"Let the Tigers weep and the Elephants moan

For they have reaped what they have sown

When the Daughters go to war~"

"She lied to us." a wildling woman moaned, hysteria creeping through her voice. "Mother Mole lied to us."

"You should have fought back!" shouted a young man not long past his majority, fists raised. A mottled clump of dried blood streaked down the back of his head and onto his neck. "The damned kneelers wouldn't have been able to take us all if you'd just fought back!"

"And die to those dart-throwers before we stepped in their range?" an older man retorted hotly. "You're lucky you got away with just a thump, fool boy."

"At least I didn't lay down and die to a band half our size!"

The waves outside rolled high, and the chains binding him clattered loudly. The motion sent him forward until the clasp around his neck drew taut, leaving him no more than inches away from his wall.

The wildlings went quiet, then, and the waves pulled him back to his sitting position.

"... How long you going to sit there in silence, boy?" said the older man, staring at him. He merely stared back at the older man blankly.

"What, you think he's going to say anything now?" scoffed the younger man. "He hasn't said a word since they locked him in those chains a fortnight ago. Must be an invalid; he could have strangled himself with that neck chain by now if he had the guts."

"Quiet!" the older man admonished. "They must fear him, else they would have put him in a cage like ours, instead of such heavy chains."

"I 'eard them." a fourth man spoke up. "Through that 'ole right above my 'ead. They fear 'im, alright. Fink 'e's magic. Don't know why, 'cause I didn't get the rest of the daft tongue they speak, but I swear on the Old Gods I 'eard the word 'maegi'."

"... That why they only feed him once every other day?"

"Like as not. Too scared to even go near, let alone get in reach."

"He's so young…" murmured the woman.

"Dunno what kind of magic he is," said the older man, "but I could go for a skinchanger right now. Try and tear a hole in this damned place with some beast."

He simply stared ahead, not saying a word.

Some time later, the trapdoor above the cargo hold creaked open. A wild spray of salty ocean carried inward, and a black-robed figure tumbled inward with a platter of food and drink.

"Who's that?" muttered one of the dozen captured wildlings. "Never seen this bastard before."

The man slowly paced down the steep steps, his shaved monk's tonsure nearly scraping against the roof for how tall he was. An amiable, meaningless smile covered his face as he gently placed hardtack bread and small cups of water outside of the wildling's cages, only just within their reach. As the wildlings scrabbled and fought to get the supplies, he turned and slowly unlocked his cage.

"Hmmm." the black-robed man cocked his head, staring at him. He stared blankly back in return. The black-robed man ambled forward, far closer to him than he had to the wildlings, and slowly dipped the hardtack into the last cup of water until the bread softened.

"You don't look much like a maegi."

He just stared.

"But then," the black-robed man continued, his accent different from the sailors, "perhaps I don't know what foul blood wizards look like. I would have expected a warty hag of a woman, not a comely young man like yourself." The man lifted the wet hardtack to the prisoner's lips, and after a pregnant moment, he allowed himself to be fed.

"There we go." the man cooed, warm brown eyes smiling. "They think I know magic, too, you know."

The prisoner cocked his head at the words.

"Ah! You understand me!" the black-robed man exclaimed, delighted. "I didn't think you were a wildling, but that settles it. What brought you all the way to Hardhome, sunsetlander?"

He stared at the man, his mouth opening for a moment as if to speak before slowly shutting again.

"Don't trust me?" the man sounded disappointed. "I suppose that makes sense. I wouldn't trust me either."

"... I…"

The black-robed man blinked. "Yes?"

"I… don't… remember." he rasped. "The fire… took…"

After he trailed off, the black-robed man let out a small empathetic sound. "Then perhaps it is best after all that you are on the sea, now. Fire cannot take you here." he popped the rest of the hardtack into his mouth, before lifting the cup and gently pouring in the rest of the water.

"I will be back in the coming days." said the man, in an assuring tone. "The superstitious fools think you will curse their members to fall off if they approach, or some nonsense. Then, if you are able, I shall help you regain your insight."

"... why…"

"Because it is my creed." the black-robed man replied. "Let the fools declare us a cult, and call us maegi even as they hire us. Our illuminated forefathers knew the truth."

"For only when the night is dark do the stars truly shine."

The cultist continued to tend to him, speaking in a tongue he wasn't sure how he knew that his other captives could not understand as he ensured he was fed three times a day instead of three times a week. He felt himself return; not the memories of anything before the fire or how he had ended up naked on that beach. That was gone. His speech, though, and his wit - that returned.

One day, though, a fortnight after they had first met, the cultist stepped down into the cargo holds holding a key instead of a wooden tray. He quickly inserted himself into Jon's cage and unlocked one of the shackles, and his hand fell limply to the ground from the sudden intense pins-and-needles sensation of blood returning.

