❝The people of Lys would have made whores of you, but we saved you.
Now you’ll only have to serve one man instead of many.
Those who please their captains will be made salt wives, and that’s an honorable position.❞
Arthur slept badly that night.
His fever had risen, and he kept waking up to drink from the waterskin that was quickly running dry.
Whenever he drifted back into feverish sleep, he saw flashes of strange things: an endless sea of sand and horrible, twisted creatures of every shape and size swarming over him, trying to tear him apart.
Black, clawed hands reached for him…
“Ah!”
Arthur woke with a start, convinced something terrible was happening.
Then he found himself nose-to-nose with a bearded man who was staring at him in shock.
Arthur had never seen him before.
The man wasn’t wearing the armor of the soldiers in their group, either.
The remnants of the nightmare quickly faded.
Then a muffled cry came from somewhere nearby.
And with it came a sound Arthur knew all too well.
The sound of steel piercing flesh.
“Alarm!”
Arthur shouted as he desperately reached for the scabbard lying beside him.
The man’s expression twisted.
He lunged at Arthur with a knife in his hand, the blade glinting faintly in the gray light before dawn.
Arthur dropped the scabbard and caught the man’s wrist with both hands, stopping the knife from being driven into his throat.
“ARGH!”
They wrestled violently.
Armor clattered all around them.
Someone was swearing.
The sleeping knights had already awakened, fighting off the sudden attack.
But Arthur had no attention to spare for anything else.
Pain stabbed through his collarbone as the fisherman threw his entire weight against him.
The crude knife pressed through Arthur’s mail, the tip barely breaking the skin.
Arthur hissed but refused to loosen his grip.
He held the man’s wrist with both hands, preventing the blade from sinking any deeper.
The attacker reeked of rancid fat, sweat, and fish.
His face was covered in wrinkles, and desperation burned in his eyes.
Arthur didn’t think.
He simply fought for his life.
His breathing came in short bursts as he twisted and struggled beneath the man’s weight.
His knee suddenly shot upward on instinct.
It slammed directly between the man’s legs.
The fisherman howled, but he still didn’t let go of the knife.
Desperate, Arthur released the man’s wrist with one hand and reached blindly for something beside him.
His fingers found something hard.
A stone.
Or perhaps a piece of the ruined wall.
Arthur grabbed it and brought it down with everything he had.
Crack.
The fisherman recoiled.
Arthur immediately ripped the knife from his hand and drove it into his chest.
All around them, chaos erupted.
Steel rang.
Men shouted.
Boots pounded against stone.
The attackers had come without warning, like a storm crashing over the shore.
Figures in simple leather jackets and rough linen shirts darted through the ruins, armed with knives, clubs, fishing harpoons, and axes.
They moved quickly and efficiently.
They slit throats.
They stabbed through gaps in armor.
They knocked down anyone who managed to get to his feet.
But the knights were awake now.
And none of them had removed their armor.
A heavy clang of metal echoed across the ruins as Ser Cryston roared and caught an old axe blow on his armor.
He immediately drove his sword into the attacker’s stomach and twisted the blade.
The fisherman howled.
A second later, another strike opened his throat, sending blood pouring into the darkness and soaking the ground.
Steffon Swift was struggling on the ground, using his shield to block an attacker’s knife.
Willit arrived just in time.
He kicked the Ironborn hard beneath the ribs and instantly drove his sword between them.
The man let out a strangled groan, jerked violently, grabbed at the blade, and collapsed.
Sandor Clegane charged forward.
He swung his sword like a butcher wielding a cleaver.
His first victim was knocked off his feet, both arms severed at the elbows.
The next man was simply cut in half from shoulder to waist.
The blade passed through flesh and shattered bone.
The body fell in two pieces, entrails spilling across the stones and filling the air with the stench of blood and death.
“Bastards!” the Hound roared, his voice rough with fury.
“Cut them down!”
