Chapter 20

  I woke to pain.

  A deep, steady pounding behind my eyes, like someone had taken up residence in my skull with a mallet and no intention of leaving. The ship rolled beneath me, each sway tugging at my stomach until I regretted every cup I’d emptied the night before.

  So much for moderation.

  I lay there for a moment, staring at the low planks overhead, listening to the groan of timber and the slap of water against the hull. Note to self: Arbor Gold goes down easy but keeps you down harder. Why did I think it was a good idea to fight off a hangover with more wine?

  I looked around me, squinting crusty eyes. I didn’t even want to imagine how my breath smelled. Dim light streamed through an open shutter to one side. Morning already. The room was small, neatly kept and cleaned. Not the captain’s quarters, but the lack of stench of too many unwashed men crammed into too little space meant I had not slept with the crew.

  Guess I’d have to give my apologies to one of the Fair Winds’ officers. When I finally pushed myself upright, the world tilted unpleasantly, and I had to brace a hand against the bunk until it settled.

  That’s when the shouting started.

  Boots thundered overhead. A sharp call went up on deck, voices raised and panicked. I straightened up on instinct. Pulling on my boots, I buckled my belt with fingers that felt too thick, pulled the door open into a cramped hall, and ran into another hurrying sailor.

  A boy, really, older but shorter than me. Reddened cheeks yet to grow a hint of fuzz. He was carrying a half a dozen shields in his hands, balancing them

  I stopped him by the foot of the ladder. “What’s happening out there?”

  “Ironborn spotted, m’lord,” he said, weary eyes flitting between me and the open hatch above.

  Nodding, I let him go first before climbing quickly behind. The deck was a frenzied scramble of sailors rushing about tightening lines and stowing loose gear. The captain and his officers huddled by the forecastle, pointing south, and I spotted my lads standing nervously beside them.

  I marched up to them as quickly as my hungover body allowed, jumping the steps up the slightly raised upper deck and stopping beside them by the rails. Grey and the twins bowed their heads when they noticed me, recalling to me quickly how they’d come out to enjoy the breeze when the Ironborn were spotted.

  “Where is it?” I asked, scanning the horizon.

  The early morning was hazy, and the sea lay heavy and dull under a low sky the color of old steel.

  “There,” Jack said, pointing southeast.

  I followed his finger, eyes narrowing against the haze, and saw it: a longship cutting through the water faraway, low and lean, oars rising and falling in a steady rhythm like pinpricks in the distance. It was coming toward us as we made our way south, the two courses set to cross within hours. Too close for comfort.

  I turned to the group of officers, mind trying to work through the headache. “How far to Crakehall, captain?”

  Jarak of Feastfires gave me a hard look. “We should be there by noon, lord, should the winds and the gods favor us.”

  The way he said it made his meaning clear. We’d either get there by noon or not at all. I’d let myself drink the night before thinking of solid ground for a few hours at Crakehall and the Lannister carrack meant to escort us the rest of the way to Tarth. A foolish mistake.

  I was never much for drinking, in the past life or in my short one here, and my fifteen year old body was not quite used to so much alcohol. Now, it might cost me everything. With the hammering behind my ears, I was not in good enough form to fight, but I’d do so anyway. Not like there was any choice.

  “Go below and prepare our gear,” I said. Foolish I might’ve been for drinking, I had not come on a month’s long journey across three seas without my arms and armor. “Get the bows, too. If needs must, we’ll take our pound of flesh before they board us.”

  My voice was firm, centered, but I did not feel like that. I had my hands clasped behind my back to hide their shaking. I was scared, I realized. Truly, undeniably scared.

  This would be my first battle. Not a fight, not a spar in the courtyard, training in the woods, or riding against another man with barded horses and cheering crowds in a show of chivalry. This would be blood and guts and screaming men pleading for their lives.

  I could only hope I would not be one of them.

  “Aye, m’lord,” they chorused, before leaving to follow my orders.

  I watched them go for a second. I could see it in their steps—they were nervous and scared like me, but my lads would not fail me. I trusted them as much as anything else in this life.

