The Black Beta glided across the dark surface of the sea, her black sails barely rustling in the rare gusts of wind.
Night enveloped the ship in dense darkness, broken only by the sparse gleams of moonlight reflecting off the restless water.
More than several weeks of continuous travel, alternating between sails and oars when the wind died, were taking their toll.
The crew was exhausted; sailors slept sprawled across the deck and in the holds, and only the helmsman and a few drowsy lookouts remained awake, lazily scanning the horizon.
Davos Seaworth stood at the rail, gazing thoughtfully into the darkness where the outlines of the Arbor should soon appear.
There, in the shadow of vineyards and massive stone quays, waited Paxter Redwyne, Lord of the Arbor and head of House Redwyne, the recipient of the first sealed scroll.
He didn’t know its contents, but had no doubt it concerned Redwyne’s fleet, maneuvers, and the coming war.
Things that couldn’t be trusted even to ravens, and which were sealed with the heavy royal stamp.
The great distances gave the Greyjoys a lead of a couple of months.
During that time, Robert would have to gather an army and, most importantly, find ships to transport it.
What the former smuggler had gathered, keeping his ears open, was that part of the army would march overland, joining forces with the Northmen and the Riverlands.
The second part was to join with the forces of the Reach, though the Tyrells were in no hurry to get involved in the brewing conflict.
The Tyrells, though they hadn’t suffered heavy losses after surrendering Storm’s End to Eddard Stark, had still sided with the Targaryens.
And so, as Davos suspected, the first letter was addressed specifically to the Lord of the Arbor.
If all went according to plan, the royal fleet should already be following.
Yet plans were often disrupted by unforeseen circumstances.
And they were already close at hand.
The black silhouette of a fighting galley was barely visible against the dark sea.
A light, maneuverable ironborn longship crept like a predator, led by Rodrik Sparr, left by Victarion Greyjoy as a scout to warn of the royal fleet’s approach.
A few of the swiftest ships of the Iron Fleet were also keeping watch on the movements of Reach vessels.
The Royal Fleet hadn’t arrived yet.
And according to estimates and rumors, even if Baratheon had sent his ships that very day, they couldn’t possibly have reached these waters by now.
But Rodrik himself recognized the ship the lookouts had spotted.
The Black Beta, the galley of the Onion Knight, known vassal of the Master of Ships, who’d distinguished herself in the war against the Targaryens, caught the ironborn commander’s attention.
The Reach ships, to Sparr’s great displeasure, had been ordered to be left alone.
But the warriors, inspired by their victory over the Lannisters, were itching for a new fight, and he himself was intensely curious what the former smuggler’s ship was carrying toward the Redwynes’ island.
The ironborn moved silently, without lanterns, without unnecessary splashing, driven only by the soft wind and the powerful strokes of calloused hands.
These ships carried death.
Their warriors, hardened by the storms of the Iron Islands, were already preparing for the attack.
Some ran their fingers over sword hilts and axes, anticipating the fight.
Others whispered prayers to the Drowned God, intending to dedicate a couple of sacrifices to him.
They didn’t expect resistance, not here, not on this stretch of sea.
Here, near the Arbor, ships always sailed relaxed, unsuspecting, trusting in the safety of the southern waters.
Aboard the Black Beta, no one yet knew that death was already creeping across the waves.
ALARM!
ATTACK!!
The loud ringing of the bell cut through the night.
Arthur woke in chaos: shouts, running feet, the clang of metal, and muffled blows that made the wooden bulkheads shudder.
He barely understood what was happening before a sharp jolt sent him tumbling from his hammock onto the cold deck of the hold.
His heart hammered in his chest.
“ENEMIES ON BOARD…” The lookout’s voice, which had just rung out across the deck, suddenly choked off, drowned in a gurgling rattle.
The bell rang a couple more times and fell silent.
That was enough.
Dozens of sailors, scrambling from their places, surged upward to the deck, where the clash of swords, cries of pain, and the battle shouts of ironborn, whose stealthy attack had already been discovered, now rang out.
Arthur swallowed hard; his fingers clenched into fists.
Panic churned in his chest, but fear gave way to desperate resolve.
