we sailed on through the night.

  I slept lightly, as I always did since the Mad Maid had given me the priceless black candle. But at first light, I was already on deck with Grey, Jack, and Jace, running them through drills before the rest of the crew had properly shaken off their sleep.

  The deck was cool beneath our boots, damp with morning spray. We were midway through a sword rotation when the shout came.

  “Ships ahead!”

  The voice carried across the water. It hadn’t come from our deck, but from the Lannister carrack sailing ahead of us, faint and echoey from the distance.

  I turned at once, striding for the rail and scanning the horizon. I saw them quickly enough. From the northeast, shapes were emerging, dark hulls slipping out from behind the broken rock of one of the Stepstones’ smaller islands.

  My jaw tightened as they came into view. Two ships, coming out of nowhere from some hidden cove with a course that would intercept us. The sea was calm. The sky clear. I could see no other vessel along this stretch of ocean. It told me everything I needed to know.

  This wasn’t a Greyjoy ship sailing back to its home port. They were cutting west hard, and unless they planned to ram their prows against an empty stretch of Dornish coast, they were planning to pay us a visit.

  As I watched, they started to separate, each aiming to pursue their chosen targets. The largest one, a mid-sized galley, sped across the water toward the Western Will. The other, a sleek longship fashioned slightly different from the Ironborn ones, made a beeline our way.

  Jack followed my gaze. “That’s not good,” he muttered.

  Jace and Grey stood behind us, fists tightening in concern. The rest of the crew on the deck came along. Jarak, his officers, Devan—the young man I had bumped into on the morning of the last longship scare. Despite the breeze, it felt as if the air in our ship had been sucked away.

  I turned to them, gaze firm despite the knot tightening in my stomach. It was my ship the pirates were coming to attack. And inside my ship, even if only for this trip, these men were my responsibility.

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  “Arm up,” I told them, forcing my voice to be steady. “We’ll be putting our drills to the test soon enough.”

  xxx

  Matteno of Myr

  Were it Matteno’s will, they would have rammed the cog, smashed her oars, and left the Tarth boy dead in the water. Quick. Efficient. If he lived, it would be easy to pick him off with some archers among the shipwreck.

  But he was not in charge. Rolleo Drahiz, the turd of Tyrosh, was a greedy man. All ringed-fingers, feathered-hats, and silk sashes to go with his dozen mistresses back on his shit island.

  Matteno and his men would’ve been enough to kill a boy and shatter a tiny merchant cog, but the contract from the Westerosi whore demanded surety. And so, the magister had tasked Rolleo with seeing it through, which made Matteno, a foreigner in Tyrosh, his subordinate.

  And Rolleo wanted the cog for himself. He promised to kill the boy and tow the cog back to their hideaway nest in Torturer’s Deep, another ship added to his dreamed pirate fleet. Given how foolish the man was, Matteno doubted such would ever come to pass. To be a pirate was to be a shark, and a peacock like Rolleo Drahiz would be nothing but exotic feed for the sea beasts that roamed the Stepstones.

  His most recent idea only confirmed the man’s inadequacy.

  When the scout came back whispering about a second ship, a carrack, no less, flying the crimson and gold of Lannister, Matteno saw the change in him at once. Rolleo’s eyes lit up like a whorehouse at dusk. One prize became two in his mind, and the risk doubled with it.

  “They weren’t in the contract,” Matteno had said flatly.

  Rolleo waved him off. “The contract is a morsel, westerosi peasant slaves that won’t fetch me more than a pursefull of gold. The lion carrack, now, that is a full meal indeed. My appetite is not as easily sated as yours, Myrmen.”

  Matteno could only seethe.

  Granted, they didn’t know if the Tarth boy had switched ships somewhere between Lannisport and the Stepstones. They didn’t know if he rode the cog still or sat fat and safe beneath the lion’s banner. But Rolleo didn’t care either way. He just wanted the shiny, golden ship for himself.

  So it was decided. Rolleo’s galley would take the carrack, he would take the cog. With his debts with the magister mounting and the promise of gold upon completion, Matteno had no choice. He bit his tongue and obeyed.