  With a word from Jarak, the three officers moved away as well, already shouting orders to the helmsman and the rest of the crew.

  “I don’t suppose we can outrun them?” I asked, even if I already knew the answer from all my studies.

  The captain grumbled and shook his head. “We keep course fast as we can. Got some wind on our sails for now. Will make it harder for them to come against us.”

  Harder, but not impossible. Say what you will about the Ironborn, they were skilled seafarers.

  I looked behind me and regarded my new ship. My little cog was not built for speed. Single-masted, it had one big square sail, but even with the wind in our favor, they’d be able to catch up to us before we made it to a safe port.

  I turned back to watch the horizon, our own speed working against us as the longship grew closer and closer.

  “Has Ser Gerion been told?”

  “Sent a boy to warn him,” Jarak said, and just then I heard footsteps climbing up the deck.

  Ser Gerion Lannister came up beside us, his steps unhurried. He stopped by the rail at my side, eyes already fixed on the coming ship. Somehow, he looked no worse for wear despite how much he drank yesterday. I supposed Tyrion had to get it from someone.

  The Lannister knight had a helm tucked under his arm, fashioned in the shape of a roaring lion. Gold-filigree accented the red-enemalled steel, and red and orange plumes rose from its crest to form the lion’s mane.

  I had to give it to him. If you were going to die, might as well go in the coolest helm money could buy. Aside from the helmet, he was not wearing any heavy armor, just boiled leather over a thick, salt-hardened woolen shirt.

  “How many fighting men do we have?” Ser Gerion asked.

  “The entire crew will fight,” Jarak said, “and your lordships and guardsmen should you wish to join us.”

  “Fighting Ironborn?” He smirked. “Whyever would I refuse such an offer?”

  “Wait.” I frowned, just now realizing something. “Did you not bring guards for the trip, ser?”

  “I did,” he said, and his smirk grew deathly ironic. “It so happens that they are waiting for me at Crakehall with the other ship.”

  “Oh.”

  “Indeed,” he said. “Who knew a single day’s trip would be so eventful?”

  We did not talk much after that.

  Soon, the lads came back with our gear. We strung the bows, counted the arrows in the quivers, and mechanically checked and re-checked our weapons, more to cover the nerves in front of the other men than for anything else.

  Grey and Jace favored swords like my own, while Jack had twin axes he kept twirling in his hands to pass the time.

  Behind us, the crew lined up ready for a fight too, carrying short spears and maces and short swords. Only the helmsman stayed at his post, but the axe at his belt and the scars on his face told me all I needed to know whether he would join the battle should it be needed.

  Then it was a matter of waiting. My heart thumped in my chest, beating against my ribcage like the water lapping at the Fair Winds’ hull.

  As the longship drew closer, details sharpened. The curve of the prow. The shields lining its sides. Then the wind shifted, and the sail of the longship unfurled just enough for us to see it clearly.

  A golden kraken.

  I drew in a sharp breath. Around me, my lads and the younger crewmen swore and gripped their weapons tighter.

  But Jarak of Feastfires let out a huff, while Ser Gerion’s mouth twitched into something that might have been a smile.

  “Greyjoy,” the knight said. “Quellon’s colors.”

  The words took a second to register in my mind. Quellon. Quellon Greyjoy. Not Balon or Euron. I closed my eyes, let my head droop to my chest, and let out a sigh. I never expected an Ironborn’s name to sound so sweet.

  “That supposed to make us feel better?” Jack asked, disregarding propriety.

  Ser Gerion didn’t seem to care. “It should,” he replied. “Quellon Greyjoy keeps his reavers on a tight leash. Hasn’t raided our shores or taken our ships in years.” Then the smile came back. “Not openly, that is. The Seven know I’d trust a Greyjoy's restraint as much as I would a bitch in heat.”

  The men let out chuckles all around us. Despite the small relief, we did not leave our posts or stowed back our weapons.

  My muscles grew stiff from clenching at my sword’s hilt for so long, but when the time came, the longship passed us without slowing, its crew watching us with the same guarded interest we gave them. Hard men, by the look of them. No songs. No taunts. Just another ship on another stretch of open water.