It didn’t matter whether he wanted to or not he had no choice.
He snatched the short knife from under his bunk, the only weapon he had, and, stumblinly, dashed for the ladder leading to the upper deck.
Above, hell raged.
Moonlight barely pierced the clouds of smoke and the dark shadows cast by flaming torches.
The first attackers, the first to reach the galley in small boats, were already on deck, their dark figures darting through the frantic melee.
They moved swiftly, crushing resistance with brutal, practiced ease.
Blood sprayed through the air, bodies fell to the planks, and over it all rose the rhythmic thud of boots as new attackers climbed aboard.
“Aaaaagh!” A man’s agonized scream as he fell overboard punctuated the heavy impact against the hull.
The Black Beta shuddered as the massive ironborn warship crashed into her side, grappling hooks biting into the wood.
Warriors in “salt” armor, with fearsome axes and curved blades, leaped over the rails like wolves pouncing on prey.
One of them, bloodied and grinning savagely, wrenched his sword from a fallen sailor’s chest and lunged forward, striking down the next man.
Someone collapsed in front of Arthur, pierced by a stray arrow.
His eyes stared empty at the sky, and the golden inscription with his name faded before Arthur’s eyes.
He recognized the boy the senior sailor Omerek had just yesterday told him about his family in King’s Landing.
Now he was just a lifeless doll sprawled on the deck.
Arthur swallowed convulsively, but before he could draw breath, a shadow was bearing down on him, a rusty axe raised high.
Fear froze his muscles, stopped time, but then something clicked in his head.
He thrust his knife forward, darted sideways, slipping past the attack, and with a dull hiss drove the blade into the enemy’s side as he fell, skidding on blood-slicked planks.
The ironborn roared, stumbled, but didn’t fall he was too big, too strong.
Or maybe the knife was too short.
Now the boy was completely unarmed.
Realizing this, the hairy, bearded man grinned a gap-toothed smile, advanced on him, raising his axe again.
Then, in confusion, he crossed his eyes toward his nose, where a strip of sharpened steel had buried itself in the back of his head.
Arthur didn’t see who did it just the blurred silhouette of a striking sword flashing in the moonlight.
The blade tore free from the attacker’s skull, and he crumpled to the deck, dropping his axe.
“Wake up, Arthur!” Matthis’s cry reached him.
He’d saved him again.
The boy’s gaze shifted to the dead sailor at his feet.
Almost without thinking, he wrenched the sword from the cooling fingers.
The blade was sticky with blood, but that no longer mattered.
Arthur gripped the sword tighter, his fingers barely holding the hilt, slick with blood.
The battle still raged around him: ironborn roaring, darting across the deck, disemboweling, carving flesh, trampling corpses, barely distinguishing friend from foe.
The air stank of blood, sweat, and smoke somewhere a dropped torch had started a small fire.
“Move, damn it!” Matthis yelled, grabbing his shoulder roughly.
“Get up!”
The boy lurched to his feet and immediately felt his knees buckle.
He’d stepped on someone’s entrails, slick and still warm.
His stomach twisted, and Arthur nearly vomited.
But even that could wait.
Matthis was already being pushed back by another opponent, the boy’s slender frame knocked sideways, a sword raised over him.
Arthur, forgetting all his fencing lessons, held his sword before him and, with a desperate cry, charged at the enemy, driving the blade into the back of the exposed attacker.
The man didn’t die immediately; he swung wildly, nearly hitting Arthur as he crashed to the deck.
That move saved him.
A second ironborn’s sword, unseen, whistled past overhead, then his neck opened with a gaping wound, blood spraying Arthur’s face.
“Blood and fire!” a familiar voice cursed.
With relief, Arthur recognized the second bosun.
“Boy, what are you doing up here…
Grab a weapon and stay behind me.
Matthis, where’s your father?”
“Near…
the stern…” Matthis gasped, clutching his side.
The ironborn had evidently wounded him.
“We’re pushing through,” Ray said grimly, glancing at the two boys who’d become his “helpers.”
The night attack had lasted only minutes, but to Arthur it felt like a lifetime.