"What are you doing…?" He asked.

"The captain would like to have a word with you." the cultist replied flatly, none of his customary warmth present. "And he finds himself unwilling to insert himself into the cargo hold as the rest of us do."

CLICK! The second shackle lifted away. "So," he continued, "I have been instructed to bring the wildling maegi to the captain's chambers, as my star worshipper magic has tamed you. Ridiculous."

CLACK! The neck shackle fell away, and the prisoner's head dropped from its perfectly-upright position in weeks. "Why…?"

"I did not ask." he replied simply. The cultist pulled him up to his feet, and braced him against his shoulder. "I do not think I need to tell you why not to try and escape while we are far from land. I would similarly advise against provoking the monkey's attention. It's a vicious creature."

The cultist pushed him up through the trapdoor with some difficulty, as the sun and the sudden sound of singing hit the prisoner like a wave.

"Roll away, me boys, roll away

We're not selling no sails today

For they're handing out crowns

That will drive you to ground

Roll away from these Nine-Penny Kings~!"

"At least they're not singing 'The Daughters Go To War' anymore." the cultist muttered. "Could not stand such overblown patriotism, even if they only know half of the dozen stanzas of 'Ninepenny Kings'." the ship rolled with the tide, and the prisoner stumbled to the side, knocking into a barrel with a loud clatter.

The ship's singing trailed off almost instantly. All across the deck, nearly two dozen men were staring at the prisoner and the cultist together; one man by the deck had his hand immediately go to the cutlass on his hip.

The cultist scowled, pulled him up from the barrel, and shuffled him to the stern, where a door lay. He quickly moved the two of them inside, and shut the door behind, muffling the sound of rigging and dampening the waves.

"Captain." the cultist began.

"I see him." responded the two-bearded Tyroshi, dipping his writing quill into his inkwell.

The prisoner stared at the man, then at the black-and-white speckled monkey hanging off his chair back. The creature bared its fangs at him and let out a threatening screech, so he averted his eyes slightly. He lingered on the pale white, intricately carved wooden chair, with its flowing arcs and whorls, only momentarily - something in it caused him great unease.

"So." the prisoner's eyes flicked down to the Tyroshi, who was now staring at him with indigo eyes. "You are the one who has frightened my men so. The maegi."

He stood from the chair, revealing both his two-tone forked beard and the Valyrian steel blade on his robed hip. "They tell me you appeared from thin air. One minute, they were leaving for a mission, the next-" he snapped his fingers. "In between their ranks, with a priceless blade drawn and not a stitch else." the captain's eyes trailed down to the sackcloth pants on his hips, and scowled.

"I do not fear you, maegi." he spat. "I have killed your gods before, and made their corpses into a resting place for my ass." his carefully manicured hand fell to rest on the arm of his bone-white chair. "I tolerated you, for a wizard of any stripe sells far higher than a galley slave. But now an example must be made." He drew the stolen blade from his hip, and from a scabbard too big for it's narrow width. "I will remind the lackwits on this ship that I am the one to be feared, not a mute wildling in chains."

"He's not a wildling." said the cultist, quickly. "Or a mute. He's spoken to me."

"Silence!" the captain snapped. "I tolerate you for your uncanny knowledge of the winds and the waves, not for your lip. If you try any of your Starry Wisdom tricks you'll follow him."

The cultist bit back his reply, until the Tyroshi captain lifted the blade once again. "He's a Sunsetlander." he blurted out. "A Westerosi, Not a wildling. And no memory."

"You dare?" snapped the captain, and the blade flicked up to the cultist's neck. The cultist froze; the prisoner stared at the scene, grey eyes clearer than they had been in weeks. "One more word from you, Tiras, and I won't wait until port to rid myself of you, let alone return you to Braavos."

The cultist, Tiras, gulped loudly, but said nothing in reply.

The Valyrian blade shifted, and moved to the prisoner's neck. "Well, boy?" Said the Tyroshi captain. "Did he lie? Are you a wildling?"

"... No." said the prisoner, standing straight. "I am not."

The Tyroshi captain's eyes narrowed to slits. "Of course you're not. I recognize that foul Northman's brogue. I'll never forget it, after that Manderly cutter forced me to slit the throats of an entire hold's worth of cargo. Two months of hunting, wasted, to avoid an overeager sunsetlander patrol looking to kill men of my profession."

The blade lowered, but his free hand snapped up and grabbed the prisoner by the chin. The prisoner grit his teeth, but did not rise to the captain's touch. "But you're not just any Northman, are you?" said the captain. "Young, barely even of age, but wide in the arm and leg muscles. Broad shoulders, clear skin, bright white and straight teeth. Thick hair. You've never gone hungry a day in your life, have you?"