Nearby, Merlon Crakehall brought his heavy sword down on another fisherman’s head.
The blade split the skull almost to the eyes.
Blood poured from the wound along with something grayish.
Merlon was already turning toward another attacker.
The Ironborn fought desperately, like cornered rats.
But against knights encased in armor, they had little chance.
One of them charged Arthur.
Arthur stepped backward, then drove his blade neatly into the man’s throat.
He pulled it free, accidentally covering himself in blood.
“Don’t let them escape!”
Sandor shouted when he spotted two young men trying to flee toward the forest.
Ser Cryston and another armored man immediately gave chase.
The knight caught one of the fleeing men and, without slowing down, slashed his sword across the man’s back.
The young man screamed and stumbled onto all fours.
Cryston roared and brought his blade down, severing his head.
The second guardsman, Hugh, wasn’t so lucky.
“He got away…
bastard.”
Hugh returned some time later, breathing heavily.
He wasn’t particularly young anymore, and the weight of his armor had clearly prevented him from catching the faster Ironborn.
“Hell…”
Sandor spat as he looked over the camp, now littered with corpses.
He walked over to one of the dead attackers and kicked him onto his back.
The man’s face was frozen in a final grimace.
He wasn’t young.
His mouth was filled with rotten, broken teeth.
“These are fishermen.”
Sandor frowned.
“There has to be a village nearby.”
His gaze swept across the camp.
“Who the fuck was on watch?”
“Not me.”
Cryston shrugged as he wiped his sword against the dead man’s body.
“Polly was after me.”
“Then we’ll never know.”
Merlon spoke grimly, nodding toward the body of a heavyset man lying beside the fire.
“That boy raised the alarm in time.”
He looked toward Arthur.
“What was your name again?
Arthur?”
“Yes.”
“Good work, boy.”
The man slapped Arthur on the shoulder.
“If it hadn’t been for you, they’d have slaughtered all of us.”
“Thank you.”
Arthur was still coming down from the rush of battle.
But the fever hadn’t gone away either.
He was shaking.
Whether from the adrenaline flooding his blood or from the illness itself, he couldn’t tell.
The night had been cold, and all he wanted was sleep.
“We’re moving.”
Sandor’s gaze swept over the dead soldiers.
Their already small group had lost another three men during the night.
Only ten remained, counting Arthur.
Some were wounded.
“This time they were fishermen.”
He looked toward the darkness.
“If that one manages to bring a force from the castle down on us…”
Sandor didn’t finish.
He didn’t need to.
Everyone understood what would happen.
Even ten mounted riders were a force worth taking seriously.
But they weren’t on friendly territory.
And without infantry support, cavalry could only accomplish so much.
“A village?”
A rider’s voice broke the silence.
Arthur thought it was Hugh.
At first, he didn’t understand what the man meant.
Then he looked up.
Beyond the hill, a thin stream of smoke rose into the air, barely visible through the pouring rain.
The group slowed.
Then stopped.
Time was running short, but they needed to decide where to go next.
Nobody buried the dead.
There simply wasn’t time.
The bodies were left among the stones and bloody puddles.
They weren’t the first dead men on this island, and they certainly wouldn’t be the last.
The horses were taken from the fallen, along with whatever supplies they could carry.
That was all.
The rain was getting heavier.
Without wasting any more time, the group continued along the trampled path.
Now they understood exactly who had been using it.
Fishermen traveling down from the ruins of the tower toward the coast.
The road was narrow, bordered by low bushes and sickly trees.
They encountered nobody.
Ahead was a crossroads.
“Where now?”
A Lannister guardsman named William asked, looking grimly at Clegane.
Arthur remembered him.
This was the same guardsman who had looked at Arthur with open arrogance when they first met at the camp.
Tonight, most of William’s men had died.
Almost all of them.
Only Ser Polliver remained.
Judging by William’s tense expression, he was still struggling to process the losses.
Sandor spat into the mud beneath his stallion.
