Galladon
I boarded the carrack at dawn two days later. Men looked up as I passed them on the quay. Deckhands and wharf-porters and dockworkers, all watching me with a mixture of pity and wariness before their eyes flicked away just as quickly.
With so many people in the castle, word had inevitably spread that something had gone terribly wrong for House Tarth, though none but my father and I knew exactly what was happening. And we were playing our part well. Defeated men. Cornered men.
With the eyes the Whiteheads undoubtedly had in Dawnrest, I wanted them to see nothing here but submission. A lord yielding his son and daughter to buy back his wife.
The gangplank creaked under my boots. We would be going on one of the new ships bought from the Lannisters, the fastest amongst them in open waters.
"Everything is packed, my lord," Pate said as I stepped on the deck, trotting up beside me with a little breathlessness.
My lord. He was doing his best to speak all proper and fine, as expected of a squire. Not only that, he took all his duties with the enthusiasm of a puppy running after a stick. An hour earlier, he had come to arrange my things on the ship, and he would be accompanying me the whole way.
As I was officially going to foster at the Weeping Town, it was only right to take my squire with me.
"Good," I said, clapping him on the shoulder as I passed. "See that everything is lashed tight. I don't want it shifting if the seas turn."
"Yes, my lord," he said again. He used every excuse to say it now.
As I made my way below, a familiar heat coiled around my belly. I was angry, yes, but it was more than that. I felt like a caged animal, pacing around my cell endlessly in circles.
I had never been good at waiting, and we had done all we could on land. Now there was nothing left but moving forward.
My quarters lay just aft of midships, the first mate's cabin pressed into service for me. A narrow bed bolted to the wall, a small table, my trunk already stowed beside it, and another cot we had arranged for Pate to sleep in.
Father had taken the captain's cabin. He had shut himself away there before the sun had even risen. Another fiction we had agreed upon. Lord Selwyn Tarth, broken and beaten, too proud to look his son in the eye as he sent him off to be fostered under the very man who held his wife.
At least, that's what we wanted the Whiteheads to think. For all we knew, there were many more men observing from Dawnrest than just the messenger.
In truth, he and I had spent most of the night together, poring over maps and lists and plans. But the doors were closed now, and they would stay that way until we were well clear of the bay.
The messenger was already aboard. I had seen him lingering near the rail, a nondescript man in nondescript clothes, trying very hard not to look smug. I imagined it must feel empowering to order around nobles like a shepherd with his animals.
He had insisted on returning with us, as if his presence were a leash against our necks. I thought him a fool for it. If it were me, I would have vanished the moment my task was done.
This, at least, gave me hope. We were not dealing with masterminds here. They should've sent a ship to take us themselves, under their own guard, instead of giving us this much freedom. That would be their undoing.
But I did not stop the messenger from doing his thing. Let him think himself safe. I wasn't one to stop my enemies from walking on their own two legs toward the headsman.
That day after his first visit, I had felt hollowed out, as if someone had reached into my chest and scooped out everything, leaving behind just a terrible, paralyzing fear. It was all well and good when all I had to worry about were knights at the lists and pirates on the seas. I knew how to fight men who came at me with steel in their hands. Raveled in it.
This was different. How did you fight when every wrong move meant a knife drawn across your mother's throat? When another waited, promised, for your sister?
Jace's timely message had changed everything.
The messenger had demanded no ravens be sent, but there was little they could do about those already winging their way to us. It was the most natural thing in the world for a keep to receive messages from their neighbors and fellow lords.
With it, things became clearer. The Whiteheads. It had been them all along. The pirates at the Stepstones had not been chance, and Jace had a name for me: Matteno of Myr, a sellsail working for the Whiteheads, though rumors were that they both answered to masters in Tyrosh, which puzzled me still.
Reading it set something ugly inside me, a rage so cold it burned. They had tried to kill me once already. Failing that, they had taken my mother. And now they thought to take my future as well. My sister's future.
Jace had also given us more than names. Coded within it were details about the guards on the walls. Patrols through the town. Estimates for the castle itself. And more telling still, the mood in the Weeping Town. Whispers of unease in the people. Bannermen sent away with their retinues, one by one, under this excuse or that.