A wide, sneering grin spread on the slave captain's face. "You're a noble's brat, aren't you?" he asked, gloating. "Ran away from home with the family sword to learn wildling blood magic."

The prisoner remained silent. The monkey let out a series of shrieks.

"Just so, I think." He grinned. The hand dropped away. "Then I'll take my revenge on the Manderlys through you, I think. Khal Drogo is in Pentos, I hear. Searching for a pretty wife to buy. I think I'll sell him a pretty catamite instead. Those horselords will fuck anything that moves, I hear, and they aren't scared of blood wizards like you. Even share their lays with their mounts. You like that, Northman? Looking forward to being reamed in two by horsecock?"

Still the prisoner said nothing, but flexed his fingers angrily.

"Hmph." the captain scoffed. The monkey screeched in time with his owner. "Throw him in the cargo hold again. Feed him only once every two days. I like the idea of my lackwit crew more now."

"... No."

"No?" The captain repeated, indignantly.

"No." Said Tiras. "I will feed him as I desire. This one is marked for something by the Wayward Star. I know it."

"And you are marked for a watery grave."

"You think you can function without me?" Tiras replied. The prisoner could feel the cultist's fingers on his arm, damp and shaking. "You sail faster than any other slave ship because I lead you to the winds, and away from danger. You kill me, the Church will know, and never deal with you again. You kill him, and I will becalm us for weeks - or direct you into a hurricane."

"You would not dare." The captain said, voice barely above a growl.

Tiras stared back without saying a word. No word was said, tension thick in the air.

"Tch." Finally, the Tyroshi stabbed the valyrian blade point first into the wooden deck. "Quarrelsome fool. Isn't your cult supposed to diffuse strife?"

"We diffuse great strife where it exists, and bring small strife where there is none." Tiras recited, as if from rote memorization. "A night not so bright you can see without effort, but not so dark you stumble and fall."

"What, then? A clear, moonless night that never ends, the whole world over?" The captain spat.

Tiras smiled thinly. "A poetic description."

"Bah." The Tyroshi turned away. "Get him out of my sight. If I see him even an instant before we land at Pentos not even your threats can save him."

The cultist gripped him by the shoulder and quickly shuffled him out of the cabin. An uncomfortable silence followed the two below deck.

"Thank you." said the prisoner, as he was led back into his cell. "But why?"

Tiras sighed and wiped at his shaved crown, hand coming away wet with sweat.

"Because life had been going too well for the good captain." he said, after a long pause. "Should he sell that blade of yours, he will become as rich as a magister." his lips thinned in a frown. "And I did not lie - the Wayward Star hangs over our ship, and grows closer every day. It calls for misery and strife, and so I will act to bring such things writ small, before it acts for itself writ large."

Something about that statement set a chill in his bones. "He could have killed you."

"Very few men of my creed ever die in their own beds, friend."

"Then why? Why believe, if it dooms you?"

Tiras smiled, but his eyes remained flat and faded. "Why indeed? Someone must, or else we all…" he trailed off. "No. That is not a tale for today. When we reach Pentos, and the captain attempts," and here Tiras smirked knowingly, "to sell you off to this Khal, then I will tell you of our folly. Our First Folly, for we have had many."

He leaned back, closing his eyes. "So many follies. Reaching all the way back to the Dawn…"

The prisoner stared at him, brow furrowed, until the cultist shook himself. "You don't need those chains anymore, I think." he stepped outside of the cage, locked the gridlock metal door behind him, and slipped the key into his robe. "Though I would make an effort to pretend to be locked up should any of the other crew come looking."

"Rest well." the trapdoor shut behind Tiras, and plunged the cargo hold into darkness once more.

The prisoner stared ahead flatly, before leaping up to grip the top of his cage through the gridlock mesh, and began to do pull-ups.

"Where will they go? Their mother is dead."

"They don't belong down here."

"... Better a quick death. They won't last without their mother."

"No! No, father, please!"

"Bran, you need to stop crying. They aren't meant to live down here."

"Nooooo… I don't want them to die… Robb, please…"

"... Father, a word? … I don't think this is wise. Not with Bran here… he still cries at night about… about Theon. And… Snow. This execution was hard enough for him."

"You would have me spare these pups, only to let them starve out of sight? You think Bran will appreciate the crueler death if he does not see it this time?"

"I don't know, but - wait. What is… do you see that?"

"... Another one. Newly born and already it has its eyes open."

"... Father. There are five pups at home, and one ranging far, stranger than the others. Our sigil is the Direwolf, and magic has touched our family once already. Do you think…?"

"... Gather them up."

"Oh, father!"

"You will feed them yourselves. You will train them yourselves. And if they die, you will bury them yourselves. This one… is mine. Jory, ride ahead and collect Maester Luwin and a cart for the mother's body. Tell him his Valyrian link is needed again."