  Only when they disappeared into the northern horizon, more than an hour later, did I feel the tension drain out of me. Then my headache rushed back in and reclaimed its territory.

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Suffice it to say, my first day on my new ship could’ve been more pleasant.

  xxx

  The days passed quickly and peacefully after that.

  Ser Gerion vacated my quarters at Crakehall as promised, and I spent the rest of the nearly ten-day trip down the coast of the Reach sleeping, drinking enough water to clear my head, and drilling the lads on the deck.

  We’d done this before, years ago, back in Tarth, on one of Father’s ships. I’d dragged all the older boys from my company out there, some ten of them, determined they’d get their sea legs on my terms before the world forced the lesson on them.

  Fighting on a ship was nothing like fighting on land. Your feet never stopped moving. The ship rolled under you, stealing balance when you weren’t watching. Every step had to be earned.

  I didn’t know it from experience, but Father had seen some ship to ship action as a squire during the War of the Ninepenny. Later, with my grandfather dead on the field, Selwyn came back home from the war as a lord, married the Lady Addison Wylde, and had me all within a year of putting down Maelys the Monstrous.

  Watching the lads these days, steadier than they’d been then, I knew I hadn’t been wrong. The Ironborn near miss had spooked me more than I wished to admit. I needed to be ready at all times. A stressful way of living, yes, yet it was living still.

  Like at Crakehall, we stopped at Old Oak near the Shield Islands for no more than a few hours, then again at Oakenshield, when the Lannister carrack needed to replace their lime barrels which had gone to rot, and at the small port town beneath House Blackbar’s castle, Bandallon.

  We knew we were close to Oldtown before we ever spotted the city. At the mouth of the Whispering Sound, the sea changed. The water grew busier, thick with traffic, scores of fat-bellied cogs, patrol galleys flying Hightower and Redwyne colors, Essosi carracks, and I even saw one of the famed Summer Island’s swan ships, its tall prow seeming to float over the water.

  It was in the soft light of early dawn that we arrived at Oldtown proper. Mist clung to the Honeywine that morning, drifting in slow sheets as bells rang somewhere ahead, deep and distant.

  The city emerged piece by piece: pale walls rising from the fog, towers packed tight behind them, banners stirring lazily in the damp air.

  And above it all, the Hightower.

  A massive pale column banded with darker stone, its upper reaches swallowed by the clouds. A steady light burned near its crown, stubborn and bright even as the sun rose further into the western sky.

  I couldn’t help the grin spreading across my face. It was one thing to hear about it from another’s lips, or read it from a dusty old book a world away. Seeing it up close as it dominated everything else in view…

  I felt something stir deep within me. A rising need to act, to do great things. To leave a mark in this world, something permanent. I didn’t think I’d be building towers anytime soon, but I’d be damned if I’d let my name be forgotten anytime soon.

  Our ship slid along the bay traffic. Barges heavy with grain, fishing boats, sleek merchant vessels from all corners of the world.

  The Hightower loomed closer, its reflection breaking across the river’s surface. I leaned against the rail, letting myself feel the breeze and the delightful stink of smoke and stone and people. I could hear shouts echoing across the water, oars splashing, the creak of rigging.

  We’d be staying at Oldtown for two nights. Ser Gerion had some business in the city and I was more than glad to acquiesce to his wishes. After a knight and a dockmaster boarded the Fair Winds to inspect our cargo and we set anchor at a dock that seemed a thousand times larger than Dawnrest, I went about my business.

  Besides wanting to buy some gifts for my family and my innate need for sightseeing in a new medieval city, I had a couple of more serious endeavours to see to.

  Jack and Jace had their own instructions: go to the Quill and Tankard where novices went to drink, make some friends, get some laughs, and sneakily find out if a man by the name of Qyburn still studied at the Citadel.

  Meanwhile, Grey and myself would make a more formal trip to the maester’s home. Not after Qyburn, as I wouldn’t want to be publicly associated with him if he had already started his experiments, but to ask about a recent idea I had, of sending some of my boys to forge chains at the Citadel.

