Inside the captain's cabin of the Valyrian, the air was a heavy, aromatic slurry of exotic spices, expensive oils, and the sharp tang of Lysene brandy. The table before Eddard Karstark was a chaotic spread of delicacies: pepper-crusted mutton, figs preserved in honey, and small, spicy birds roasted until their bones were brittle enough to eat.
Salladhor Saan, the self-proclaimed Prince of the Narrow Sea, raised a silver chalice with a flourish. His rings, set with opals and jade, caught the flickering lamplight. "Lord Eddard, you must trust the word of an old sailor. Moving with the main Royal Fleet is a fool's errand. You've seen the docks at Dragonstone, the stewards are already at each other's throats trying to find a clean cask of water. By the time the White Harbor ships arrive, that harbor will be a bucket of crabs."
Eddard frowned, leaning back in the velvet-cushioned chair. "A guide's first duty is the safety of the employer, Saan. Splitting the fleet makes us vulnerable to the Stepstone pirates or a lucky Lannister patrol."
"Safety is a matter of speed, not numbers," Saan countered, a playful wink dancing in his dark eyes. "We head directly east. In two days, we catch the coastal currents. From there, the north wind will carry us like a lover's sigh straight to the harbor of Pentos. I have many friends there, including Illyrio Mopatis. He is a man who appreciates gold as much as I do."
"Crossing the Narrow Sea directly in winter?" Eddard asked, his skepticism clear. The distance was less than two hundred miles, but the Narrow Sea was a misnomer in the cold months. It was a churning graveyard of sudden gales and freezing spray. Eddard's original plan had been a cautious crawl through the Stepstones.
"My dear Lord, if my ships stayed idle every time a snowflake fell, my crews would have eaten each other years ago," Saan laughed, his peacock-feathered hat bobbing. "I have a secret route, a current that runs deep and warm even when the sky is black. For a high enough commission, I will share the sea's favor with you."
Eddard clinked his cup against the Lyseni's. "The weather is clearing. If your route is as good as your brandy, you'll have your gold."
Two days later, the sky above Dragonstone was a brilliant, hollow blue. Early that morning, Eddard had two heavy oak chests carried onto the Valyrian. As the lids were flipped, the morning sun ignited the gold dragons within, making them glow with a captivating, predatory luster.
"Twenty percent deposit," Eddard said, watching Saan's intoxicated expression. "The rest waits in Sisterton once we return from Slaver's Bay."
Saan grabbed a handful of coins, kissing them before biting one with a practiced tooth. "Magnificent! Truly, the Sunburst is a generous lord! Lads! Wake the louts! Weigh anchor! We sail for Pentos!"
Eddard boarded his flagship, the Sunburst. He looked at Jason Mallister, who stood on the quarterdeck. "Follow the colorful ships, Jason. And keep a log of the stars. I want to know this route for ourselves."
The fleet, nearly two hundred ships strong, weighed anchor an hour later. Their sails filled with a crisp eastern wind, their prows cutting through the churning grey water as they swept majestically toward the Essos horizon.
In the Reach, the morning was awake, but it didn't sing. It screamed.
The village of Lowbridge along the Mander River was a blackened scar. Longships with purple banners featuring a blood-red moon were docked at the charred remains of the pier. A young man in leather armor, clutching a rusted fishing spear, stood defiantly at his threshold until a spinning throwing axe caught him in the face. He fell into the mud, his final vision being the sight of reavers dragging his wife and daughter from the house.
"Behave, you wretched whore!" Jhot, a scarred pirate from the Blood Moon, spat as he backhanded the farmwife. "If you fight me, I'll strip you and use you over your husband's corpse."
"Kill the loud ones and get back to the ship!" another pirate barked, dragging a weeping little girl by her hair while his other hand clutched a sack of plundered silver. "We don't have all day."
The lookout on a nearby hill struck a broken brass gong - Clang! Clang! Clang! - signaling the approach of cavalry.
Jhot's face twisted with malice. He realized he didn't have time to claim his "salt-wife." He kicked the woman to the ground and brought his battle-axe down across her throat. He didn't look at the blood; he simply grabbed a torch, tossed it onto the thatched roof, and sprinted for the departing longship.
A cloud of dust rose from the northern road. The golden rose of Highgarden fluttered in the wind as dozens of anxious riders spurred their mounts toward the billowing smoke.
Garlan Tyrell, "the Gallant," reined in his horse at the village center. He looked at the smoking sept and the charred bodies within, people who had sought sanctuary only to be burned alive. The smell of roasted flesh was a physical weight on the wind.
"I swear to the Father!" Garlan roared, ripping off his helmet and throwing it into the mud. "I will personally end these monsters!"
The Ironborn had been a plague since the fall of the Shield Islands. Victarion had trapped Mace Tyrell's river-fleet in the estuary, drowning three thousand men in a single afternoon. Now, the reavers used the islands as a staging ground to raid as far south as Oldtown's Whisper Bay.
"Ser Garlan," Dickon Tarly said, his voice tight. "Stannis's fleet has reached the Broken Arm of Dorne. They will be here soon. For now, we must evacuate the banks."
The pirates in the river laughed, some unzipping their breeches to urinate toward the knights on the shore. Garlan's face turned a violent shade of red. He grabbed a crossbow from his saddle, nocking a bolt with trembling hands.
"Follow them! Now!" Garlan commanded, galloping along the riverbank.
On the Blood Moon, Walton Wynch watched the riders. "Archers! Give the Rose-lads a welcome!"
A rain of rusted arrows hissed from the river. Garlan raised his lobstered gauntlet to protect his eyes, but a stray bolt grazed his forehead, sending a line of hot blood down into his eye. He didn't stop. He aimed his crossbow and fired.
Thwack.
The bolt struck Jhot, who had been jeering at the edge of the deck square in the eye. The pirate let out a single, piercing shriek before collapsing.
"Grant him mercy and throw him overboard," Walton Wynch said indifferently. "Lower the oars! Get us to the estuary!"
The longship accelerated, the rhythmic beat of the oars driving it out of range of the cavalry. By dusk, Walton's ship reached the captured fortress of Southshield. He leaped onto the dock and ran straight into Victarion Greyjoy.
"Good haul, Walton?" Victarion asked, his voice a low rumble.
"Decent. Want to drink tonight?"
Victarion shook his head, his grey eyes fixed on the southern stars. "I cannot. I am taking the Iron Fleet to Essos."
Walton blinked. "Essos? Why go to that furnace when the Reach is a naked girl waiting to be taken?"
"It is the King's command," Victarion said, the bitterness in his voice as sharp as the sea salt. He turned and walked toward the Iron Victory, leaving the Reach behind for the shadows of the East.
[Strategic Event: The Iron Fleet departs for Essos (Mission: Dragon Queen).]
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