A wooden barrel slammed against the metal cage, and the prisoner snapped awake with blank white eyes. All about him, the cargo supplies were sloshing wildly about as the ship rolled under mighty waves, and the wildlings let out a cacophony of fear and blustering anger.

None of that mattered to him. He remembered his magic. His past was still a mystery, but this - the power that came from skins and hate - this, he remembered.

"Enough!" he shouted, in the wildling's tongue. The prisoners stilled.

"You talk!?"

"Aye." he replied. "You fight?"

"Aye!" shouted the young one.

"Shut your mouth." chastened the older man. "Fight who?"

"These slavers." replied the prisoner. "I'm going to get us loose, and then I want you to kill them."

"How?"

"You said before you wanted a warg with a beast." The prisoner smiled, teeth bared like daggers. "I think a monkey will suffice."

He wrapped the chains around his arms to hold himself in place, and as the wildlings began to shout at him, thought of the captain and how much he would dearly love to slam an ax into his skull-

He felt the wordless screech of fear die in his throat, as his Man-thing spat curses and frantically swept his desk ornaments into drawers. "Fucking Trios devour that lying cultist! Either blind or moronic - A Gods-damned HURRICANE doesn't just APPEAR out of fucking thin air-" he swarmed to the door, throwing it open and getting a furious sheet of wind and rain. "GET THE CARGO BELOW DECK!" his Man-thing screamed. "CARGO! BELOW DECK! NOW!"

He let out an instinctive trill as he leaped forward and snaked his hand into the half-closed drawers, and came up clenched around a keyring. A single powerful leap brought him onto his Man-thing's back, and scrambled onto his shoulder before he could whirl about and snatch him off.

"NO, DAMN YOU! NOT THE TIME, YOU DAMNED APE!" his massive hand reached for him, but he was already plunging out through the door.

The rain hit his small frame like an anvil, with droplets nearly as big as his fists and gale winds threatening to lift him skyward. His tail immediately flicked out to grab hold of a rail, and watched for his moment. Even now, just a few feet away, his man-thing's voice was nearly drowned out.

All at once, the world turned to light, and the sound of a thousand explosions drowned out everything. The ship roiled - a man who had been on the side slipped and flew over the side, screaming as he went. The trapdoor to the cargo hold had flipped open from the extreme angle -

His loosed his tail, and fell.

The prisoner came back to himself with a clamor of barrels and boxes slamming themselves against his fixed cage, and a throbbing pain where the side of his head hit the metal. The monkey came through the open trapdoor a moment later, shrieking with all the terrified energy a wild animal has.

The keyring fell from the beast's hand the moment it landed, and promptly scattered off to the dark corners of the cargo hold. The ship rolled back, miraculously intact, and then upwards, as the trapdoor slammed shut. The prisoner could feel the urge to throw up growing in him, but suppressed it and scrambled forward. His hand closed around the keyring just as whatever wave they had just crested gave way, and the ship plunged down.

"WE'RE ALL DOOMED! WE'RE DOING TO DIE!" "NAMELESS GODS, SAVE US FROM THIS HELL!" "I DON'T WANT TO DIE LIKE THIS!"

He ignored the terror of the Wildlings, and clumsily flipped through the keyring until he found that which Tiras had shown him that day. With a shaking hand, the lock gave way, and he was free again.

"Look! He's out!" shouted a female voice.

The prisoner tried, as best as he was able, to stand upright when his whole world roiled about him. "I'm going out there!" he shouted. "To fight!"

"ARE YOU MAD!?" shouted one of them.

"I WON'T GO OUT THERE IN THIS STORM!"

"COWARDS!" shouted the younger man. "This is our chance! They'll never be so distracted! They keep their food in this room! If we kill their leader, we can force them to either let us go or starve!"

"He has the right of it!" the prisoner shouted, and threw the keyring to the young wildling's grasping hands, who quickly began testing every key on it. "Any man who wants to fight, grab a weapon and come with me! Otherwise, stay in here and guard this trapdoor!"

With a click, the cage door swung wide, and the young wildling scrambled out, taking only a moment to collect what looked like a pair of butcher's cleavers from a supply crate. Nobody else joined him. "What's the plan, stranger?"

The prisoner picked up an oar, settling it across his shoulder. "The captain's cabin is to the left. He's the one with the purple-and-green beard. Kill only those who get in our way, for we still need to reach shore. And do not harm Tiras, the black-robed man - he is a friend."

"Got it!" The wildling reached up and pushed open the trapdoor-

A physical wall of rain battered the two, a weight holding the trapdoor down to just a few inches open. The prisoner reached up, tackling the wooden slab and getting rocked backwards. The weight of the rain blocked further passage, until the floor dropped out from underneath them.