“Shit.”
The problem was that none of the roads went where they needed to go.
One led back toward the coast.
Far too dangerous.
Far too exposed.
The other two disappeared into thick vegetation and led deeper into the island.
The hill Clegane had planned to use as a shortcut had become practically impassable in the rain, transformed into a fortress of mud and running water.
And there was another problem.
A village was visible off to the side.
Small.
Only a few houses.
Thin strands of smoke rose from one of the chimneys.
“Those bastards probably came from there.”
William spoke thoughtfully as he stared into the distance.
Rain drummed against his armor.
There was a predatory edge to his voice, like a man eager to settle a blood debt.
“We could take a look.”
He smiled coldly.
“Return the courtesy.”
“Unless they’re waiting for us with a whole force of Ironborn.”
Ser Cryston grunted as he pulled a wineskin from his saddlebag and took a drink.
Sandor said nothing.
He stared at the roads, clearly weighing the consequences.
He had never trusted maps of Great Wyk.
The ones he’d seen were inaccurate, washed out, and often years out of date.
He had to rely on instinct.
They needed to make a decision.
And in truth, the answer seemed obvious.
If the fisherman who escaped had come from this village, they probably wouldn’t encounter much resistance.
Which meant…
“All right.”
Clegane finally gave the order.
“We’ll stop there.”
He pointed toward the village.
“Ask for directions.”
The rain grew heavier.
At first, only scattered drops had fallen on their cloaks and rattled against their mail.
But the closer they got to the village, the harder it poured.
Soon it had become a proper downpour, turning the ground into thick mud.
The fishing settlement was nothing remarkable.
A few small houses with stone chimneys.
Fishing boats overturned beside the buildings.
A livestock shed.
The smell of fish mixed with smoke.
There was nobody on the street.
Only a faint movement in the shadows of one of the houses revealed that someone had noticed the riders.
“Everyone outside.”
Clegane gave the order as he headed toward the largest building.
Then he noticed the blood running down Arthur’s leg.
“You.”
He pointed at Arthur.
“Come with me.”
The other riders began dismounting.
Without hesitation, they kicked down the doors of the nearest huts.
Cries erupted from inside.
People began appearing in the street.
A couple of children with their mother.
An old woman.
Several other women.
A face flashed briefly in the window of the main house.
“Come out.”
Clegane dismounted.
His voice sounded almost lazy.
But despite his apparent calm, one hand remained on the hilt of his enormous sword.
The doors opened reluctantly.
A woman in a rough wool dress appeared in the doorway of one hut.
Behind her came a tall old man.
His face was deeply wrinkled, and he held a long wooden stick.
Another girl stood behind them, blonde and dressed in a dirty tunic.
The old man’s expression was tense.
His eyes darted from one knight to another.
“Where are all the men?”
Sandor asked immediately.
Silence.
Only when Clegane stepped closer did the red-haired woman finally answer.
“Out at sea.”
Her voice trembled.
“Some are at war.
Others…
others never came back.”
Rain streamed down her face, but it was obvious she was barely holding back tears.
Sandor grunted.
He looked around.
“We’re looking for one man.”
“A fisherman.”
“One of the men who attacked us today.”
“Do you know him?”
“No one like that, my lord.”
The woman answered too quickly.
And at that exact moment, a noise came from behind them.
A door creaked.
Someone let out a muffled cry.
Arthur turned.
A young man with long, tangled hair was being thrown out of a nearby shed and into the mud.
His expression was desperate.
“So nobody?”
Clegane bared his teeth and turned toward him.
The boy struggled in the guardsman’s grip.
Then his eyes darted toward the women.
They immediately looked away.
“That’s my son!”
An older woman rushed forward.
William extended an arm, stopping her.
“He ran from us during the night.”
The captain’s voice was slow and cold.
“And he killed my men.”
“He didn’t kill anyone!”
She begged, grabbing his arm.
“No one else knows about you.