  Later in the day, after we’d all completed our tasks, we agreed to meet back at an inn close to where the ship was berthed an hour before sunset.

  All in all, it promised to be a busy couple of days.

  xxx

  Ser Baelor Hightower

  Baelor Hightower should’ve known it would be a queer day when, over a plate of quail eggs and bread, Malora asked to go into the city.

  He almost missed it.

  They were breaking their fast in the small hall. This early in the morning, it was only the three of them, with their younger siblings still abed and sleeping. Even then, their father was already deep into his reading, going over reports of harbor levies and the newest complaints from the dockmasters, when Malora set her knife down with deliberate care and spoke.

  “I would like to go into the city today.”

  Baelor looked up at once. Leyton Hightower paused mid-sentence. Even the servants waiting to refill their cups stilled. For a heartbeat, the only sound was the gulls outside and the faint creak of the tower settling into the morning.

  “To the city,” their father repeated, the lines in his face deepening.

  “Yes, with an escort,” Malora said. She waited a few moments before continuing, "It's important.”

  Baelor frowned at her words. He looked at their father, only to catch a strange gleam flashing across his eyes. He’d seen it before, and it made something clench in his chest. Despite their constant screaming arguments—and at times months of silent estrangement, Lord Leyton Hightower had an oddly close relationship with his eldest daughter.

  Baelor only wished he could say the same. He and Malora were the only children of Lord Hightower’s first marriage with Lady Bethally Bulwer, who died at childbirth when he was not quite three years old.

  He never felt such a sense of duty as he did when he first held baby Malora. With their mother dead and their father often occupied by lordly matters, he grew up determined to be there for his sister as much as he could.

  He remembered the small things most clearly. Walking her to her stitching lessons when she begged to hold his hand. Sitting through lectures meant for younger children so she would not be alone. Letting her hide behind him when their father’s temper flared, and later taking the blame when a book went missing or a candle burned too low.

  Yet something changed not long after Baelor became a squire. At first, he thought it was simply ill-timing. He was occupied with his duties to his knight while his sister had to focus on her studies and classes. But time passed and things were never the same.

  His lord father and sister grew closer over their books and scrolls and he was left to the side. For years now, Baelor Hightower felt a stranger in his own family. Lord Leyton loved him in his own way, he knew that, and even Malora, with all her eccentricities, did not mislike him.

  But after childhood, he never had the kind of connection his sister and father shared, with their loud feuds and secret discussions, or their other siblings, who shared mothers and friendships between each other.

  Baelor had tried all he could to rekindle the bond they had, but Malora seemed determined to ignore him. At the very least, he knew it wasn’t only him Malora ignored. If anything, at this point, he worried more about her well-being than their own broken relationship.

  The silence in the solar lengthened, and Baelor waited for Lord Leyton’s refusal. Or the questions. Or some tired deflections that usually followed any silly requests his other sisters made.

  Instead, his father turned his head slightly and looked at him.

  “Baelor,” he said. “You’ll take her.”

  Baelor blinked. “Me?”

  “You,” Leyton confirmed, already reaching for his cup again. “Take a few men. Don’t let her stray from your sight and come back before nightfall.”

  That was all.

  Malora did not look at Baelor, dark hair covering the sides of her face from where he sat. She had already returned to her bread, as though the matter had never been in doubt. As though she had known the answer before she asked.

  Baelor felt a flicker of unease, but it was smothered by a more familiar concern. His sister had scarcely left the tower in months. Years, if he was honest with himself. If this was how she chose to break that isolation, he would not be the one to deny her.

  He rose when she did.

  xxx

  They walked through Oldtown until Baelor lost any sense of direction.

  He thought he knew the city as well as the pommel of his own sword. But truly, he was accustomed to the broad streets by the harbor, the grand avenues leading to the Starry Sept and the Citadel, or the famous bridges connecting the bigger islands dotting the Honeywine.

  Malora did not seem to want to frequent these places. They trekked through crookback streets with wooden housing that seemed near to tip over, through tight warrens where drying clothes hanging from lines dripped water overhead, through narrow lanes where refuse clung to the gutters and the air smelled of ale and piss and worse.