The door floated open, and so did they, as the ship plunged down, down, down from the crest of a massive wave. The wildling, who was not holding on to anything, let out a terrified scream as he was carried through the air, while the prisoner gripped onto the edge of the door with all his might.

The prow slammed into the water, and gravity returned in the worst way. The wildling youth plunged back downwards hands-first, still clutching his cleavers. His hands were the first to impact the deck, followed by his face; the red of his blood from the blade plunging through his neck and almost decapitating himself washed away with the rain.

A ragged gasp escaped the prisoner, as he stumbled to his feet, freezing water battering against his skin. All about him, the slavers raced about, hauling desperately against ropes and sails and clutching cargo. At the prow of the carrack, clutching the side, Tiras stared at the sky, screaming in a mixture of despair and fear. "THE STAR! THE STAR! THE FOLLY OF THE EMPEROR!"

The prisoner looked up, only for a moment, before the urge to throw up in fear forced him to look away. Waves as tall as their sails roiled and thrashed, and in the distance, a whirling, towering, terrifyingly large column of wind and rain blotted out the sky. Lightning raced across the black clouds, and for a moment he thought it formed an impossible pattern - an intricate, thirteen-pointed star.

Then the phantom disappeared, and the sea exploded as a thunderbolt split the waves. The ship rolled, and the prisoner flew to the rail of the ship. The body of the wildling slammed next to him, a glimmer of his free cleaver glittering as it sailed off and over the edge. A Tyroshi slaver screamed in fear as he slammed into the rail, and disappeared overboard as it gave way.

"IT COMES! IT COMES! THE BLOODSTONE RUIN COMES!"

He felt his chest heaving as if unable to get enough air, before a steeling of nerve overtook him. With one hand, he grabbed the rail; with the other, he ripped the cleaver from the dead wildling's throat, and allowed his corpse to fly overboard. Then he whipped about, and charged the cabin.

The door gave way under his shoulder, or perhaps it had not latched properly under the fury of the storm. The prisoner barreled forward with the grace of a bull, slamming into the Tyroshi captain's desk. "WHAT THE-!?" the man shouted, hunched over an open chest of indiscernible items. "YOU!"

"You die, now!" shouted the prisoner.

The man's beard bristled, and in an instant the stolen valyrian blade was in his hand. "I should have THROWN YOU OVERBOARD, Maegi!" He roared. "I should have GUTTED YOU!"

He lunged forward, slashing and stabbing. Instinct guided the prisoner's hand, blocking and deflecting the blade with the flat of his butcher's cleaver. Even as undersized as it was compared to other longswords, the valyrian blade had the advantage of reach.

The slaver, however, was not a master at the blade. A wild stab came for his stomach, too low and slow, and the flat head of the cleaver shoved it roughly to the side. A wide opening, and the prisoner lunged, edge swinging for his neck -

A deafening boom, and the ship rolled hard. The prisoner flew to the side, slamming against the wall; if he had the mind to notice, he would have seen and felt all the hairs on his body standing upright from the electric discharge running through the air. The Tyroshi captain caught himself on the edge of his desk, bolted to the deck even as the pale-white weirwood chair tumbled to the side.

The captain looked, for just a moment, and then let go of the desk, plunging downwards with the blade. The prisoner rolled along the wall drunkenly, and Dark Sister sunk into the wall by inches. The ship overcorrected, and the captain kicked him in the chest as he stumbled back to the right.

"Northman barbarian!" the captain snarled, as the prisoner gasped for air. He heaved on the hilt of his lodged sword, and the wall released it with a shower of splinters. "I'll see you dead before I let this ship sink!"

The prisoner let out a wordless growl and lifted the cleaver to a wide outward stance once more, free hand floating. The captain lunged, stabbing and slashing with wide movements. If the both of them had swords in their hands, the fight would have been easily won.

Instead, the prisoner continued to block and deflect, waiting for the moment. The ship heaved underneath them, and everything not bolted down scattered about. The Tyroshi slaver stumbled, but the Northman lunged, and grabbed the intricately-carved weirwood chair. A window exploded inward with a wave of salt ocean water, and the slaver stood upright just quickly enough to get the piece of furniture slammed into his face.

Blood spilled, and a scream burst from his throat, before the sharp edge of a cleaver silenced it.

The corpse of the Tyroshi slaver slid down to the ground, blood spewing and staining the intricately-carved whorls and arches of the godswood chair, but the prisoner paid no attention. Instead, he reached down, and took back the valyrian steel blade that had been stolen from him. He stared into the flickering steel pattern with hard grey eyes-

A crackle of electric energy arced across the metal blade, and the reflection of the blade morphed into a baleful red thirteen-pointed star. And then, with a deafening boom, the cabin exploded.

Cold. it is so cold.

He could not feel anything beyond the cold, and the blinding pain that emanated from his forehead. Far away, as if from a distance, he could hear the crackling of fire, and the groaning collapse of wood. But all he could feel was cold, and pain, and his eyes would not open.