Please, just leave!”
Arthur watched her fingers clutch the captain’s wet sleeve.
The boy was trembling as he stared at the naked sword.
“So nobody knows about us?”
Clegane sneered.
He stared directly into the old man’s eyes.
Water streamed from the old man’s long hair.
He said nothing.
He simply looked back at the invaders with an expression of complete indifference.
“He did nothing!
I swear!”
The woman screamed.
Then she dropped to her knees in the mud.
“I don’t believe you.”
The sword moved so quickly that Arthur didn’t even have time to blink.
There was a short cry.
Then the woman’s scream.
She crawled toward the bloody body in disbelief.
The rain drowned out her sobbing.
Arthur felt something rise in his throat.
He turned away.
Everything that was happening felt…
Wrong.
“There isn’t anyone else here who knows about us.”
Ser Cryston broke the silence as he rubbed his cheek.
“Good.”
Clegane grunted.
“We’ll wait out the rain.”
The women and the old man were herded into the barn.
They didn’t resist.
They didn’t scream.
They simply stood in the mud beneath the freezing rain.
The door slammed shut.
The lock clicked.
The knights, soaked through, finally removed some of their armor and settled inside the largest house.
It belonged to the village headman, a thin old man who hadn’t said a single word.
The men spoke quietly while eating whatever food they could find.
Clegane was questioning the remaining blonde girl, drawing something directly onto the floor with a piece of charcoal.
Arthur was simply trying not to collapse from exhaustion on the chair Willit had given him.
He was shivering.
He held his hands toward the large fireplace, trying to warm his numb fingers. Enjoying the story? Read on at g.com.
He didn’t notice the girl from the hut approaching until she was standing beside him.
According to the inscription above her head, her name was Marea.
She was tall and blonde, with slightly wavy hair gathered into a braid.
She carried a clean cloth, a cup of hot water, and a crooked needle.
“Give me your leg.”
Her voice was calm.
Arthur hesitated.
“I’m fine…”
“Your leader told me to sew your wound shut.”
Arthur clenched his teeth.
But he sat down on the bench, removed his sandal, and showed her the wrapped wound.
The girl carefully cut away the bandage.
The wound on his thigh had started bleeding again.
The edges had opened, and the surrounding skin was red.
“You’re lucky.”
She examined it.
“It hasn’t gone bad.”
“The blood washed most of the dirt away.”
She looked up.
“Take off your trousers.”
Arthur flushed.
But he obeyed, lowering them carefully without touching the wound.
Marea crouched in front of him and examined the cut.
She cleaned the skin around it with a torn piece of cloth, then began stitching.
The needle entered his flesh almost like it was passing through wet cloth, leaving neat, even stitches behind.
“Why…
are you helping me?”
Arthur asked through clenched teeth.
“You must hate…
us.”
The girl looked up at him with bright blue eyes.
“What do you know about Salt Wives, boy?”
“Nothing.”
Arthur answered honestly.
But Marea wasn’t interested in continuing the conversation.
She finished her work, cut the thread with a knife, and stood.
“I hate the Ironborn.”
She tossed the words over her shoulder and walked away.
Arthur watched her go, still feeling the burning pain in his leg.
He really didn’t know what Salt Wives were.
But he had a feeling asking her wouldn’t be a good idea.
When Arthur finally got up, he was unsteady.
But his mind was clearer now, and the pain in his leg had become bearable.
His head felt heavy after the long sleep.
His lips were dry.
But at least he could stand.
He could even walk without the world swimming before his eyes.
After having his wound stitched, Sandor, despite his earlier words, had ordered Arthur to lie down.
The girl had brought him something hot to drink and some food.
That was where he had fallen asleep.
When Arthur entered the common room, he was greeted by the smell of cheap wine, food, and stale sweat.
The warriors had scattered their armor and swords throughout the house.
Someone was peacefully snoring on a bench.
William sat beside the fireplace with an empty wine bottle, staring into the flames.