Together with Matthis and Ray, they fought their way to Captain Davos, who, with a dozen sailors, had formed a strike force to push back the ironborn scattered in isolated skirmishes.
The raiders, counting on the advantage of darkness, had attacked with far fewer numbers, and now that mistake was costing them everything.
The cries grew fewer, the clashes duller.
Arthur breathed heavily, feeling the tension ebb with each moment, giving way to dull exhaustion.
Bodies lay scattered across the deck too many to immediately tell friend from foe.
The ironborn were retreating.
Those still alive, backing away, scrambled toward their longship, a light warship now bobbing on the waves alongside the Black Beta.
They no longer charged blindly, no longer shouted battle cries.
Instead, they fought their way to the rope ladders, shoving the dead aside, ignoring the wounded.
One sailor in chains tried to climb first, but his comrade unceremoniously shoved him down to grab the rope himself.
“Don’t let them escape!” Davos’s voice rang across the deck.
Sailors gave chase, cutting down the desperate raiders, driving them into the sea, piercing them with swords, while a few archers shot blindly after them.
Some reached the longship; others, already dead, hung motionless over the side, frozen in their final spasms.
But the longship pulled away.
Someone aboard had already cut the remaining lines, and a strong gust filled her sail, carrying her away.
One of the surviving ironborn, a squat man in leather armor with a thick mane of hair, stood at the rail, shouting something unintelligible, but his voice was lost in the sound of waves and the crackle of burning wreckage.
They were gone.
“The bastards…” Matthis muttered, still clutching his side, pale-faced.
“Cowards!”
But no one gave chase.
At night, pursuit was dangerous for the Black Beta’s crew, and chasing the raiders was pointless.
Their longboat pitched on the waves, quickly disappearing into the night like a black shadow against the murky stars.
A tense silence fell over the Black Beta after the chaos of the battle.
Davos surveyed the survivors, issuing commands.
Barely half the crew remained.
Some groaned, some writhed in pain, others stared silently at the sky with empty eyes.
A few sailors rushed about, dousing burning rigging with seawater.
Others angrily finished off the few wounded kraken-men until Davos restrained the more zealous ones.
He needed at least one prisoner.
Arthur swallowed hard, feeling bile rise in his throat.
Golden symbols and numbers flickered before his eyes, and only now did he realize how close he’d come to being another body on the deck with his guts spilled out.
For the first time all night, he felt truly afraid.
His stomach twisted, and he vomited right onto the deck.
“It’s nothing, cabin boy.
First time’s always like this,” the second bosun said, patting the bent-over boy on the back.
The seasoned mercenary, who’d seen many deaths, immediately noticed the boy’s state.
Yet the lad had shown his best side, personally killing two kraken-men.
Sure, luck had been on his side, but still…
“You did well, Arthur.”
“Ugh…” was his only reply, and Ray chuckled, picking up a bucket and scooping seawater.
“Here, take this,” he handed it to Arthur, who stared at him blankly after emptying his stomach.
“Well, I’m already…
done…” the boy said weakly, clutching the bucket.
“That’s good,” the man chuckled.
“But the deck won’t scrub itself.
Get moving, cabin boy.
Trust me, dried blood is much harder to wash off…”
The next morning dawned gloomy.
Dark clouds drifted slowly across the horizon, the sea remained restless, and the air still stank of blood and soot.
Arthur woke earlier than he’d wanted his body ached, every muscle sore, and his thoughts still tangled in the night’s events.
The deck looked different from yesterday.
Most of the dead had already been thrown overboard, and now only scratches and dark scorch marks on the planks recalled the recent carnage.
Near the bow, under guard, sat a wounded ironborn the sole survivor of the attackers.
His hands were bound with rope, and a crust of dried blood clung beneath his left eye.
“Awake, cabin boy?” Ray’s hoarse voice came.
The second bosun stood nearby, gripping a bare one-handed sword, running a whetstone along the carefully cleaned blade.
His eyes, though cheerful, remained watchful.
A canvas sack lay beside him.
“Yes…” Arthur rubbed the back of his head, feeling the sting of numerous scrapes.