His lungs slowly began to burn, and with a faded intuition realized that if he opened his mouth, either, he would drown. He was sinking ever lower, and yet he could not find the strength to move his arms. He could only sink down,

Down,

Down…

A soft pressure against his lips, and gentle arms under and around his chest. A wet, wriggly appendage broke the seal of his mouth, and with a rush he was forced to exhale. Air returned a heartbeat later, slow and paced.

A voice burbled near his ear. A giggle, he realized. Someone is giggling to me as I drown. He is still unable to open his eyes. He is not sure that he wants to.

You took one of my sons. Whispered the voice. Female. A woman was speaking to him, in words he heard on the inside of his skull. Now you will give one back.

Open your eyes. Open your eyes, damn you. But his limbs would not move, and his eyes would not open, even as he sank down, down, down. A slender hand reached down, underneath his ragged waistband, and her touch sent the world spiralling into the kaleidoscope.

A great hall stretched out, men of stormy complexion roaring with laughter and bloodlust, clothed in rags and wielding iron weapons. Women of impossible anatomy, clad in silver seaweed, floated between the lusty men with abandon. At the head of the hall sat a man as grey as the winter sea-

A great streak across the sky, blotting out the dawn with a color dark as clotted blood, carving a line beyond the horizon, while underneath the sea roiled in fury-

A skeleton in black robes dancing about, red staining his teeth. "Red and yellow and light, your colors above may be, I know, I know." said the skeleton, in Tiras' voice, "But flames burn green and blue and black, down here below the sea, ooh ooh, ooh ooh." a howling laugh-

His eyes opened. A face was against his, lips parted and blowing air into his lungs. Everything was dark, but the eyes were wide open, completely yellow and blown wider than humanly possible.

He thrashed once at the shock. Her arms tightened around him, and a searing pain raced through his skull as something moved-

Something was in his forehead.

Something was lodged in his forehead.

Hush… whispered the voice, as what felt like an impossibly-tight vice clenched around his lungs, squeezing his chest every time she breathed into him. You are ours, now. For a time. We will return you. But only once you have insight. For what is dead is dead may never die. His feet touched solid ground, for just a moment, as her face shifted away -

To reveal a nest of tentacles as wide across as he was tall and bounding into the darkness, illuminated by flaming vents from the sea floor, with flames burning green, and blue, and black. He screamed, involuntarily, and writhed only once before the pain debilitated his movements, and the world faded. The last thing he saw, as the woman giggled once and dragged him closer, was a single glowing eye, staring at him with an unwavering gaze. An Eye he knew. An Eye from that place, after the fire.

The Eye grew too wide to comprehend, but the woman kept pulling him onwards, until they reached the pupil, and passed beyond the boundary.

But rises again. Harder and Stronger.

He knew nothing more.

"Captain. Captain. Captain."

Asha Greyjoy's eyes snapped open, her feet swinging over the edge of her small fixed bed. "I'm up, I'm up. What is it?" she responded automatically, fog shrouding her brain and a deep weariness in her bones. "Did the Tyroshi catch us?"

"No, captain." Qarl the Maid replied, hands locked at his side and standing upright, though to her eyes he looked ready to be blown over with a stiff wind. "They've not been seen since that foul storm."

She let out a soft, mindless moan of appreciation and flopped bonelessly back into the thin mattress. A foul storm it had been, and timed auspiciously for her, surrounded as her raiding fleet had been by a dozen Tyroshi war-galleys. She had left the Iron Islands a month ago with half a dozen lesser longships, crewed and captained by landless ironborn, and two knarrs to stow both foodstuffs and the plunder of the Stepstones.

Foul luck that she had come back during the periodic flare-ups of war between the Three Whores over the chain of islands. The Tyroshi had been out in full force looking for Myrish and Lysene fleets, and she had been caught with her bare ass exposed after plundering a pirate lord's 'city'. Now, only her own ship the Black Wind, built for the Iron Fleet, and a single knarr survived.

"What, then?" she groaned.

"Rolfe the Dwarf has spotted a light." this caught her attention, and Asha rolled over once more to face Qarl. "The others can't see it yet, but he swears that our eastward heading has brought us to the Weeping Tower."

"Lys?" she exclaimed, incredulous. "The storm pushed us so far south as Lys?" she stood up, feeling the comforting roll of the ship under her feet.

"We'll have a welcome port if it is." replied Qarl. "Of all the free cities, it is Lys who is most plagued by the Stepstone pirates we prey upon."

"Wouldn't be much of a problem if those perfumed whoremongers didn't generate most of those pirates, as well." she quickly marched over to her sea maps, snatched her target out, and spread it across her desk.