  He watched as the cog grew near. With no tailwind, she was a fat, slovenly bitch in the sea. Meanwhile, his longship cut clean through the water, oars rising and falling in a practiced rhythm. Fifty men under his command—Lyseni, Myrmen, a handful of Pentoshi exiles. Killers, all of them. Any with a black heart had a place in his ship.

  And more than enough, according to the information they’d been given. The cog was supposed to be lightly crewed. A soft bite.

  Hate for Rolleo Drahiz came easy to him, and Matteno let that red, ugly feeling fester inside him. He felt his heartbeat pick up, fingers dancing across the hilt of his trusted falchion. He held no rancor for whoever this Tarth boy was, but as a Myrmen himself, there was something appetizing about killing the heir of that island in such a way.

  As they closed on the Fair Winds, he decided to enjoy this in spite of Rolleo’s idiocy.

  The first arrows disabused him of that notion. They came down from the cog’s deck in a sudden black shower, spraying blood across his ship. One of his bowmen took a shaft through the throat and toppled soundlessly. Lysandro, his third officer, screamed as an arrow punched into his eye.

  Another arrow slammed into the shield rim in front of Matteno’s face with a crack that rang in his skull. Men shouted. The discipline of the oarsmen faltered.

  “Shields up!” Matteno bellowed. “Up, you dogs!”

  Too late for some of them.

  Still, numbers were numbers. Fifty to a handful more than twenty. Even with losses, they had the advantage. The longship struck the broadside of the cog with a jolt that rattled his teeth. He held onto the rigging and managed to keep his balance.

  Gleefully, he saw one of the men above the cog stumbled over the railing into the sea. One down. Arrows flew each way. Three of his men died before he saw a friendly arrow punch someone in the cog’s deck through the stomach.

  Once the two ships were side by side, his boys were quick. They all knew their business. Grapnels flew, rope ladders thrown, and then they were boarding. The roar of men became louder than the rumble of the ocean.

  Steel already rang above when Matteno climbed up onto the Fair Winds. A dozen of his men had scaled the ship before him. Yet as soon as he stepped aboard, he saw four of them already dead on the planks, their life’s blood mixing with ocean spray.

  He didn’t let that stop him. His falchion came singing out of its scabbard, and he cut down the first man who came at him, opening the fellow’s belly with a short, ugly stroke. The man folded with a sound like a burst wineskin. Matteno shoved him aside and pushed forward.

  The cog’s crew gave ground, faces tight with fear, backs pressed toward the mast. Matteno felt the familiar heat settle into his limbs, the steady rhythm of killing taking hold. He split a skull, crushed a collarbone, kicked a wounded man over the rail without looking.

  Then the screams changed.

  Matteno glanced right and saw bodies hitting the deck faster than they should have. Three men went down in the space of a breath.

  That second cost him. An axe came down on him as if from thin air. He jumped back, but the blade cut a shallow line down his chest. Matteno didn’t have time to do much beyond defend himsef as the man before him swung again with his other arm, his sword parrying the axehead before it found itself lodged in his skull.

  Not quite a man, he realized, as he finally caught the eyes of the boy before him. Young and fierce, his tanned face screwed together as Matteno counterattacked with a flurry of blows.

  For a moment, he thought it might be the Tarth boy, but the description didn’t match. He had the height, but not the build or the blond hair. This boy was good, though. Good, but inexperienced.

  A double feint saw him twisting his falchion and prying one of the axes from the boy’s hands. It was quick after that. He scored two cuts on the chest and a leg, but before he could apply the killing blow, one of his own men fell between them, his guts spilling from his stomach to pool into his trembling hands.

  When he turned to see the culprit, he knew he’d found his mark. The Tarth boy.

  He was everywhere at once, it seemed. Steel flashing in tight arcs, feet planted wide against the rolling deck as if he could stop the ocean with his legs. One of Matteno’s men lunged in and lost his arm at the elbow. Another took a blade through the throat and collapsed, blood pumping between his fingers.

  “Flank him!” Matteno ordered. “Don’t rush, circle, you idiots!”

  Three men moved in together to obey him, shields raised, blades probing. Good, he thought. That ought to do it.

  Facing forward again, he kicked his gutted fellow onto the axe-wielder, the two falling over each other as the ship lurched beneath them. Nearby, he saw another who stumbled to the floor and nearly rolled off the cog.