  Through it all, his sister walked with purpose, pace steady, her gaze fixed ahead, as if the city were arranging itself to her expectations. She did not speak a single word to him.

  After the first hour, Baelor assumed she was perhaps heading toward one of the smaller septs hidden in the city maze and simply lost her way. After the second, he began to wonder if she wasn’t the one that was simply wandering. But she never hesitated, never slowed, never glanced back.

  By the third, his patience thinned.

  “Malora,” he said at last, keeping his voice even. “Do you know where you’re going?”

  “Yes,” she replied without turning.

  Baelor frowned. “Where?”

  “I will know him,” she said. “When I see him.”

  That made him stop walking. “Him?” Baelor repeated. “Who is him?”

  She glanced at him then, briefly. Her expression was calm. Certain. Entirely untroubled by his confusion.

  She did not answer. She just started walking again, and Baelor followed, unsettled in a way he could not quite name.

  xxx

  Beyond the flourishing apple tree sitting by the river, the Quill and Tankard did not stand out in any way amongst the dozens of inns they’d passed throughout the morning.

  Yet Malora went to it the moment she saw its distinctive sign, crossing the old plank bridge uncaring of her hem brushing against the muddy ground.

  The front door creaked when she pushed it open. Inside, the common room was crowded with young men, many dressed like novices from the Citadel, as well as sailors and some merchants’ sons. Laughter rippled unevenly across the room. Someone cursed over spilled ale.

  Conversation dipped immediately as soon as they were noticed. With Malora’s fine clothes, Baelor’s enamelled armor polished to brilliance, and their guards’ Hightower surcoats, it was clear they did not belong.

  Baelor stepped in behind Malora, their men-at-arms fanning to either side. His sister stood still, eyes moving slowly across the room.

  The innkeeper, a portly woman with tiny freckles dancing across her pleasant face, hurried from behind the bar and went low into a curtsy.

  “M’lord, m’lady,” she said, throat bobbing with nerves. “How—how may I serve you?”

  Before Baelor could answer the anxious woman, Malora went rigid.

  She ignored the question and crossed the tavern in a straight line, skirts whispering, stopping at a table near the back where five young men sat. Two of them were unmistakably twins, alike in their tanned faces, burly build, and the guarded way they watched her approach.

  “You,” Malora said, voice clear and commanding. “Leave.”

  The table erupted into motion. Benches scraped. Five men stood at once, rushing to obey a lady’s order.

  She pointed a finger. “Not you,” she said. “Sit.”

  The twins froze. Baelor felt every gaze in the room swing toward them.

  Malora leaned slightly forward, studying the twins as if they were some broken line in one of her books, something that did not quite match the narrative.

  “What is the name of your lord?” she asked.

  Confusion flashing across their faces. They denied, pleaded ignorance, swore they did not want to meddle in highborn business. Baelor almost felt bad for the two. He would have believed them entirely had he not seen Malora’s eyes.

  She nodded once. “I see.”

  Then she sat. Simply sat down at their table, folding her hands in her lap as if she belonged there.

  The twins exchanged a glance. One shifted, preparing to stand.

  “Brother,” Malora said.

  Baelor stiffened at once.

  “Do not let them leave,” she continued, still not looking at him. “Any of them.”

  The guards moved without hesitation, positioning themselves at doors and between tables. The tavern goers all murmured to each other, tension rippling outward like a stone dropped into a still pond.

  One of the twins swallowed. “M’lady, there’s no need for any of this.”

  Malora seemed unconcerned about the man’s discomfort. “If you will not tell me,” she said, “then I will wait.”

  She leaned back slightly, eyes bright now, fixed on the door as if she expected it to open at any moment.

  “He will come,” she added. “I know he will.”

  A chill ran through Baelor. He did not know who she meant. He did not know how she could be so sure this someone, this him, would come. But as he watched his sister sit there—utterly composed, utterly certain—he confirmed something he should’ve already known.

  Malora had not come into Oldtown on a whim. She had learned something new in her studies, something that moved her enough to leave her gloomy rooms in the Hightower. The answer, it seemed, laid at the feet of this stranger.