"The Weeping Tower can be seen from…" she trailed off, finger tracing across a byzantine scrawl of chart markings of her own make. She never had bothered to learn how to read, unlike her uncle; being a woman captain was handicap enough on the Iron Islands without the infrequent accusation of sorcery. Her father Balon Greyjoy was lord of the Iron Islands, and he didn't know how to read either, so it must not be such a handicap.

Reading a sea chart, though, must surely be the next-best thing for all their complexity, and it hid nothing from her. "If the Dwarf tells no lies, we could make land at the Free City within half a day at the latest." she declared. "Fewer, the further south the lighthouse is. A few days of featherbeds and checking for damage, then we sail for Pyke with all speed."

"Aye, captain." Qarl made to turn about and leave, but her hand snapped out and gripped him around the wrist.

"Stay." she said, a firm, warm tone in her voice. "I could knock you over with a feather right now."

"You could already do that to me." he replied, a smirking twist to his mouth not hiding his bloodshot eyes. "A single kiss and I fall backwards into your bed."

"And what then? Passed out before I've even mounted, beardless boy that you are." She pulled him close, matching his smirk, before pushing him backwards until he stumbled to a seat on her mattress. "You've done enough today."

"No, I think not." Qarl replied, though his eyes fluttered. Even the act of sitting down seemed to have taken something from him. "You are still tired. Come, rest within my arms. Don't you know I am terribly frightened of the sea without my favorite pillow?"

Asha let out a loud snort. She only allowed such talk because they were alone; both of them knew that anything of this sort in front of the others would have drawn harsh discipline. "Sleep fast."

"Aye, aye." he replied, but she was already through the doors. The Black Wind's decks were understaffed, with most of the crew likely passed out below deck after a long double-shift on the oars to escape the Tyroshi fleet. The easterly winds took the sails now, and Rolfe the Dwarf stood at the bow, towering over the rest of the crew. Through the morning fog, she could see nothing, but as she watched longer, the more a hint came through - a distant, flickering light.

A wide grin grew on her face. The Dwarf's prodigious height had given him the best vantage, after all. "All above!" she shouted. "Full sails, and make for the lighthouse! Signal the Reaver's Cut! We sail for Lys!"

The Free City of Lys was known by many sailors to be the most beautiful of all of Valyria's daughters, with its paradisal climates and gentle waters, its vivid hues and sensuous pleasure houses. It certainly was not the biggest; the firm boundaries of the Free City stretched only across three islands, with none of the tributary cities that the mainland cities maintained. It was, therefore, trade that defined the city's economy.

Trade didn't mean much to Asha in and of itself - she was a true Ironborn, and paid with iron instead of gold whenever she was able. It did, however, concern her with trade's aftereffects - so many traders turned to piracy after a string of losses, turning their mercantile fleet to a reaving fleet. When they had managed to gather a tidy profit, and create a base among the Stepstones, that was when she struck.

An easy game, cutting down upjumped merchants and taking everything they own. Until we end up surrounded by a real warfleet, Asha thought sourly, spread-eagle on a wide featherbed and staring up at a painted fresco of a sunset on her ceiling. Five days in Lys, and already the city was grating on her nerves. She could do with Qarl between her legs to take the edge off, but he was likely down at the docks, watching over the ships while repairs were underway.

An irritated sigh escaped her, before rolling vigorously out of the bed. Through the doors, the inn became more vigorous and lively, with warm fires and bright colors. She ignored it all, and the serving girl attempting to wheedle her into having breakfast.

"Greyjoy?"

She stopped.

"Greyjoy! I thought that was you."

Asha turned, and saw a figure from her past standing there. "Vyrellio Sorren." she said, eyebrows arched high and her grimace smothered. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I could say much the same." The olive-skinned man said, with an easy twist to the smile that reached his indigo eyes. "I saw the Black Wind at port and said, 'surely it cannot be that the scion of the Ironborn, the bane of Torturer's Deep, has returned to Lys!' and yet, here you are. Happy day!"

"You... look well, for how I last saw you."

"You found me starving, diseased, and whipped to within an inch of my life by the Sea Shrikes. I should hope I look better than then."

"You were so pox-ridden we didn't even bother taking you back to the Islands as a thrall." she said, her smirk wavering as she woodenly allowed the man to lead her to a table. The serving girl from before eagerly paced forward with a carafe of sweet wine, but she irritably waved the girl away, while the Lysene accepted. "I thought you were off to Braavos to die."

"Ah, but I was!" Vyrellio exclaimed, taking a generous sip. "Mm. Wonderful nose to that. The last you saw me was seven years ago, was it not? Which now makes you… at least twenty. My, but you have flowered into a beauty since." a smirk appeared on his face. "Perhaps I should have you stand for a painting. 'The Sunsetlander Princess', I'll call it. Magisters will seek you out as a bride."