At first, it had made no sense to me. If they knew we were coming, why not flood the town with men? Why not make their strength plain?
Father had tapped the parchment with one thick finger and said quietly, "Because they do not want anyone to know what they've done."
If word spread that Lady Addison Tarth had been unlawfully seized, every house from Cape Wrath to the Marches and the Kingswood would have something to say about it. Mayhaps even the crown would become involved, for it constituted a break in the King's Peace. Better, then, to pretend all was well. To hide the crime so deeply that no one thought to look for it.
In that fear, they had bared a weakness we could exploit.
A bell rang above, and the carrack shuddered as the last lines were cast off. I went back on deck as the sails were loosed, white canvas snapping and filling. Dawnrest slowly slipped away from us. I did not look back at Evenfall looming from a distant hill. I could not trust myself to.
We sailed with what the messenger had 'allowed' us. Fifteen knights and men-at-arms, carefully chosen. A handful of servants too, men my father trusted, who were actually guardsmen dressed in plain wool.
And then there was the girl.
She stood near the mainmast, bundled in one of Alysanne's dresses. Short and chubby, with a round face and frightened eyes, she clutched at the sleeve of the dress, probably unused to the fine fabric.
A kitchen girl's daughter, brave as any knight I knew. She had volunteered for this with tears in her eyes and her chin held high.
One thing Father and I had agreed upon without a moment's hesitation: my sisters would not be going anywhere near the Weeping Town. Not now. Not ever.
And if I had any say in this, the girl would not even have to leave the ship.
xxx
We had been at sea perhaps three hours when the shouting began. Raised voices, boots thudding too quickly, the sound bleeding through the timbers of my cabin. Then a man's scream, raw with fear.
"You can't do this!" the messenger screamed. "You can't! I'm under my lady's protection! You touch me and she'll have Lady Addison killed, do you hear me? Killed!"
I sat on the edge of the cot, legs bouncing against the planks. Back in Dorne, I had balked at the prospect of torturing that pirate. Even ordering it made me queasy.
Now, I had to forcefully stop myself from joining our men as they dragged him below. While I cared about Ser Gerion as a new friend, you really only gained a different perspective when it was personal.
The messenger kept screaming out threats and pleas in equal measures.
I shook my head. Fool. My mother was a highborn prisoner while was a lowborn courier who had outlived his usefulness the moment he stepped back onto our deck. The Whiteheads knew the difference as well as I did. They would not dare lay a hand on Lady Addison over this.
The man would even live. Mostly whole, naturally, and carrying proof of our displeasure, but he might serve as proof should we ever need to appear before Lord Baratheon
I heard the hatch to the hold creak open, then the dull thump of it closing again. His screams faded as they hauled him down into the dark, the sound swallowed by depth and distance.
They would learn what they could from him before we reached the Weeping Town. Information to complement Jace's own observations. It'd be harder for him to lie when we had a trustworthy foundation to fall back upon.
A few minutes later, the ship rolled as it banked east.
We had never intended to sail straight to Weeping Town. If one of the Whiteheads' spies had been watching Dawnrest, as I thought they were, they would send back a raven with what they could see. A departure time and the ship's heading.
While Tarth's waters were generally calm, the seas further south in Shipbreaker Bay and Cape Wrath were unpredictable on its best days. They could not predict our arrival precisely, only guess at it.
An hour or so later, we put in near the Kellingtons' holdings on the southwestern coast of Tarth, anchoring well offshore. A small dinghy was lowered and sent toward the mainland, and we waited no more than two hours before four boats rowed back toward our ship, each crowded with half a dozen fighting men.
Our numbers swelled in moments with faces and names I trusted.
At their head were Ser Jon Kellington and his son, Ser Rolland Kellington, a young knight just three years older than me that had served as my companion in our youth. Alongside them came Ser Endrew Tarth, who had been visiting the Kellingtons while he courted Ser Jon's niece.
All wore plain surcoats instead of their usual colors, the black book upon a pale field of Kellington and Endrew's personal sigil nowhere to be seen.
They also brought more than men. One of them handed Father a wicker cage, then another. Ravens, ready to be sent out when the time was right.