“My head’s pounding.”
“You’ll get used to it,” the man grinned, glancing at the deck.
“You’re richer now, by the way.”
“What?”
“Yeah.
Trophies from the bastards you killed.
By maritime law, they’re yours.”
The boy blinked, still not understanding, but Ray handed him a small pouch that clinked.
“I…
I didn’t know it worked like that,” Arthur muttered, feeling his stomach clench again.
“That’s the sea, boy.
Here it’s either you or them.
If you put them down, their goods are yours.
Or yours become someone else’s if you’re unlucky…” The seasoned mercenary grinned.
“Just don’t get cheated when sharing.
But I handled it for you this time, so be grateful.”
Arthur hesitated, then opened the pouch.
Inside were silver coins, a few coppers, and a ring engraved with a kraken symbol.
He swallowed, turning it over in his fingers.
The ring was too big, fitting only his thumb.
“It’s yours now,” Ray chuckled.
“Remember the big one with the axe?
Now he’s feeding the fish, and you’re alive.
See what a treasure he left you as an inheritance…”
Arthur felt a strange mix of pride and revulsion.
Pride that he’d killed a truly powerful opponent, who, compared to the boy, was enormous.
Revulsion, because there was nothing honorable about how he’d done it.
The man had simply been distracted, his axe stuck in a sailor’s skull, and had conveniently exposed his back.
This time, Arthur remembered the lesson and struck as Matthis had taught him under the left rib.
“Here, this is for you too,” the second bosun said, handing Arthur a sword and the canvas sack.
“You’ve earned it.”
“This is…” the boy’s eyes lit up as he accepted the polished blade.
He’d returned Omerek’s sword.
His personal effects and weapons, like those of the other fallen crew members, went to their families.
He peeked into the sack, seeing pieces of leather armor.
“Thank you, Ray…”
“Don’t mention it, boy, it’s still your share,” the second bosun shrugged.
“That axe would have been too big for you, and the armor too.
So I traded it for something that fits.
You can’t always run around the deck bare-assed, right?”
The man laughed, apparently recalling the sight of the boy running onto the deck in just his trousers.
“Yeah, I guess,” Arthur smiled hesitantly, holding his first personal weapon.
Swords, even cheap ones, were expensive.
One could buy several cows or live comfortably for a couple of years on the price of a single sword.
Once, the orphan boy could only dream of such things; now he even had his own money.
Silver…
“Just remember to see the leatherworker to have it fitted,” Ray warned.
“Don’t even think about wearing it as is that’ll end badly, boy.”
“Ray, when are we going to arrive?” Arthur asked, voicing his burning question.
He enjoyed life aboard, but even so, he longed to see other lands and cities firsthand things a nine-year-old orphan from Flea Bottom had never experienced.
“Soon, boy,” the man ruffled his black hair.
“A couple of days, maybe less, and I’ll treat you to famous Arbor wine to celebrate your first battle!”
“Wait, aren’t we heading to Highgarden?” Arthur asked, cheered by the promise.
He’d never tasted alcohol, but of course he’d heard of the famous wine.
“Khm…” the second bosun coughed, realizing he’d let slip something ordinary sailors weren’t meant to know.
But their destination was close, so no harm done.
“Yes, there, but we’ll stop at the Arbor to resupply…
anyway, less thinking, more doing, cabin boy.
The deck…”
“Won’t scrub itself,” Arthur finished glumly, knowing plenty of work still awaited him.
“I remember…”
“Well, keep your nose to the wind,” Ray said, trying to soften the blow.
“Since Matthis won’t be able to train you, I suppose I’ll teach you a few lessons when you’re done…”
“I’ll be right there!” the boy shouted, already running, clutching his new belongings to his chest.
Youth…
The old mercenary smiled, his gaze turning to the horizon.
Somewhere out there, the ironborn were licking their wounds, and Davos feared they might try again an assault the depleted crew might not survive.
Twenty dead.
Seven wounded, two of whom might die at any moment.
The long night had cost Seaworth’s crew dearly, though the prisoner had inadvertently revealed some interesting information.
But the Arbor was close.
The Black Beta continued her course.