Asha violently rolled her eyes. "One-and-twenty, now. Keep away from me, paintmonger, or I'll introduce those magisters to the one who speaks for my virtue." Her ax had been banned from the city by the portmasters, but the sound of her dirk sliding from its sheath underneath the table was unmistakable for the both of them.

Vyrellio waved his hands in surrender, even as the smirk never left; the motion set the brightly-colored feather in his ridiculous muffin cap bouncing wildly. "As you say, as you say. Now, where was I?"

"Braavos."

"Braavos! Yes. you last saw me as I set out to the House of Black and White, to see the Weeping Lady and entreat the Faceless Men. Imagine my surprise, then, when my mean condition rendered on me by the filthy pirates you saved me from, improved!"

"You were a mess of wounds and infection when I saw you last."

He grimaced. "By all rights, I should have died. And yet I lived, well enough that when I reached the Faceless Men I turned against asking for a painless death."

"What is dead may never die." intoned Asha.

"But rises again, harder and stronger." Vyrellio finished. "I took strength from the words of your people, Asha. Perhaps not in the intended way, when you told them to me, but instead of lying down to die I found inspiration. The gods of the House were beautiful, in their own way, and I set to work."

Asha's eyebrow arched. "And you found a fool magister to buy your works?"

"The Temples bought my works." he replied. "The Isle of the Gods is always in need, though more sculpture than art. A lovely medium, though much more painstaking than oils and paints - I became very skilled with a chisel and hammer. Even the House purchased one." his lips twitched. "Did you know that the House has a statue of the Drowned God? They consider him an aspect of Death."

Asha's expression curdled. Even as lukewarm a believer as she could see the multiple heresies. "The Drowned God has no icon." she said. "His body is the fathomless sea, his face the cresting wave."

"I offered to help correct their error, but they refused." Vyrellio shrugged. "But no matter. After many years of patronage and hearty success, I longed for the warmth and beauty of Lys. and so, I am here once more, to bring my talents to bear for the gods most dear to me."

"At least your story ends well." she groused, taking a swig of her glass before irritably realizing she'd refused the serving girl's wine earlier. "We were driven here by an unseasonal storm, and before that were ambushed by a Tyroshi fleet."

"Tyroshi dogs." Vyrellio turned and spat on the floor. "A wonder we ever thought to make alliance with them against Volantis." his expression lightened. "You will be here for several days more, then? Perhaps you should come to my studio. Fully paid for by my patron, the good magister Tregar Ormollen. You simply must meet my new assistant."

"A slave."

"Not at all! I came upon him in the most remarkable fashion a little over a moon ago." Vyrellio took a long swig from his wine, an excited twinkle in his eye. "I found him on the beach, washed ashore and with the most remarkable injuries. A victim of some shipwreck, I am certain, and must have drowned - but as I approached, he came gasping back to life!"

Asha leaned back in her chair, eyebrows arching as a bemused frown expressed itself. It was the first time in this unwelcome reunion that she gained even the slightest interest in his words. "Not every day the Drowned God throws one back when they reach his halls." she said.

"Precisely." said Vyrellio. "Even more so when I realized the boy, who I am certain is Westerosi, had little memory of himself. Perhaps for an obvious reason. He is… Well." he leaned forward, and smiled. "Perhaps you should meet him first before I continue. I doubt he's ever picked up a brush or chisel in his life, but his skill with a blade is remarkable, and his visage is… striking."

"A blade won't do much against a Lysene's favorite weapon." she remarked. "Does an artist truly need a bodyguard?"

"Magister Ormollen is a powerful man, and a strong candidate to be elected the gonfaloniere. From there, he is but a stone's throw from becoming First Magister. And his paramour favors my work." Vyrellio said, wryly. "That alone creates enemies, not the least of which being Magister Ormollen's wife. None would dare strike the Magister or Lady Hightower directly… but I am not so secure."

A lopsided smile burst from his lips, and he pushed himself to his feet. "Ah, but you are not here to learn of Free City politics! Come, come! You must see my workshop before you leave. Tell me what you have paid to the thieves at the inn and the harbor - the debt shall be cleared in my name! You paid for my freedom with iron, now I pay for your stay in gold!"

The grimace reappeared on Asha's face, but slowly let herself he directed outside. She halfway hoped those supposed enemies had poisoned the wine, so she could be rid of this braggart once and for all.

For how annoying this man is, this assistant had better be as great as the Grey King himself.

So. If you can't tell by the fact that I just uploaded four chapters all at once, I'm not dead. I'm quite active over on AO3. And I'm finding less and less reason to put this website in my forethoughts. So, if you want to be up-to-date on this, go on over there and follow the story there. I'll actually talk to you and answer questions and such. If not, that's fine. I'll eventually get around to cross-posting here. key word - eventually.