Father was firm on that point. No word to Storm's End or King's Landing. Not while my mother remained in Whitehead hands. Were the Baratheons to send a missive to the Weeping Tower, the Whiteheads might grow desperate, and desperate men, once unmasked, were capable of monstrous things.
Besides, if the Whiteheads could have spies on our land, who was to say they didn't have men on their payroll in Storm's End. Jace's mention of a Tyroshi magister had spooked us, and we did not know how long their arms could reach.
After Kellington, we sailed on through the night. I would never know how long I slept before the shrill scream tore me awake. Pate's voice, high and cracking with terror.
I was on my feet at once, dagger in hand this time. I had learned that lesson already.
Faint moonlight spilled through the narrow window of my cabin, silvering the edges of the room, and for half a heartbeat I thought something was climbing out of my trunk, some pale thing unfolding itself from the dark like a corpse clawing free of a coffin.
My heart lurched hard enough to hurt.
I'd never admit it outloud, but I very nearly let out a girlish shriek myself.
Pate scrambled backward with a strangled noise, pressing himself against a bulkhead. I forced my breath steady, took in the shape, the size, the familiar fall of hair catching the moon just so.
"Arianne," I breathed, the terror draining out of me all at once. Of all the devils in the Seven Hells, this was one I knew far too well. When had the little imp hid herself in my trunk?
"My lord?" a voice called from outside the door. One of the guards, likely alerted by Pate's little show.
I closed my eyes, counted to three, then sheathed the dagger and reached for the candle by my cot. The flame flared to life, pushing the shadows back into their corners.
"Aye," I called. "All's well. My squire had a nightmare."
In the candlelight I could see Pate's face go crimson, equal parts embarrassment and lingering fear. I almost smiled.
"Pate," I said quietly, "take the watch outside my door. And you didn't see anything. Understood?"
He nodded too quickly, grateful for the escape, and slipped past the guard to relieve him without another word. Given how he had avoided Arianne back in the castle like a plague, he probably would've preferred if it was a real demon instead of my sister.
When the door closed again, I rounded on her.
"What in the Seven Hells are you doing here?" I hissed. "Have you lost your mind?"
Arianne did not flinch. She stood there in her riding leathers and breeches, dark eyes bright with something that was not fear in the slightest.
"You and Father aren't as quiet as you think," she said with heat in her voice. "I heard what happened to Mother."
I ran a hand through my hair, already thinking where to put her ashore. Rain House, perhaps, with our mother's kin. Or Estermont. Good Stormlander folk. Anywhere but where we were heading.
"And this," I continued, forcing my voice lower, "was your brilliant plan? Sneak onto the ship and hand yourself over to the Whiteheads with me?"
"I'm not handing myself to anyone," Arianne shot back. "I'm here to help."
"Oh, brilliant. Yes, quite the help. Did you bring your sword as well, ser? Where's your gorget?" I shook my head at her. "This isn't how this works, Arianne. You can't just—"
"Yes," she cut in sharply, "I fucking can."
The word startled me more than the scream had. Arianne never cursed. Not like that.
"You wouldn't even know something was wrong with Mother if I hadn't dreamed of it," she went on, fierce now. "So don't tell me I can't help."
I sagged down onto the narrow bed, suddenly very tired. The ship creaked around us as if nothing in the world were amiss, waves lapping against the hull. A headache was already blooming behind my eyes.
I would have to tell Father. There was no avoiding it. The thought alone made the ache worse.
"I was going to stay hidden," Arianne said, quieter now, "until we were far enough out that you couldn't just order the ship turned back. But then this happened."
She reached back into my trunk, and the light came all at once. Nothing like the small, flickering light of my cotside candle. The cabin flooded with a sudden glow, bright and white enough that I had to blink against it.
My breath caught, and when my vision cleared, I saw what she held aloft in one small hand.
The black glass candle. It had stayed in my trunk the whole time. Even when I pulled it out on the occasional night to try and light it, I would put it back away inside it below several layers of clothes.
For as long as I had it, I had seen it lit only once before, months ago aboard the Fair Winds, and then only for a handful of heartbeats before it blinked out.
This was different. It burned clear and unwavering as she held it, as if her mere touch were enough to bring it to life.
"Oh," I said, realizing what this meant.
The Mad Maid had given the glass candle to the wrong child of Tarth.
xxx
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