  Matteno himself moved as if on dry land. He’d lived more years on board ships than above solid ground. Another man came to face him, and his falchion dispatched him after three exchanges.

  For a heartbeat, he thought they were nearly done. He had killed some five men by himself.

  Then a familiar voice cried to the side, and he saw the hacked leg of his boatswain rolling on the deck. Matteno looked up to see the Tarth boy killing the last of the three men. A shield cracked beneath his sword, and the fellow behind it screamed when the sword swooped low to cut him at the groin.

  Matteno hissed. A cruel death, that. Looking about the boy, he noticed the many bodies spread around him like some macabre ritual. Too many dead. Too fast. If he let it go on, his boys would be overrun.

  Growling, Matteno shoved through his men and met the boy head-on. His slice at an arm was deflected, a thrust to the abdomen dodged. When the boy hacked at him and he blocked, the impact jarred his arm to the shoulder.

  He clamped down on his teeth. The boy hit harder than he had any right to.

  Matteno parried, countered, felt another shock travel up his bones. Steel rang so loud it hurt. He saw the look on the boy’s face then—blue eyes wide and unfocused, mouth set in a snarl that made him look older than his age. He was breathing hard, his hair was hair slick with blood.

  When one of his men tried to sneak up on the boy, a swordsman wearing the same face of the axe-wielder stopped him. A brother, perhaps.

  Matteno scoffed. No matter. It came down to the two of them.

  They circled each other, boots slipping on blood-slick planks. Matteno’s own breath came fast now as they traded blows, each inhale sharp with the stink of iron and sweat. He struck for the boy’s shoulder, missed by a finger’s width. The return blow rang off his guard and nearly tore the sword from his hand.

  Gods, he’s strong.

  Matteno pressed, teeth bared, drawing on years of fights in alleys and decks and docks. He nicked the boy’s thigh with a clever feint and felt a flicker of triumph light him up inside.

  The boy didn’t even seem to notice.

  He came on like a wave breaking, all forward momentum, forcing Matteno back step by step. After another five passes, his arm was burning. His wrist screamed. Somewhere behind him, he heard one of his men curse and turn to flee.

  Matteno’s heel suddenly slipped. And it was luck that it did, as the sword that would’ve taken his head at the shoulders kissed the air above him. He scrambled back quickly, jumping like a nimble cat.

  When he saw the boy moving forward to meet him again, body moving like an old-hand at killing, a cold certainty settled in his gut. He would lose.

  Matteno disengaged with a snarl, slashing wide to force space. “Back!” he shouted. “Pull back, you fools!”

  Some of his men hesitated. He did not wait for them. As he fled, he took a glancing blow across the ribs that stole his breath and left fire in its wake. It did not stop him from jumping over the railing in a mad scramble.

  He fell badly on his heel, something snapping like the crack of wood. “Fuck,” he swore, sprawled on the deck of his longship.

  Above, the men fell back in clumps, dragging wounded, abandoning the dead.

  Matteno staggered to his feet despite the pain, pushing any able-bodied men to row frantically. They cut the ropes attaching the two ships and their oars splashed against the ocean. The spray of water a cold relief after the hot blood.

  “Row,” he heard his first-mate yell, and he lent his voice to the call. At the very least, the cog would not be able to follow them.

  As they pulled away, Matteno looked back and spotted a figure watching them withdraw.

  The boy stood like a statue amid the carnage, chest heaving, blade dripping red into the scuppers. Bodies lay at his feet like broken dolls. The men too slow to fall back.

  Adding the men who died in the initial boarding, how many had fallen?

  He looked about his longship, scanning the faces of his men, bloodied and antsy after such a heavy defeat. More than half his crew was gone, by his count.

  Matteno spat into the sea. Something twisted inside his chest. A feeling worse than the hatred he felt for Rolleo Drahiz.

  Fear.

  And fear he despised more than any Tyroshi. It was not something Matteno of Myr liked to feel. Not since he was a boy, scurrying through back alleys looking for scraps like a rat.

  That’s who fear was for—rats. He would not let a boy yet to grow a beard turn him into one again. One day, he would repay this feeling ten times over. That Tarth boy would die by Matteno’s hands still.