Nobody paid Arthur much attention.
Sandor Clegane stood near the entrance, leaning against the doorframe.
A bottle hung lazily from one hand.
Yet he looked completely sober.
“Well, look who’s awake.”
Clegane grunted, fixing Arthur with a heavy stare.
“I think so.”
Arthur replied.
Judging by the night sky, he’d slept through the entire day.
Clegane examined him from head to toe like a horse being inspected before battle.
“All right.”
He nodded toward the porch.
“Get on watch.”
“Keep an eye on the barn and the road.”
Arthur silently nodded.
He didn’t argue.
“Take a chair with you.
Don’t put weight on that leg.”
Sandor unexpectedly added something else.
Then he picked up a folded crimson cloak from the bench and tossed it to Arthur.
Arthur caught it automatically.
“Urro won’t be needing it anymore.”
Sandor grunted.
“Wouldn’t want you collapsing again.”
He turned and went back inside, leaving Arthur alone.
Arthur stared after him.
Then he slowly draped the cloak over his shoulders.
The fabric still held the warmth of the house.
Outside, the rain had weakened into a fine drizzle.
But the sky remained heavy and low.
Arthur sat on the porch with his injured leg stretched out in front of him and wrapped himself in the cloak.
Everything was quiet.
A dog barked somewhere in the distance.
The village was deserted.
Soon the door opened.
Marea stepped outside barefoot, carrying a sack of oats.
She was heading toward the barn.
Her braid had come loose slightly, allowing long blonde strands to fall around her face.
She smiled at Arthur.
Arthur gave her a shy smile in return.
A minute later, someone else came out of the house.
The door slammed.
William stumbled outside.
He didn’t even notice Arthur.
He simply headed straight toward the girl.
A bad feeling immediately tightened Arthur’s chest.
Then he heard Marea’s muffled cry.
Arthur jumped up from his chair.
“Let go!”
Her voice was sharp and frightened.
Arthur rushed toward the barn.
Inside, it smelled of wet wool, manure, and hay.
The horses stood in their stalls, picking through scattered grain.
William had Marea pressed against the wall.
He grinned when she tried to hit him.
“Don’t fight me, whore.”
He was drunk.
His hand violently grabbed the front of her tunic.
The fabric tore.
“Let’s see what you’ve got.”
The guardsman grinned as his rough fingers touched her skin.
“Leave her alone!”
Arthur’s voice suddenly sounded incredibly loud inside the barn.
Marea froze.
Her eyes immediately found him.
They were filled with hope.
William slowly turned around.
“What?”
He squinted, trying to focus his drunken eyes on Arthur.
“I said leave her alone.”
The guardsman stared at him in silence.
Then he laughed and waved one hand dismissively.
“Get lost, puppy, before I cut you down.”
Arthur didn’t move.
“Sandor will hear about this.”
“And who’s going to tell him?”
William let go of Marea.
The girl immediately slid down against the wall.
William stepped toward Arthur.
His hand moved toward the hilt of his sword.
“Enough, boy.
Don’t.”
Marea’s voice trembled with fear.
She understood that William wasn’t joking.
“It’s fine.”
She swallowed.
“Just leave.
Please.”
“Can’t you see?”
William laughed.
“She doesn’t mind.”
He looked at Arthur.
“Get out while you’re still in one piece.”
He towered over Arthur by several inches.
Only a few weeks ago, Arthur wouldn’t have dared do what he was doing now.
A month earlier, he wouldn’t even have considered defying a tall, powerful man like William.
Even now, every instinct in his body was screaming at him to leave.
To close his eyes.
Just as he had already done earlier that day.
And yet Arthur knew he couldn’t simply walk away.
“No.”
Arthur’s voice was firm.
He drew his sword.
The blade was covered in notches and dried blood.
He hadn’t even had time to clean it.
Anger flashed across William’s face.
“You chose your fate yourself, puppy…”